It should be copied more widely

While on holiday in Europe this summer, the Washington Post advises American readers, bear in mind a few things to avoid being seen as clueless. Reset your air-conditioning expectations, observe local tipping customs, and say bonjour or bonsoir to a French shopkeeper at all costs.

That is if the shop is open. But many American travelers to the south of Europe, especially in smaller towns, will find to their dismay that just as they are hoping for a little post-prandial retail therapy, they are confronted with a wall of iron shutters. The charming town that was so lively at ten that morning has now apparently closed for business. It is, of course, time for the siesta. In countries from Spain through France and Italy all the way to Greece, the workday is very different from the northern European and American one. After lunch comes the long break that divides the day in two. Some sleep. Others merely read the paper or visit friends. Only late in the afternoon do the shutters rise again; refreshed by their breaks, owners of even small businesses may stay behind their counters until nine, refreshed by their riposino, messimeri, or siesta.

Though English gets the word from Spanish, siesta is ultimately derived from the Latin phrase sexta [hora], for the sixth hour after sunrise, when it was typically taken in Roman times. Like the skilful employment of architecture, gardens and water, it is one of the ancient coping mechanisms that makes life in blisteringly hot places possible. But the siesta has persisted, partially, to this day, giving those who do not know it the slight impression that yes, life down south is good—because people don’t take work too seriously there. Thierry Paquot, a French philosopher, wrote in a book from 2003, “the siesta is a means for us to reclaim our own time, outside the clockmakers’ control. The siesta is our liberator.” Just like an idle French philosopher.

But for those who take it, the siesta is a serious undertaking. Camilo José Cela, a Nobel-prizewinning Spanish author, called it “Iberian yoga”, and said it should be taken with “pyjamas, chamber pot and Our Father”. Just like a Spanish novelist, perhaps. But for those still unconvinced, consider this endorsement: “You must sleep sometime between lunch and dinner, and no halfway measures. Take off your clothes and get into bed…When the war started, I had to sleep during the day because that was the only way I could cope with my responsibilities.” Whatever other qualities Winston Churchill had, laziness was not one of them.

Sleep researchers believe that the siesta is not just a cultural artefact. An early afternoon slump in alertness and energy seems to be universal, even in cultures that lack the tradition of big and wine-soaked lunches. The world’s few remaining hunter-gatherers, such as the Hadza of Tanzania or the San of the Kalahari Desert, typically sleep in the afternoon, and these are people who must work to eat. Other hunter-gatherer groups take a siesta only in the hot months. But the post-prandial snooze is not only a warm-country practice. An observer of independent weavers in late 17th-century Birmingham said that “they live like the inhabitants of Spain”, starting work before sunrise, then taking a long afternoon break (some sleeping, others drinking and talking) before returning to a long evening period of renewed work.

Why doesn’t everyone siesta, then? The answer is of course the industrial condition: those clocks Mr Paquot decries, and workplaces outside one’s control. And that is the reason so few southern Europeans actually manage to sleep today. Urban life means working too far from home to get back in time to eat and get a decent kip before the afternoon. A study of Spaniards found that 60% never take siestas, and those who do, do so more often on their free days. Naps are even less common in Italy and France.

That leads to a possible worst-of-both-worlds situation. Spanish workdays are punishingly long. The traditional lunchtime (two o’clock) followed by a long break pushes the afternoon shift far into the evening; it is common to finish working at eight or later, making life especially hard for parents. Spanish dinner can be at ten, possibly followed by nightlife. On such a schedule people must find time for the siesta, or force themselves along with stimulants—and live in an unhealthy state of chronic sleep deprivation. A study at Harvard University of 23,000 Greeks found a 37% increase in risk of death from heart disease in those who had abandoned the siesta. The effect was particularly pronounced among working men.

See for yourself

If you are unconvinced by the scientists, then, as the conspiracy theorists say, do your own research. Your guest columnist (the usual Charlemagne is taking part in another European sin, the long holiday) has been the Spain correspondent for the past several years. He has often found it hard to get anything done in the afternoons, sometimes because of a long lunch with contacts, and sometimes because those contacts have had lunch with someone else and are not picking up the phone.

So he has occasionally found it only efficient to do as the Madrileños do. A quick lie-down around three has invariably resulted in an automatic waking almost exactly 45 minutes later. A few minutes to shake the resulting cobwebs off and the rest of the afternoon was inevitably more productive, and the occasional late night with friends or late shift at the keyboard survivable.

Don’t call it a power nap—that would tarnish the siesta, suggesting that everything must be about competing ever harder. But consider it restorative, not lazy. The siesta matches deep-seated biological rhythms you can fight only at a cost. If you do make it to southern Europe this summer, forget trying to find new shoes in the afternoon. Put your feet up, and your head down, instead. ■

Excerpts: The Economist, Aug 8th, 2024.