What the Spanish lifestyle teaches you about patience

Waiting here isn’t a punishment — it’s a habit. In Spain, time doesn’t seem to be measured in minutes, but in moments. The bus arrives when it arrives, the plumber comes “around midday”, and the post office closes when the person behind the counter feels like it. What triggers frustration in Northern Europe turns into something close to philosophy here: a quiet exercise in letting go.

The Spanish lifestyle forces you into patience, whether you want it or not. And somewhere between endless queues and delayed appointments, there may be a lesson we’ve forgotten.

Time is in no hurry here

When I first moved to Moraira, I tried to plan everything the way I did in the Netherlands. A packed agenda, punctual to every appointment. Until one day I found myself at the bank, standing behind five people who showed absolutely no sense of urgency. The clerk chatted with each of them as if it were a village fête. At first I felt irritated — and then it hit me: this is the rhythm here. Time isn’t the enemy; it’s background music.

In an earlier article about mañana mañana, I wrote about how this country runs on a different clock. It’s not about efficiency, but about presence. And the longer I live here, the more I value that.

The beauty of useless minutes

Somewhere between waiting and doing nothing, something special begins: attention. Standing in line at the bakery, I catch fragments of conversation about the weather, the harvest, or the neighbour’s grandchildren. Nobody checks their phone. People actually wait.

In the Netherlands we’d call that wasted time. Here, it’s called life.

I’m reminded of my piece on the art of Spanish strolling, where I realised that walking slowly isn’t a lack of pace, but a way of seeing. Maybe the same applies to waiting: those who don’t rush, notice more.

Waiting as a mirror

Spain confronts you with yourself. Because when you lose patience in line at the town hall, that’s not Spain’s fault — it’s yours. Waiting exposes how little silence and slowness we still tolerate.

A Spanish friend once joked: “In the Netherlands you have watches; in Spain we have time.” And he’s right. Behind the cliché of mañana mañana lies not laziness, but trust — the belief that things will happen, just not right now.

The invisible art

In winter, when the tourists have left and life slows down, it becomes natural. The shopkeeper who chats before ringing you up. The postman who stops for a coffee halfway through his round. Nobody rushes — and yet everything gets done.

Maybe that’s the real art of waiting: learning that time isn’t always something to fill, but something to rest in.

When I sit on the terrace at the end of the day, the light softening and the street slowly falling quiet, I finally understand. Waiting here isn’t standstill. It’s breathing space. Patience is the Spanish lifestyle.