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Sidewalks in Spain are too narrow for a single truth
I walk. Not because I’m in a hurry — that’s rarely a factor here. After ten metres it happens: sidewalks in Spain remind me that walking is not a given. A terrace chair on the left. A scooter on the right. In between: me, a shopping bag, and a decision with no proper name. I choose the least ridiculous option: the chair. The chair doesn’t move. The scooter doesn’t bend. My route does.
Negotiating space
What’s remarkable about Spanish sidewalks isn’t that they create chaos, but that they work. Here, a sidewalk is a conversation, not a passageway. A stroller has priority — unless an elderly woman is talking to it. Then the conversation takes precedence. The stroller waits. So does time.
Once I saw an electric scooter placed inside a plant pot. Not fallen — parked. With intention. One centimetre to the right would have bothered no one. But apparently, that was where it belonged. Outdoor logic here is more human than practical.
No battle, just direction
I’m not complaining. Sidewalks in Spain aren’t designed to be efficient, but to be lived on. Sometimes I stand sighing behind a line that isn’t really a line. Sometimes I think: this could’ve been faster. But who says faster is better?
At intersections, you only see each other at the last moment. Sometimes shadows collide before people do. And yet hardly anyone actually bumps into anyone. There seems to be an invisible choreography: someone stops, someone gestures, someone smiles, someone moves on. Only later do you realize you were part of something without a name.
No right or wrong, just forward
In the Netherlands, I was good with rules. Here, I’m good at being present. Not because I’m better at it, but because otherwise it doesn’t work. You don’t win an argument with a terrace chair. You can only decide whether to walk around it or resent it. The chair stays.
A friend from Málaga once said: “The sidewalk belongs to no one — so everyone is responsible.” Not as a principle, but as a practice.
Walking isn’t a route
Walking here isn’t A → B. It’s A → step aside for D → smile at E → wait, where was B again? That’s not a lack of structure — it’s an excess of people.
Maybe this isn’t about chairs, scooters or step devices at all. Maybe it’s about how much space you have inside yourself to not be right. To accept that a sidewalk doesn’t understand you. To stop expecting logic to be universal.
The sidewalk is too narrow for a single truth. And maybe that’s exactly enough.
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