To reach the beach from the little apartment I rented on a narrow street in the El Carmen neighborhood, I passed through El Cabanyal, the old fisherman’s quarter, which was lined with buildings tiled in bright, geometric patterns. Tiles are good for salty air — their glossy exteriors are immune to erosion. I got a tinto de verano at La Fábrica de Hielo (literally, the ice factory) for the golden hour, followed by tapas and vermouth at Casa Montaña, a tavern dating back to 1836. Dinner at Anyora felt delightfully local, featuring sweet langoustines and tender eggplant dolloped with smoky sobrasada. The vintage stores of Ruzafa (the city’s new, hip neighborhood) were surreal — with an eerie Californian edge: racks filled with polos and sports jerseys. The markets were dazzling, brimming with figs big as baseballs, glossy black-red cherries, dusty legs of jamón, endless anchovies. Tourists walked through them wide-eyed and bovine. Locals wasted little time, rattling off their produce orders to vendors, carts by their sides.

Across three of the city’s best fine-dining restaurants (Ricard Camarena, El Poblet, and Quique Dacosta Restaurante), you’ll find riffs on preserved tuna, elevating the fish to the divine by way of lacto-fermentation and dry-aging. The result is like tuna jerky, or jamón ibérico with fish instead of pork. Differing levels of moisture and fat create various versions, some meatier in texture, some melting in the mouth like curls of butter. All of them with the wistful, craveable taste of salt. My tongue wets remembering. Naturally, my eyes prickle too.