Imagine it’s the early 1930s. The air in Valencia is thick with change and the smell of oranges (as always). The space you see here was once called the “Bajada de San Francisco”-just a humble stretch down to the city center. Then along came Javier Goerlich Lleó, a local architect whose style was as varied as a tapas spread: purist, Art Deco, and-of course-Modernisme. He waved his architect’s wand and transformed the area into a grand triangular square with high platforms, flanked by elegant stairways and fountains at each corner-each representing one of Valencia’s three provinces.
Back then, the locals nicknamed it “tortada,” which means “cake.” Why? Well, the upper platform looked so layered and decorated that people thought someone should stick a candle in it and sing happy birthday. It became a sort of civic centerpiece, meant to compete with old favorites like the Plaza de la Reina and the Plaza de la Virgen. So when you’re tempted to compare it to a fancy cake, just know: you’re picking up on an old Valencian joke.
But the drama wasn’t limited to just platforms and fountains. Hidden beneath the square, Goerlich’s design included the Mercado de las Flores-the famous Flower Market. It sounds romantic, right? A secret world of florists blooming under the footsteps of the city? Well, the florists thought otherwise. The underground market was dim, cramped, and about as cheerful as a bouquet of wilted lettuce. They grumbled that being forced to sell in those gloomy quarters would ruin their businesses. Eventually, after years of disputes and almost operatic levels of florist drama, they left for brighter, less subterranean pastures in 1944.
Within just a decade, the grand upper platform began to crumble-proof, perhaps, that not even the finest “cake” can last forever especially if it’s made of stone and not frosting. The square was leveled and lost much of its baroque character, trading high drama for a flatter, more open look. Soon, the City Hall balcony was redesigned, mainly so officials would have a better view of military parades. These changes were seriously influenced by the postwar, repressive politics of the time. The space shifted to host massive gatherings for events like the Fallas festival and the legendary mascletà firecracker displays-where the noise is guaranteed to leave your ears ringing with delight (and maybe a little regret).
If this place seems extra spacious for large crowds and almost suspiciously nondescript, you’re not wrong. Over the years it lost its light-fountain, designed by Engineer Carlos Buigues, and its statue of General Franco, which was quietly re-homed to a military base. Anything considered too artistic or symbolic was swept aside-unless you count its later mascot, the less-than-iconic statue of Francesc Vinatea, a rather obscure local figure who now stands here, probably wishing he’d brought a book.
The square’s architectural journey hasn’t impressed everyone; some critics call it a “horror,” longing for the colorful exuberance of the original design or the practical vibrance lost when the underground flower market went the way of the dodo. Others argue it’s now at least a modern, flexible space-the perfect spot for demonstrations, city festivals, or that spontaneous 15-M protest if the mood ever strikes.
So, as you gaze around, imagine Valencia’s most ambitious urban experiment-a cake that was admired, changed, abandoned, and transformed again. Listen to the echoes of flower sellers, politicians, and festival-goers. And if you sense a touch of architectural mystery, good! There’s definitely more than meets the eye. Besides, isn’t every great city square just a stage for a little drama, a dash of controversy, and the hope that someone will, eventually, bring better lighting for future florists?
