Slow going

I don’t know if you remember—or were even aware, in fact—of the Lake Wobegon series by Garrison Keillor. For me, it was a radio programme about a fictional town in Minnesota where, each week, he began by saying, “It’s been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon.” Pinoso is rather like that—quiet.

Life here rarely moves at speed. While a few people always seem to be hurrying off to do something “mightily important”, Pinoso generally takes its time. Last week we went to the Christmas concert given by the town band. When it ended, they played the town’s anthem and everyone stood; if I’d been wearing a hat, I’d have taken it off. Perhaps a hand-on-heart moment was called for. Maggie leaned over and whispered, “It’s the Trumpton theme.” I’m sure she meant it fondly.

We spent Christmas Eve with friends who live in the centre of Pinoso. They remarked that most of their neighbours live to a grand old age. There were plenty of stories: “Pilar is 93—and remember so-and-so? She lived to be 106.” The longevity of their neighbours is something they’ve really noticed.

As they spoke, I had a hazy recollection of a podcast I’d once heard about “Blue Zones”—places where people live exceptionally long and active lives. I remembered a few of the traits, but not the details, so I looked them up again for this blog. People in these regions live long and prosper because they stay active—not by going to the gym, but through everyday movements like housework, kneading bread, or walking to the market. They relieve stress by chatting to neighbours or taking short naps. They don’t overeat, stopping before they feel full, and their diets are rich in vegetables. They maintain strong family and community ties and—this is my favourite part—they enjoy a couple of glasses of wine each day, always in company. Most also belong to a faith-based group.

It struck me that this is almost a perfect description of the older generation in Pinoso. They go to church; wine isn’t treated as alcohol but as part of the meal; and they still mop and sweep by hand rather than using robot vacuums. Their families are close by, and for many of them, the siesta remains a sacred daily ritual.

At some point, our conversation drifted from tales of long-lived neighbours to the dismal state of supermarket meat—and the inconvenience of buying from a proper butcher because the queues move so slowly. In Spain, if you go to a butcher’s, you should take a book. The truth is, locals spend ages requesting precise, complex cuts; the process crawls along. It’s a rhythm that my friends and I, raised on instant service, find hard to bear. We’ve learned impatience—so we end up next door in the supermarket, sacrificing quality for convenience. Yet even there, the “Pinoso pace” holds firm.

Queues often stall because customers and cashiers prioritise conversation over scanning groceries. It used to irritate me, watching people ignore their growing pile of shopping, only remembering to pack or pay once the final total was announced. But, in truth, I’m rarely in any real hurry—five extra minutes won’t change much. Sometimes, yes, this disregard for the queue feels “incivic”, but perhaps it’s better seen another way: both people are affirming their place in a small conversational community. In Pinoso, it seems, human connection is valued more than the seconds saved by rushing.

Perhaps I need to be a little more “Zen” about it all. Maybe lingering at the checkout, the butcher’s, or the post office is simply ticking off items on that Blue Zone list for longevity—without anyone even trying. 

Anyway, that’s enough for now. And when I think about it, there’s no better time to begin my longevity training than by pouring myself a glass of wine.