For Whom the Bells Toll

I woke with a start. Blinding rays of sunlight lit up the room like a divine spotlight, and I fumbled for my watch with a growing sense of dread. 7:19?! That couldn’t be right. I had explicitly told myself I would wake up with the first bell. Not an alarm. Not a phone. The bell.

My trusty, uninvited, ever-reliable alarm clock—the bell tower of La Seu—had betrayed me.

I had built my life around that bell. Its sonorous tolls echoed across Xàtiva every fifteen minutes, from a dignified 7:00 a.m. until a courteous 11:00 p.m. It marked time like an old-school conductor directing the town's daily symphony. It told you when to get up, when to make coffee, when to hustle to the market, when to panic because you were late to class—and, just as importantly, when it was a respectable hour to pour a glass of wine.

But that morning… silence.

The Campanario of the Seu in Xàtiva, Valencia.

Not a ding. Not a dong. Not even a limp little ting. It was as if the entire town had fallen into a time void. I wandered through my morning preparations like a character in a post-apocalyptic film—tea in hand, eyes searching for my familiar routine, ears straining. Nothing. The silence was deafening.

You don’t realize how much you depend on a thing until it disappears. In Spain, church bells are not quaint novelties. They are the beating heart of every town and village. They announce births, deaths, weddings, saints’ days, and whether you’ve been staring out the window too long and should probably get back to work. They are as Spanish as olive oil and unsolicited life advice from strangers.

Back in my hometown of Bishop, California, we had a Noontime Whistle. One long, dramatic blare that let you know it was lunchtime—or that a Cold War air raid was imminent. Honestly, we all ignored it. It was more of a background character in the town’s narrative.

But the bells of Xàtiva? They were the main character. Sometimes annoying, always punctual, and oddly comforting. I’ve cursed them during siesta. I’ve winced as they clanged during voice messages. And yet, now that they’ve gone mute, I feel unmoored. As if someone pulled the plug on reality and forgot to plug it back in.

Something I once found invasive has revealed itself as deeply grounding. It wasn’t just ringing out the time—it was ringing out place, culture, belonging. The bells didn’t just tell me what to do; they told me I was here. In Spain. Living a life marked by tradition, rhythm, and beautifully unapologetic noise.

Hopefully the bells will be back soon. I’m ready for them to start bossing me around again.