There’s a myth about moving to Spain that I fully believed before I got here. The one where you arrive, buy a bottle of wine, sit in a plaza, and immediately fall in with a lively group of locals who take you in as one of their own. A few tapas, a few shared laughs, and suddenly you’re part of the community.
That? Never happened.
Instead, I spent my first few weeks feeling like an awkward extra in someone else’s movie, hovering at the edges of groups who had known each other since birth, trying to figure out whether I was supposed to kiss one cheek, both cheeks, or just give an apologetic nod. I learned very quickly that Spaniards do not make friends in the same way I do.
The Social Rules No One Tells You
Spain is a country of lifelong friendships. People here don’t just meet someone at a bar and suddenly become best mates. Their social circles are woven into their DNA—formed in school, solidified over decades, reinforced by family ties, football loyalties, and shared childhood disasters. And while everyone is friendly, breaking into those circles? That takes time.
I realized this when I was invited to a neighbor’s barbecue. Feeling optimistic, I grabbed a bottle of carefully chosen, organic Rioja and turned up early, thinking that was the polite thing to do. Rookie mistake.
Lesson one: No one arrives on time. Spaniards treat start times as more of a suggestion, like a “best before” date on yogurt. Lesson two: My organic Rioja was appreciated, but the real star of the show was the guy who brought a six-pack of cheap
beer and a bottle of Orujo. Lesson three: No one was talking about wine. They were talking about football, politics, their uncle’s recent knee surgery, and—bizarrely—the correct way to peel shrimp.
Wine as a Social Lubricant (But Not a Conversation Topic)
Back in my wine merchant days, wine was always the main event. We talked about vintages, tannins, acidity levels. Here? Wine is background noise—an automatic addition to every table but rarely the subject of debate. If you start talking about the soil composition of a particular vineyard, you will be gently ignored until you get the hint.
Wine isn’t a hobby in Spain. It’s a given. It’s like discussing whether the sun will rise tomorrow. Of course, it will. And of course, there will be wine. The only question is how much and for how long.
My Kids Are Better at This Than I Am
While I was awkwardly navigating adult social politics, my kids had no such problems. They learned three words of Spanish, ran headfirst onto a football pitch, and by the end of the afternoon had three new best friends and an invitation to someone’s grandmother’s house for dinner. Kids don’t overthink. Kids don’t worry about accents, cultural barriers, or whether they’re bringing the wrong bottle of wine to a party. Kids just go.
I, on the other hand, had to work at it. Join things. Accept invitations. Show up repeatedly until people stopped viewing me as “the foreign guy who waves too much” and started considering me part of the furniture.
The Moment I Knew I’d Finally Made It
It happened at a local bodega. The owner poured me a glass of something deep and rustic, and instead of overanalyzing it, I just drank. Someone asked me what I thought, and I didn’t launch into tasting notes or historical context. I shrugged and said, “Está bien.”
There was a pause. Then a nod. Then, finally, a conversation—about anything but wine.
The Final Sip
Making friends over wine in Spain isn’t about the wine. It’s about being there, showing up, listening, laughing at the right moments, and not trying too hard.
It’s about staying for that extra glass, even when you were planning to leave early. It’s about accepting the Orujo when it’s passed to you, even if it burns. It’s about letting go of expectations and letting friendships happen at their own pace.
And, most importantly, it’s about not arriving on time to barbecues. Ever.