If ever I needed the calming influence of
Zen, I need it now. I have had an
extended brush with Spanish bureaucracy and my head is both bloody (with the
rush of the red stuff to the brain during my more trying moments) and bowed
(with the realization that this is as good as it gets) and I am having, if not
the consolations of ancient Chinese philosophy, at least the more tangible and
liquid benefits of a good cup of PG Tips.
I had forgotten (which was unforgiveable)
the necessity of lots of pieces of paper with which the ever-gaping maw of
officialdom needs to be stuffed. It is
not enough to produce a passport; it must be the passport and a photocopy of
the passport so that the bureaucrats can feast their eyes on such an inspiring
document where the original is no longer there!
I had also forgotten (how could I!) that the photocopy has to be made by
you, not the people who say they need one.
I should have recalled the haughty
dismissal of my plaintive questioning of the medical staff in our local centre about
why they could not use the photocopier (in plain sight) to make any copy that
they needed – “Because we are not a copy shop!” – and realized that you should
never go under-papered when dealing with the officials who helped make Spain
the thrusting, efficient and debt-free country that it is today.
And talking of money, there was the usual
traipse over town finding a bank to pay money into so that I could take the
receipt back to the police who were issuing a document. The simplicity of paying into the same office
in which one is dealing with the documentation is apparently beyond the
imagination of a mere police force.
And the banks! Spanish banks are a standing joke. They have no money. The bespectacled leader of this benighted
country is trying to work out a way in which he is not seen to go cap-in-hand
(if I am allowed to resurrect the smear that was thrown around in the UK when
we had to get cash from the IMF) and beg for the umpteen billions that he
hasn’t got to give to the criminally reckless Spanish banks to “save” them and
keep the country out of apocalyptic meltdown.
My first choice of bank was crowded and as
I was in the bank at the time when the older generation comes to the bank to
look at its money and to have a little chat with the tellers, I had no desire
to sit and wait in precious time stolen from the timetable.
The next bank I went to was fortuitously
empty but our presence was completely unremarked by the girl one the phone
behind the only staffed position in the open plan office. There was another woman working behind some
moveable screens who also studiously ignored us. I went to sit down and let the rude ladies
carry on with their obviously more-important-than-customers work.
While sitting there yet another lady came
into the bank, gave a cheery greeting and went straight into the manager’s
office. So, three workers in the bank
and all of them ignoring the customer.
Eventually, when Toni left to get a
photocopy of my passport there was an indication that the girl at the counter
was ready to deal with me but when I went up to the counter she started dealing
with papers, sorting them and stapling them together and again completely
ignored me. For a bank that is
completely broke (and I mean completely) their arrogance in mistreating
customers is perhaps an indication of the reasons for their complete failure!
When the bill was paid I barely had the
breath left to mutter a version of gracias and she said nothing. I couldn’t stay inside the place and waited
for Toni outside.
Returning to the horror of officialdom
there was then, as there always is, a problem with my name. My middle name is the problem; in Spain it is
the surname of the father, while in the UK it is just another forename. As with the fact that we change our passport
number with a new passport so with the names – all is difficult and will not
fit into the systems that the Spanish have devised.
However the issue of the name was resolved
(or not) only time and the next official letter will tell, but I do now have a
pseudo-identity card which is a little more manageable than the tattered sheet
of A4 which was my previous claim to a digital identity in this country.
Saturday was the day of Julie’s party and I
was duly picked up by Tina and her husband and taken to the wonderful house
that she has – not forgetting the elegant swimming pool at the bottom of the
garden.
I ate and drank (particularly) far too much
but a good time was hand by all – at least in the parts that I remember!
I still have to find my mobile phone and to
check it I remembered to bring the chairs back!
I have managed to cope with daylight, I
must now attempt the great outdoors!
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