On arriving
I live in Andalucía now. To be closer to family. And of all the things I thought I’d struggle with (the heat, the smallness of where we live, the limited access to high-quality oat milk (who have I become?!?!?)), it is ‘time’ that is proving hardest to adjust to. Soon after we arrived it became apparent that by relocating to a small town on the most Southern tip of Spain in February, we had managed to both fast forward from the bleakest London winter to balmy spring and have everyday life slow down to a glacial pace.
A recent trip to the local post office (in a previous life, this would have involved a 1-minute walk from my flat) best serves to illustrate my struggle.
One Monday eve a few weeks ago, I walked to my nearest bus stop, hopeful and determined to collect a parcel from the local (read only one in town) post office. Wave-like maritime motifs printed across the bus stop’s glass backdrop suggested the kind of movement and momentum that my experience there would lack. The laminated timetable only showed summer timings, so I downloaded the dedicated ‘real-time’ app via a QR code. It led me to a PDF version of the laminated sheet I’d been looking at. Googlemaps on my British SIM card phone didn’t even detect the bus that was meant to stop here and the iPhone maps app on my Spanish SIM card phone said the bus should have arrived two minutes ago. I discarded the option of walking for 1 hour and 6 minutes and settled down, resigned to watch a be-palmed roundabout, willing the bus into appearance with my furious gaze.
Temperamental timings are a running theme here. When trying to pay a municipal admin fee at a bank (don’t even) I arrived when the branch opened at 8am, only to find myself up against a sign that read that non-customers would only be seen on Tuesdays and Thursdays between 8.30am and 10.30am between the 12th and the 24th of each month (but to become a customer I needed the admin paper I was trying to pay for!). My new place of residence. Where you just have to know and accept that shit happens when it happens.
A diesel fume snapped me out of my rumination and alerted me to the arrival of the miracle bus. But alas, the battle was far from won. Once on the bus, it crawled three stops into the opposite direction of where I thought we’d be going and then stopped at what appeared to be a scenic viewing platform overlooking the sea. I looked at my fellow passengers, aching for an understanding nod of our shared suffering, yet no one made a move to get off the bus or even acknowledge the unusual wait. If anything, everyone started chatting more enthusiastically.
Clouds = my mood
Seeing three fellow passengers opposite me sticking their heads together reminded me of my appointment at the local police station a week earlier. I had to request an identification number for being a foreigner in this country. It took the labour of 3 adult men to process my request. One who took me to the office and spelled (!) out my application details. One who typed my details into the computer. A third one who made a photocopy of my application and identity documents. It almost felt like a hidden cameras challenge on how much time you could possibly spent on one administrative transaction. My new place of residence. Why do things fast and alone, when you can get there by doing them slowly in a group.
Having angry-breathed at the view for another 15 minutes, the bus eventually moved on and headed to where I had been trying to go for the past 90 minutes. At the post office, I settled into another wait. With it being the only post office in town, you’re lucky if the queue doesn’t snake out and around the building. I watched on incredulously as one old person after another literally counted out their payments in small change to the post officer. Since the introduction of self-checkout tills in London, it’s a sight I had heard of but rarely witnessed. My new place of residence. Why card-swipe where you can rummage. And yet. The hesitating rhythm of the clinks with which each new coin joined its fellows on a small black plastic tray echoed off the post office’s marble tiles like a slow, hovering heartbeat. I could feel my shoulders drop, my fists unclench. It’s hard to win a bare-knuckle fight against the passage of time.
With my parcel finally in hand and the ring of the coins still in my ears, I walked back to the bus stop and settled down. After an undefined period of time (I was so past measuring at this point), the bus turned around the corner, I got on – one second – and started counting out my change as a queue started forming behind me …
Apparently, the world can wait.
And the busses don’t take card payments here anyways.