From a Café in Spain

It’s one o’clock on a sunny afternoon in northern Spain. I sit at one of the outdoor cafes that stretch around the large square of Valladolid’s plaza mayor. Three stories of balconies sit outside the evenly spaced windows that look out from the pricey apartments above. The weather is nice, probably in the low 70s. Day’s like this in many ways define what it is to be Spanish, whether in the north or the south, or in separatist Catalonia or Basque Country. Spanish people like to accent their regional and ethnic differences. But as an outsider, one sees their commonalities. Spaniards, as one tour guide once said, are street people. They like to be out. They like to have a good time. The streets will clear some around five, then around nine, finally coming back in full force starting around 11 and then going deep into the night.

But for now, it’s one in the afternoon on Saturday in a northern Spanish city. I’m drinking a Mahou beer and scarfing down a late brunch; two jamón bocadillos. Yes, in Spain you can drink a beer at one in the afternoon and not have anyone think any less of you. I figure these are opportunities you just can’t miss out on.

But it’s time to go apartment search. I’m hoping all those hours watching House Hunters International come in handy.