Time Flies When You’re Having Fun

I’d made it almost exactly 24 hours in Spain when I realised the time zone on my phone hadn’t changed—meaning I’d been running an hour behind since I’d crossed the border. At over three years old, my iPhone battery has a half-life of about four minutes, and having been unable to recharge it at the Starbucks in Faro, on the bus to Seville or from my bunk at the hostel—the only one in the dorm without a dedicated socket—I was scared to use it unnecessarily, failing to notice the hour I never lost after diligently resetting it the day before.

Looking back, the signs were there all along. I’d been surprised to find the lights off and everyone asleep when I returned to the hostel on Wednesday evening. And the next afternoon, while seeking shade at Seville’s modest aquarium, it had struck me as odd that the reception desk were so insistent that they closed at 6pm when that was still two hours away—especially as I flew through it in less than 40 minutes. If only I’d stayed a little longer, I might have noticed them locking up behind me.

The penny finally dropped about an hour later. I’d booked the last remaining timeslot at Real Alcazar at 18:30 and had stopped for an iced latte after the aquarium to pass the time. I arrived to find an exodus of visitors and a guard blocking the empty entrance lane. I showed him my booking—more than once—and explained that it couldn’t possibly be closed when there was still one hour to go. Confusingly, he accepted there was indeed a 18:30 batch of tickets sold but explained that it was in fact those ticket-holders leaving now. I was just about to show him my booking again when it clicked.

Suddenly my 11am start that morning seemed more than a little leisurely. I’d been tired, sure, but to sleep until midday on my first full day in a new city seemed wasteful in the extreme—as now did the hour spent idling over coffee as I waited for an appointed time that was presently elapsing. In any case, it was now 19:30 and I had no idea what to do. I had planned almost my entire day around the Real Alcazar, squandered a dozen or so euros on the entry fee, and now the disappointment was threatening to define my whole day.

So I walked, and as I did I tried to keep in mind all that I had achieved in that first full afternoon. I’d visited Seville Cathedral and climbed the tower (ramps rather than stairs, unusually), I’d photographed nesting parakeets in Parque de Maria Luisa (including one fighting a rat in a tree) and I’d navigated my way to Plaza de Espana (or Theed Palace as I kept thinking of it, having first encountered it as Naboo’s royal residence in Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones). I’d packed a lot in despite a late start and abridged finish. Besides, it was surely better to realise now and lose €13.50 than to have carried on oblivious and missed the much pricier tour of Gibraltar I’d planned for the following morning.

And then, just as my meander brought me back to Real Alcazar and threatened to remind me of my earlier error, I heard the unique and unmistakable sound of the hang—a Bernese handpan that has quickly become one of my favourite instruments. Instantly entranced by its tones and vibrations, I lost another hour in almost exactly the same place—only on this occasion it was a pleasure to do so.