The Value—and Difficulty—of Slowing Down

I’m past the midpoint of my monthlong stay in Seville, and I’ve pushed myself to see (and eat!) a lot. That’s my default programming: when I travel outside the US, I try to take full advantage of every moment. As a kid, I wanted to “see the world,” poring over our printed encyclopedias and their pictures of faraway places.

On more recent trips abroad with family—including to Taiwan and Italy—I’ve tried to absorb, or share, every detail. That impulse can be enriching, but also exhausting.

And that isn’t really the point of the sabbatical I’m now taking advantage of. This time is meant for resting and recharging. To be fair, some of that replenishment has come through cultural immersion—taking in art and architecture, enjoying special meals. Still, over the last few days, I’ve begun to do a better job of slowing down—not perfectly and not all at once, but by gradually giving myself permission to do less.

How I walk has become part of this shift. Like a New Yorker—and an anxious one at that—I tend to move fast. But in the narrow streets of Seville, you encounter couples of all ages strolling arm in arm, unhurried, simply enjoying the act of walking together. Rather than rush around them, as I would in New York, I’ve started to slow my steps.

I still plan to visit a few more tourist sites and local restaurants, but I’ve seen most of them before. I have to remind myself that it’s okay not to visit yet another Baroque church if what I really want is to finish a novel. I don’t need to try another restaurant when I have groceries at home.

The apartment I’ve rented has helped, too. It’s more spacious than I expected, and the terrace is an ideal place to sit still and take in the views. Immediately below are the sometimes noisy streets of Santa Cruz, Seville’s former Jewish quarter. In the distance, the Giralda rises into view. From here, I can enjoy the city’s beauty without going anywhere at all.

I hope this growing comfort with slowing down—learning when experience replenishes me and when stillness does—is something I can carry back with me to New York.