There are those city sounds, street noises, that become a kind of urban soundtrack and a distinct background to whichever city or neighborhood you live in. One periodic noise that you might hear in the streets of most Spanish cities is the flute call of the "afilador" (knife grinder). When I first heard it, I thought it was some new kind of street parade that I didn't yet know about. It sounded to me like a magical summoning straight out of a fairytale.
Click to hear my audio recording of the afilador passing by my house
The afilador in Goya's time
When my wife told me what it was, a traveling street vendor who sharpens people's kitchen knives, I was even more floored. That there was still a profession who made their living as a traveling trader or vendor just seemed, well, medieval. And the afilador does have old roots, seen here in this painting by Goya. It seems like one of those professions which should have gone extinct a long time ago, an obsolete occupation. But it's still going here in Spain, and if you hear it, you can run downstairs with your knives and he will most certainly sharpen them.
Nowadays, they often move around the city by bicycle, and in general I hear them pass by my house about once a month. It adds a little charm to city living here.
At first blush, to an outsider, it may seem that Spain is hardly a country with strong norms about lining up ("hacer cola"). One rarely encounters here the orderly, single-file lines in Anglosaxon countries, the distinctive "queue culture" for which the British are famously fastidious. But don't be fooled. In fact, Spain has a deeply ingrained _virtual_ queue culture, and it is likely, visitors, that you (perhaps unwittingly) have already experienced it.
If you have ever entered an "horno" (bakery) or approached the counter ("mostrador") for "fiambres" (coldcuts) or at marketplace stand, were waiting to be served, and wondered what that person who approached it had just asked you, chances are it was one of the following:
"¿Quién es el último [en la cola]?" (Who is the last person [in line]?)
"¿Hay que coger número/turno?" (Does one need to grab a number/turn?)
These represent the two ways in which Spaniards form their virtual queues, and are why they thus feel no compunction about physically lining up, and indeed are more likely to clump together in social groups in what appears a completely disorganized manner. The first approach depends on each person remembering who is in front of them. When you enter, you ask and remember who is the last person, and when the next person comes in they ask and you answer. From that point on, you need have no care in the world about the line until the person directly in front of you is attended to, at which point you prepare to make your order. In the meantime, as the virtual queue ticks down, you can, for example, peruse the counter completely out of line order and decide what you want to buy, or perhaps walk a little ways over (but still in sight of the line) and chat with that neighbor of yours and catch up on each other's lives ("ponerse al corriente") or share gossip ("cotilleo").
The classic turn dispenser in a supermarket.
The second approach, usually employed only during rush hours at food counters or routinely in more official bureaucratic institutions, is to find this characteristically red number dispenser, grab a number or "turno" (turn) and then wait for it to appear on the digital display. The longer I live here, the more I become convinced that this red device is the most important tool for social organization in the country. It is certainly ever-present in daily life in Spain. (I wish I could find a visual of a recent commercial campaign here, for an online service, which parodied the device to make a point about no longer having to wait in queues to be served.)
And once you have your number, look for this digital display to wait for your turn.
And anyone who upsets this neat system of lining up is as likely to irritate and leave locals indignant as one would upset a Brit or American if they cut in line. (Ah, the everyday morality dramas of "first come, first served" commercial ethics.) So, yes, Spaniards do know how to queue, they just do so virtually.
But there are exceptions and lapses in this system. The worst case is at airports, where the gate line for a flight can often turn into a mass of people all glutted around the ticket check, no real line whatsoever. I've begun to suspect, however, that this is more because of the presence of guiris than Spaniards. In their time on holiday in Spain, I think foreigners get the wrong impression that it is laissez faire at the queue, and so many a time I have noticed it is the Brits or Germans who are rushing past the line to the front of the gate, which only spurs on the Spaniards to reciprocate… leading to the clueless queue-less chaos. An example of international normlessness, not informal Spanish custom. Now if only they could introduce that little red device here.
"In a rush," to the left. "In no rush," stand to the right. The Valencia Metro's
effort to inculcate in its citizenry a common English protocol.
"It's not tipping I believe in. It's overtipping."
— Vincent 'Vinnie' Antonelli in My Blue Heaven (1990)
So there is a major difference in philosophies between the U.S. and Spain in questions of socially correct consumption. To quote José Ángel Oliván, the president of Spain's Union of Consumers:
"En España los precios son finales." [Translation: In Spain prices are final.]
This means that unlike in the U.S., sales tax ("el IVA") is included in the display price for a product (no having to do complicated percentage calculations on your purchases), and at restaurants or bars you're not expected to add a tip ("la propina") to help recompense someone for their services. Whereas in the U.S. waiters can be paid less than minimum wages on the assumption that you, the customer, will tip them, in Spain labor laws ensure that waiters make adequate income without relying on the generosity of their customers.
To put it succinctly, in Spain you do not ever _need_ to tip. And you certainly never would leave 15%.
I am beginning to suspect that this difference in practice also reflects a distinct vision of consumerism and labor rights. While Americans often see tipping as a kind of solidarity with the worker and evidence of kindness, I'm not sure that here in Spain a large tip is always received that way. Don't get me wrong, if you leave a big tip, the waiter most certainly will not complain. I just don't think he or she will necessarily see you as a kind, generous customer. Tipping here is really viewed as bourgeois culture, and thus evokes a kind class snobbery or excessiveness. Big tips are big reminders of economic disparities or antiquated ideas about classism and the superiority of the client.
That said, it is quite common for people to round up the bill rather than leave exact change. And certainly if the service is excellent, the restaurant quite fancy, and/or you are a large (or difficult) group, then it might be a good idea to leave a tip larger than a couple of euros.
"Some rules:
1) If you're a turist [sic] please tip generously. Enjoy being a guiri
2) If you're an expat, still tip, but carefully
3) If you don't like the service, don't tip at all.
4) In bars, round up
5) In restaurants depends the amount of the bill. Round up 5% aprox [sic] is OK for bills up to 50-80€. But a tip more that 5€ is only justified if your party is a lot of people or the service is great
6) Taxis 1€ (or round up if it's a short ride)
7) Hair cut 1€"
It's not just Americans who are unsure about what is the "correct" approach to tipping. It was the subject of a recent morning talk show (audio feed below) on Spain's national radio, and there was some divergence of opinion. (Though bear in mind that many listeners who said they did leave a tip were talking about amounts such as 50 cents or 1€. And I noticed that it was mostly the foreigners and immigrants interviewed who were advocating it.)
But really, nobody is going to mind if you don't leave a tip. In Spain they really, truly are optional.
So every time I have guests visit or I talk with an American exchange student settling into Spanish life, they always go on about how "cute" it is (or annoying) that shops close midday for "siesta," the famous after lunch nap that Spaniards are renowned for. Well, note to all Americans, few Spaniards actually take the afternoon siesta anymore. The shops are closed for lunch, not for naps.
This myth of a ubiquitous siesta culture is long out of date, and probably has legs for how it fits with the stereotypes of warm weather people as lazy or Spaniards as indulgently laid back. One Spanish blogger includes it among a long list of urban legends which circulate about Spaniards abroad. Personally, so far as I can tell, with the possible exception of my father-in-law the only Spaniards I know who take a siesta ("tomar la siesta") only do so when they are on vacation, or on the weekends, or if they are retired. But otherwise, hardworking Spaniards don't have time for afternoon naps, and they don't take them.
van Gogh's Siesta, 1890
Of course, maybe they should. I can't figure out how Spaniards get enough sleep. They wake up at 7AM, on average, but don't go to bed until midnight or 1AM or even later during the work week. Indeed, studies here in Spain increasingly suggest that the average Spaniard is underslept, even averaging an hour less than most Europeans. Meanwhile more and more sleep studies abroad are showing that a brief afternoon siesta is exactly what us modern sleep-deprived people need to improve alertness, be smarter, and gain all kinds of other positive health benefits.
Alas, even if Spaniards ought to take a siesta, like most other members of modern, workaholic societies they do not.
A simple answer to what is a "funcionario" would to be say that he or she is a state public employee. I think Americans often mistakenly interpret this to mean a functionary or bureaucrat, since these are usually the funcionarios that tourists and exchange students interact with. However teachers in public schools, doctors in the public healthcare system, not to mention nurses, policemen, firefighters, and garbagemen, are all also funcionarios. Indeed, as of 2010 one in six working Spaniards was a funcionarioin the sense that their salary was paid by a local, regional, or national government administration. Much more of Spain's economy is run by public institutions, so many more people in Spain are state employees.
Yet this alone still doesn't help you to fully understand the reasons for the heated public debates in Spain over whether funcionarios are, according to some, the scourge of the Earth, people with overly cushy jobs and little incentive to innovate or care about providing good service, or according to others, respectable workers who provide normalcy and consistency in service, and who, given their large numbers, are likely to be someone you know personally.
Perhaps the biggest difference in government employees here in Spain and in the U.S. is that funcionarios can get a permanent position, a job for life, something like tenure in the U.S. academic system. So even while salaries are often lower than private jobs (though perhaps not so comparatively low as they would be in the States), this job security makes these positions a highly coveted and desirable career path. What's more, many of them have special perks, such as only working half days (many government offices are closed after lunch) or having longer holidays (i.e. teachers).
In all fairness, though, to get one of these positions involves jumping through hoops, complicated and highly competitive selection tests ("oposiciones") for very few openings. And many problems with the system are unintended consequences: it is hard for young people to move into positions filled by more experienced though aging staff, and rules intended to ensure fairness and objectivity in selection result in little flexibility to adapt to changing markets and social needs. In short, if you are not inside the funcionario system, if you run a family business, work for a corporation, or are an "autónomo" (self-employed), then you might be envious frustrated by the widespread presence of this power-wielding, overly protected class of employees.
It can result sometimes in a kind of culture wars, pro-funcionarios versus anti-funcionarios. I have seen friends strongly divided over the question of whether the public employee system needs to be heavily reformed, or thrown out entirely, or whether 'since it ain't broke, don't fix it.' One problem is that the image that Spaniards often first think of when they talk about funcionarios is also probably the local bureaucrat, maybe the town hall (ayuntamiento) administrative worker who pushes paper for a living and is in charge of said citizen's success processing their taxes or resolving some social security problem… such as your unemployment checks.
In the heat of the economic crisis last year, when the government was exploring one route to balancing the national budget by cutting salaries and benefits for funcionarios, El País (one of the main newspapers here), did an excellent "radiography of public employees" in Spain. The article burst some common stereotypes about funcionarios. For one, most funcionarios, in terms of numbers, can be found in the public healthcare or education system. So cutting money or benefits for funcionarios means penalizing that doctor that treats you (think Spain's aging population) or that teacher who educates your kid, too. Moreover, only 40% of funcionarios had that mythical permanent position, so the majority of funcionarios were on part-time or temporary contracts and also experiencing some kind of job insecurity like everyone else.
A regional breakdown of population, public employees, and the ratio of inhabitants to public employees in 2010
But as an American, what is amazing about the El País radiograph are the sheer numbers, there is a funcionario for every 17-18 people inhabiting Spain. As of last year, 2.7 million of them in a country with a population of just 46.7 million. Another interesting thing is the wide variation across regions in reliance on and presence of the state. Almost 1 in 10 people are a funcionario in Extremadura, whereas only 4 of every 100 people in Catalonia are, Catalonia having a much stronger private economy than other regions in Spain. This means that any public initiative to reduce funcionario wages or benefits could be devastating for some regions, while barely affecting others. (Though despite all the loud ranting here about funcionarios, Spain is squarely in the middle range when its statistics are compared with other European countries.)
So keep an ear out for discussions about funcionarios. Whether this crisis erodes their social importance or reinforces it, funcionarios make up a central institution in the everyday lives of Spaniards, and chance are you'll hear people talking about it.
Spaniards have a very distinctive schedule in terms of mealtimes and work schedules. The fastest way to get pegged as a foreigner here is to be found eating lunch "early," at noon or 1PM and dinner at 7PM. Spaniards eat _much_ later than in other countries, and to date I have yet to find any other country like it.
Americans who come here always complain that it is too hard to wait until the local lunch or dinner time, but this is because many of them haven't yet figured out that locals actually have _five_ mealtimes, rather than just three. (There is ongoing debate among dieticians over whether five meals a day is healthier than three.) Let me briefly describe the typical Spanish day for those who want to blend in with the locals. If you can learn to adjust to this schedule, you will find that it enormously improves your chances of mixing with locals and experiencing their day-to-day life.
The work schedule and mealtime is schematically as follows:
~8AM "El desayuno" (Breakfast)
9-11AM work
11-11:30AM "El almuerzo" (mid-morning snack)
11:30-2PM work
2-4PM "La comida" (Lunch)
4-7PM work
~6PM "La merienda" (optional mid-afternoon snack)
9PM+ "La cena" (Dinner)
This routine varies from job to job, and company to company. Some jobs start at 8AM, and end the day earlier, and most retail shops don't open until 10AM and close around 8 to 9PM. If one ignores the half-hour break for almuerzo, you can see how this schedule adds up to an eight-hour workday, which just ends later than the typical 9-to-5 schedule in the U.S.
Contrary to popular imagination, the two-hour long lunch is not a result of the siesta. Working Spaniards who take a two-hour lunch usually do so because they eat it at home, and either therefore need the extra time to prepare a homemade lunch or have to commute to and from the office to their homes. However, it is becoming increasingly common for many workers to only take a one-hour lunch, and simply eat in or near the office.
Don't be fooled. At noon Spaniards aren't
eating lunch. They're having an almuerzo.
A breakfast is usually pretty light fare in Spain, so the "almuerzo" is a pretty important snack to carry people over until a 2-2:30PM lunchtime. (Note: in Madrid, and possibly other regions in Spain, lunch is called almuerzo, and the mid-morning snack is referred to as "picoteo" or snack.) The almuerzo is also really important office social time. It is quite common for co-workers ("compañeros") to leave the office together and go to a nearby bar to eat tapas or a "bocadillo" (sandwich). Needless to say, this is a time for building office comaraderie and networking.
The "merienda," on the other hand is really more for kids. If you walk by an "horno" (bakery) around 5–6PM, it is common to see parents or grandparents stopping by with their kids on the way home from school, to buy the kid a baked sweet (referred to as "bollería"). Though in the summer many adult Spaniards might also be spotted buying an ice cream snack. More commonly, around 6-7PM you will see many Spaniards out to "tomar una caña" (drink a beer) with some nuts or a small tapa with friends or colleagues after work.
Kids leaving school around 5PM, parents with snacks
in hand or grandparents ready to take them to the horno.
A quick drink, or caña, after work.
These snacktimes are why Spaniards have what seems to foreigners to be an amazing stamina for very late lunches and dinners. When I say that Spaniards have dinner at 9PM or later, I mean that 9PM is the earliest they would eat. Dinner at 10PM is pretty common, especially if one is dining out, and some eat even later. This is why primetime TV doesn't usually start until after the 9-10PM national news, and why Spaniards go to bed pretty late, around midnight on average, even on work nights.
And this schedule runs even later on weekends, with lunch usually at 3-3:30PM, and dinner no earlier than 10PM. Lunches are usually the heavier meal, and dinners, what with being so late, a lighter meal.
A simple answer to what is a "funcionario" would to be say that he or she is a state public employee. I think Americans often mistakenly interpret this to mean a functionary or bureaucrat, since these are usually the funcionarios that tourists and exchange students interact with. However teachers in public schools, doctors in the public healthcare system, not to mention nurses, policemen, firefighters, and garbagemen, are all also funcionarios. Indeed, as of 2010 one in six working Spaniards was a funcionario in the sense that their salary was paid by a local, regional, or national government administration. Much more of Spain's economy is run by public institutions, so many more people in Spain are state employees.
What's more, many of them have special perks, such as only working half days (many government offices are closed after lunch) or having longer holidays (i.e. teachers).
It can result sometimes in a kind of culture wars, pro-funcionarios versus anti-funcionarios. I have seen friends strongly divided over the question of whether the public employee system needs to be heavily reformed, or thrown out entirely, or whether 'since it ain't broke, don't fix it.' One problem is that the image that Spaniards often first think of when they talk about funcionarios is also probably the local bureaucrat, maybe the town hall (ayuntamiento) administrative worker who pushes paper for a living and is in charge of said citizen's success processing their taxes or resolving some social security problem… such as your unemployment checks.
