Spain

I spent a summer in Spain when I was in my 20's. What I found out during my time there is that I'm definitely a product of my environment. My psyche is American and my way of life is American, despite my love of Spain. That summer, I worked for a violin maker in Madrid. Every day at 10 o'clock, I rang the bell at his apartment and waited. Ten minutes later, Laurent would come to the door with his eyes half-closed and walk with me across the street for a cappuccino. We got to work around ten-thirty and worked until two in the afternoon, at which time I would dine in a restaurant with Laurent and his wife and some friends. Lunch lasted the two hours of afternoon siesta. It wouldn't have made sense to work while the whole world around you sleepily sipped lemonade behind closed shutters. So we went back to work at four in the afternoon and worked until things cooled off at eight. Dinner was at ten. Or eleven. Or whenever that market day's fresh ingredients took shape as a meal.

I love the idea of a work day that leaves time for two hour lunches with friends and starts with a half-hour in a neighborhood cafe. To my surprise, the reality of that lifestyle drove me nuts. The vacation part of my summer in Spain made me even more crazy than the work part. Hanging out with a group of single young Spanish students consisted of talking about going to the beach, driving around to various houses to round up friends, spending an hour at each house chatting, getting ready, drinking a Coke...By the time we would get to the beach, the sun was going down. And nobody seemed to mind in the least. I was the only one who felt like I had just wasted a beautiful, sunny day. Everyone else was relaxed and happy. Meanwhile, I was wondering what, exactly, I had accomplished. One weekend, a car full of my friends and I drove around lost in Portugal for six hours. We finally slept on the hood of the car in a dark neighborhood and found our way the next day. Nobody was the least bit concerned that we were hopelessly lost and hours behind schedule. "Que sera sera" is deeply embedded in the Spanish way of life.

Americans, we thrive on driving ourselves hard and rewarding ourselves with intense recreation. We think we relax, but we don't know how. The truth is, I wish I had the propensity to act more Spanish, but I don't. Leisurely mornings depress me. I need a jolt of caffeine, a packed schedule and a long to-do list to wake me up. It's not just me; It's the culture I live in. The irony is that we as a society have been working eighty-hour weeks with less vacation time than any other industrialized nation. The result? We've completely tanked our own economy. We're entirely dependent on Oprah's next guest author to tell us where to look for contentment. Maybe we're greedy not just for money, but time, accomplishment and enlightenment. Maybe what we are chasing is as vapid and fleeting as the fame we covet in our superstars. Or maybe we already have plenty of the bounty we crave, we just can't see it.

Not to idealize Spain, but I remember watermelons I ate there, how good they tasted at midnight. I remember the cafes and parks and beaches and living rooms. I still keep in touch with friends I met during a week alone at the beach. I have good memories from those slow, beautiful days. Sadly, though, my American psyche prevented me from fully realizing that life was happening to me even as I waited for it to begin, during the creeping hours of siesta and the long meals of evening. "The good life" may be a lot simpler than we Americans think. I can't change who I am, but I think I might like to try sitting down and looking around at the treasures I have, and enjoying them. Scott, my kids, friends, family, the incredible views just outside our door should be enough for a happy life. I could go to the park without a book. I could look at the sunset without doing dishes at the same time. I could read with the kids even when it doesn't "count" for school. I could spend a whole day being spontaneous. I might try it. I'll have to put it on my calendar.