We thought we could do it.
We really did. The Spanish eat late, and we live in Spain, so why not just embrace it? Shift our meals forward, eat like the locals, blend in seamlessly. Easy.
It was not easy.
Morning Delusions
We woke up starving. Because obviously, we’d skipped breakfast at our usual hour. Spaniards don’t eat breakfast at 7 AM like some sleep-deprived office drone. No, they have a light something at 10. Maybe a tostada with tomato. Maybe a croissant. Coffee. Easy. Casual.
By 9:45, I was contemplating eating the houseplants. But no. We were doing this properly.
At 10, we walked triumphantly into the café. Ordered our tostadas. Ate them in two bites. Blinked at each other. Waited for some kind of satisfaction to set in. It didn’t.
“This was supposed to carry us to lunch?” JC asked, eyeing my now-empty plate.
“Apparently.”
“Do people in Spain not feel hunger?”
“Maybe we’re just weak.”
By 11:30, I was chewing gum aggressively just for the illusion of sustenance.
Lunch: A Marathon, Not a Sprint
By 2:45, we were dying. Actual, stomach-growling, dizzy-headed dying. But we were so close! Lunch in Spain isn’t until 3 PM, so we soldiered on.
At precisely 3, we threw ourselves at a menú del día like starving wolves. Three courses. Wine included. We over-ordered, overate, and by the time sobremesa rolled around, I was in what can only be described as a food coma with existential dread.
The waiter, oblivious to our suffering, cheerfully offered coffee.
“If I drink that, I will die,” I whispered.
JC, already halfway through his espresso, nodded sagely. “I can see time.”
The Dreaded Wait for Dinner
After lunch that was also basically dinner, we should have been fine. Except dinner wasn’t for another seven hours. SEVEN. HOURS.
“People just…not eat until 10 PM?” JC muttered from the couch, where he lay dramatically, hands on his stomach like a Victorian child on his deathbed.
“No idea. I assume they fuel themselves with social interaction and dark magic.”
We tried. We really did. We went for a walk, we distracted ourselves. But at 7 PM, we broke. Shamefully, we sneaked a snack. A pathetic, hurried, guilt-ridden snack. Like absolute failures.
By the time we actually sat down for a proper Spanish dinner at 10 PM, we weren’t even hungry anymore. We ate out of principle. Out of stubbornness.
“So?” I asked, wiping my mouth, exhausted. “Think we can do this every day?”
JC leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion. “I think we’ve angered the gods.”
The next morning, we woke up and ate breakfast at 7 AM like the heathens we are. We had failed Spain.
But, honestly? No regrets.