So, I thought I was coming to Spain for adventure. You know, flamenco, bullfights, tapas on every corner, a bit of fiesta action. Instead, I get Pampaneira. A sleepy little village in the mountains where Sundays are treated like… well, like a special form of torture for someone like me.
I mean, it’s not even the village’s fault—it’s just, this whole “slow life” thing? It’s real. It’s a way of life here, and they live it with pride. Meanwhile, I’m pacing around the house like a caged animal, wondering when the hell it’s going to stop feeling like a scene from some meditation retreat that went wrong.
I wake up, and the first thing I notice? The silence. Not a single honking horn, not a single “¡Vamonos!” No one shouting across the street, no cars zipping by. Nothing. Just birds, the wind, and the sound of me contemplating whether I’ve made a huge mistake coming here.
I’m trying to adapt. I am. I really am. But I’m used to London. I’m used to hustle and bustle. I used to wake up to car alarms, sirens, people fighting about who’s standing too close to the bus stop. None of that here. None.
So, I decide to take a walk. You know, do what the locals do. Maybe check out the mountain views. Get into this slower pace thing. I leave the house, and—what do I see? Nothing. Just mountains, trees, and some old guy walking at a pace so slow, I’m wondering if he’s even moving.
I try to walk with him. Slow down, Robert, I tell myself. Enjoy the view. Embrace the stillness.
But after two minutes—two minutes—I’m looking at my watch thinking, “Alright, this is enough. Let’s move on. Let’s get to the fun stuff!” But no. He’s still walking at the same pace, just casually moving through the trees, looking at the sky, and then looking at me like I’m the one who’s insane for not stopping to smell the air. And I’m over here like, “Am I supposed to stop and… breathe? Like, really breathe?”
The whole village’s on this slow-life grind. The bakery opens at 9 AM, and the shopkeeper just chills in the doorway with a cup of coffee like it’s some sacred ritual. The whole vibe is so laid-back, it’s almost annoying. But, like, in a good way? It’s like being slapped in the face with a fluffy pillow made of peace.
At some point, I start to get it. I sit at the local café, ordering my coffee, and for the first time in my life, I actually notice how good the coffee is. Like, I can taste the beans. I can taste the morning. And that’s when it hits me—this is the point of it all.
It’s not about getting through the day, checking things off the list, running around. It’s about being in the moment. And when you’ve spent years being a speed freak—trying to keep up with life—it takes you about two hours to realize that being stuck in slow motion isn’t the worst thing ever. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe I need this.
At the end of the day, I’m still in Pampaneira, still getting used to the fact that Sundays here are meant for doing nothing. I mean, the whole village shuts down. There’s no hustle. No rush. No “get to work” vibe. No “how fast can I finish my lunch so I can get on with the next thing.”
It’s all about… just being.
And me? I’m still pacing around my house some days, trying to break out of that habit, but little by little, I think I’m finally getting it. The slow life? It’s like some weird form of magic. Like the kind of magic you don’t notice until you’re sitting in silence, staring at the mountains and wondering why you’re so… calm.