Spanish timekeeping

Spain is a wonderful country.  I absolutely love the place and its inhabitants.  But my love for all things Spanish is equalled by the frustrations that arise in me whenever I am there.

Exhibit A: timekeeping.  I have always been fussy about timekeeping.  I could count the number of times I have been late for events on the fingers of one finger.  I am never late.  I don’t have a problem with other people being late as long as it is due to something outside their control, such as traffic or a train being delayed, or losing their keys or falling over en route.  But when somebody is late just because they couldn’t be bothered to get ready on time or because they wanted to look in the shops on the way, that’s when I get really angry.  Not outwardly angry, but angry in an internalised, very English way.  The kind of anger that will give me terrible blood pressure problems in my mid thirties, around the same time as I’ll be wondering why these outwardly angry southern Europeans are living so much longer than me.  I probably won’t even let you know I’m angry.  Instead I’ll insist that it’s fine and express it in another, wholly inappropriate, slightly passive aggressive way later on.  Anyway, one stereotype that does ring true is the Spanish tardiness.  True, Catalans are considered punctual when compared to Andalucians, but that is scarcely anything to be proud of.  In his book, Homage to Catalonia, George Orwell sums up in just a few sentences not only the Spanish approach to timekeeping, but also of the contradictions apparent even in that:

“In Spain nothing, from a meal to a battle, ever happens at the appointed time.  As a general rule, things happen too late, but just occasionally  - just so that you shan’t even be able to depend on their happening late – they happen too early.  A train which is due to leave at eight will normally leave at any time between nine and ten, but perhaps once a week, thanks to some private whim of the engine-driver, it leaves at half-past seven.  Such things can be a little trying.  In theory I rather admire the Spaniards for not sharing our Northern time-neurosis; but unfortunately I share it myself.”

My first few weeks living in Spain were stressful for me.  I must have spent hours waiting for other people and approximately 20 percent of my time was taken up trying to get the attention of waiters.  With time, you learn to deal with it.  The more of a fuss you make, the longer things will take and if you allow it to stress you, you have yourself to blame.  The culture in southern Europe is different.  Things take longer, so people just do a bit less.  Their lives tend to be a bit happier for that. 

We could learn from them.  Or just love the difference.