Lost in the Flow: How Spain Changed My Pace of Life
From rushed routines to slow sips of vermouth, embracing a culture where the street is the destination.
In my home country, the street is just a passageway—something you cross and use to get from point A to point B. But in Spain? The street is where life happens. It took me a while to understand this. At first, I walked quickly, purposefully, weaving through groups of people standing in the middle of the sidewalk, chatting as if they had nowhere else to be. Now, I realize—they don’t. This is the place to be.
I see it every day. Elderly men in neatly pressed shirts watched the world go by from their usual benches. Parents stroll while their kids play. Groups of friends standing outside a bar, drinks in hand, their conversations flowing as naturally as the wine in their glasses. In Spain, the street belongs to the people, not just the traffic.
When I first moved to Spain, I made the classic mistake: I tried to eat lunch at noon. The restaurant staff looked at me with mild amusement—maybe even a little pity. “La cocina abre a la una,” they told me. The kitchen opens at one. And that’s early. Dinner at 9 p.m.? It seemed absurd. Back home, that’s bedtime, not dinnertime. But I adapted. I learned to embrace the slow mornings, the afternoon lull when shops close, and the city exhales. I stopped fighting the rhythm and started moving with it.
Service in Spain is direct. Efficient. I remember the first time a waiter came up to my table and simply said, “¿Qué quieres?” No “Hello, how are you today?” No fake smile, no unnecessary pleasantries. It felt almost rude. But over time, I grew to appreciate it. Here, good service doesn’t mean hovering or upselling. It means bringing you exactly what you need—quickly. And when you’re ready to pay? A simple nod gets the job done. No awkward waiting, no forced chit-chat.
At first, I was surprised by the casual way alcohol is woven into daily life. A beer at 11 a.m.? A small glass of vermouth before lunch? But it’s never about drinking for the sake of drinking. It’s about conversation, about company. About taking a moment to pause. Back home, alcohol often comes with an underlying urgency—drink fast, drink more. Here, it’s a companion, not the main event.
I used to avoid eye contact with strangers. It felt uncomfortable, unnecessary. But in Spain? People look at you. On the metro, at the market, on the street. It’s not flirtation, not intimidation—it’s just acknowledgment. A simple, unspoken “I see you.” At first, it felt strange. Now, I find it oddly comforting.
There’s something I miss from home: abundant, free, well-maintained public restrooms. Here, they’re a rarity. Instead, the unspoken rule is simple—need a bathroom? Buy a coffee, a beer, anything. Use the facilities, and no one will blink an eye. It’s a cultural trade-off, I suppose. Spain gives you endless terraces and open plazas, but the price is an extra espresso when nature calls.
Nothing in Spain has tested my patience more than bureaucracy. Forms with five different fonts. Government websites that look like relics from the early 2000s. A single document request turns into an unexpected scavenger hunt across multiple offices. And yet, somehow, it all works. Eventually.
What once felt strange now feels normal—even comforting. I no longer rush through the streets. I eat late, I hold eye contact, I don’t expect small talk from waiters. I’ve learned that life here isn’t about efficiency—it’s about presence. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.