Imagine that the Georgetown waterfront extends all along the Potomac for miles. The monuments in the background glow in the night, the Key Bridge is actually an architectural masterpiece. Music distantly fills the air. Then, the clincher—everyone in the whole city between the ages of 16 and 35 is clustered around the river, drinking straight from bottles of various concoctions. This is Sevilla at 11:30 pm at night.
To embrace the Spanish culture is to accept that drinking is part of life. Alcohol is easily accessed. I have never seen a single person be carded at a bar or club. The locals swear by Cruzcampo, which you can get for one euro at virtually any bar. Spanish wine is priced at a whopping 1.50 euros per bottle in the markets; you can even buy it in personal Franzia-like boxes.
If you come from the United States where the common practice is to drink as much as possible as quickly as possible (all while underage), it is hard to comprehend the reality of behavior in Spain. Yes, they botellón- but directly after dinner at 10 pm. Cervezas are cheap, but with side dishes. There are no curfews here that I know of, so people aren’t rushing to drink and get home. They spread it out over hours (and I do mean hours), and find their way home after the discoteca at about 6 am. Some discotecas are rumored to stay open until 10 am. There is also the added relief that Sevilla is easily walked and people don’t typically drive. In fact, it is apparently incredibly difficult to get a license when you turn 18, which is also the age at which drinking is legal.
Another added bonus: virtually everyone lives with their parents until they get married so… you always know who you are going home to. A nice incentive to keep it under control, no?
Drinking here is a social activity. It does not seem to be done for drinking’s sake. It would be naïve to say no Spaniard is ever wildly intoxicated, but, I find that the bars are filled with more Americans than Spaniards, and that the Spaniards are all at the clubs dancing the night away. Or, like my host parents, sleeping in a dinner-induced stupor. I jokingly call it the “art” of the botellón, but it does have a bit of a controlled method to it, something that I haven’t seen before.
