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2 Things That I Don’t Like About Spain

I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my time in Spain, but there are two things about the country that I’ve never liked:
  1. The Amount That Spaniards Eat/Meal Times

I’ve lived in Spain for about 1.5 years, and I have yet to see someone who comes close to being obese. A friend of my roommate gets shit for being “fat”, and he could pretty much qualify as a runway model in the U.S. Why are there so few fat people? I believe a large factor is how the Spanish eat.

The first meal of the day is eaten at around 8/9 a.m. What your typical Spaniard calls “breakfast” I call a diminished war ration. A cup of coffee and toast or a piece of fruit is supposed to sustain one until lunch, which isn’t eaten until 2 or 3 p.m. And there are many who don’t even eat breakfast! I guess they just take a huge breath before leaving the house, and subsist off a combination of the bacteria in the air and photosynthesis. It’s madness! Madness, I tell you!

That was Spongebob enjoying a hearty Spanish breakfast.

I generally adhere to an American eating schedule, but have been forced to adopt the Spanish style at times when I’ve stayed at a friend’s house. The seven hours between “breakfast” and lunch feels like several life times. The coffee drank in the morning immediately expels whatever morsel it is that is eaten with it, leaving one’s stomach with no other recourse than to begin gradually devouring itself. That’s why Spanish stomachs are all so small – they’re cannibals! Is it still called cannibalism if you’re eating yourself? I guess that makes them auto-cannibals….the worst kind.

Breakfast. The Spanish don’t know the meaning of the word! I come from the land of the Grand Slam.

I think I just felt my cholesterol rise.

I hear the Star-Spangled Banner in my head every time I see that photo. I don’t care if you’re pro-Trump, against Trump, pro-trumpets, against-trumpets, pro-life, or pro-monopoly. There is something God Damn beautifully American about Denny’s Grand Slam Breakfast. Toast for breakfast? Not here. The only purpose toast serves in a Grand Slam is sopping up the sausage and bacon grease left on the plate at the end. As a proud American, my breakfast isn’t over until my blood is flowing at that the same speed as the syrup that I drown my pancakes in.

However, when it comes to lunch, Spain and I are on the same page. A Spanish lunch is massive and delicious, and I don’t have a single bad thing to say about it.

As for dinner, it doesn’t happen until 10 p.m…. It’s not natural. 10 p.m. is Netflix and ice cream time, not regular food time. Also, it’s a small portion, which means my stomach will be going full auto-cannibal come morning.

  1. What Time They Party At

In Spain, these animals don’t start partying until 11 p.m., and then they stay out until 7:00 a.m. When I party here, I go into the club when it’s dark, I come out when it’s light, and I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore.

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On these nights, I’m not going to bed until 8 a.m., which results in an ungodly hangover. I wake up at 6:00 p.m. utterly devoid of the will to live. All my thoughts are slowed by a thick mental sludge, and thinking becomes especially difficult when physical action is required; the choice between wetting the bed and getting up to use the toilet is considered in depth. The only departure from my home is made to walk to the Burger King down the street in order to punish the inside of my body further.

It is a horrific experience, and sometimes takes two days for a full-recovery to be made. In the good ol’ U.S. of A, the night ends at around 2 a.m., which means that the next day I can still be a functioning human; I’m certainly not a crisp human, but I can function.

So Spain, if you’re listening, these are my two notes for your country: bigger breakfasts and an earlier partying schedule. And would it kill you guys to walk a little faster on the sidewalk?