How I accidentally held up the local bazaar

I've got a migraine today. This makes me grouchy. I've been sleeping poorly. It stays light until about 10:30pm and that makes it hard to go to sleep. Also because I'm going to be teaching again, I've been emailing a lot with folks from school. This is cool because I love them, but it's bad because it's like 9 and 10 my time when I should be off the computer and starting to shut down lights and trick myself into thinking it's dark so we can get up at 6:50 and get the Kid to school on time. So I've slept shittily and have a migraine.

The laundry situation as you probably know continues to be a royal fucking pain in my ass. It has been made worse by a tenderero: a metal thing that hangs over your balcony and allows you to dry your clothing as seen in exhibit A. I have two of these. Each came with eight bars to hang things on. One of mine is now down to 5 bars. This would be ok if it were winter and we were still drying inside and no one was sweating ever. But it's not and we are.

Another small issue I have had to face is that recently Ricardo made french toast. It was very good french toast. We enjoyed it with the last of our maple syrup and some excellent fresh water melon. Sadly though, Ricardo left the burner on under the pan for an hour and a half and the pan was no more. Also, this is the pan I cook almost everything in. So, no more pan.

Recently I'd been at the Bazar Super Vecino (the Bazaar Super Neighbor) and looked at frying pans. They had some but not the size I wanted. The Bazar Super Vecino (referred to simply as the Chinos by everyone locally) is one of many places in Madrid which is staffed and supplied by China and who runs on computer software, I kid you not, called "Great Wall." The people there speak almost no Spanish and are difficult to understand. The stuff is cheap and does not last but they have a lot of it.

Today, with a migraine, sweats, and generally crappy mood, I decided to go to Pablo's to get a new frying pan and a new tenderero. Pablo's is a classic Spanish store which sells a little hardware, a little house ware, some cleaning supplies, etc. I'd bought my last tenderero there. So I went to the section where they were, but they didn't have the kind I needed. I asked Pablo for one. Sure, we have them he said. And then he said the words that I always dread when I go there:

"Tony?"

Tony is Pablo's helper guy. I suspect they are related because I can't imagine hiring Tony unless someone in the family made me. Tony is so incredibly dumb, that I pray there is a diagnosed learning deficit in there somewhere. Because if not, I weep for his children (and yes he has some).

Tony showed me the ones I had seen. No, I patiently explained (I have worked with special ed), I want the kind for the balcony. You can put this on the balcony, he told me. I grit my teeth. I want to put it on the rail to hang over the balcony.

He handed me one that hung on a bath tub.

This is for a bathtub Tony.

Oh, he said. What about this one?

That's for a radiator.

I went back to Pablo and described the one I wanted. White and blue. Hangs on the railing. He knew it. He told Tony. Tony brought the radiator one back. Pablo encouraged me to come back later as he thought there might be some in back.

I went to pay for the frying pan. It was €19.95. I handed Pablo a €50.

Do you have anything smaller?

Sure, I said. I have a €10.

"Tony?"

Fuck.

Tony came up and Pablo asked if he had any money. Tony handed him a €5. Do you have any more, Pablo asked? Tony handed him about €75. I took my change and left.

I thought, I am out, I'd better head to Super Vecino and see if they have a tenderero since I didn't have one yet. So I walked over there with my frying pan in my bag.

This place is difficult. In most of the Chinese run stores in Madrid, presenting merchandise in a pleasing manner or even a neat manner, or even in a manner where you might be safe is not a main priority. The aisles are narrow, crammed with kutchvai and some simply dead end unexpectedly. Amid the morass of plastic tat, cheap makeup, hardware, clothing, and more you will find people who are working there. As I came in, I found two.

I asked the guy, who was stacking sickly smelling candles: "¿Tienen ustedes tendereros?" (do you have drying racks for clothing)

Here is what he heard: "¿Tienen usted dinero?" (do you have any money"

The color drained from his face and he swallowed in a frightened way. "Dinero?" he repeated terrified of me. He literally thought I was there to hold the place up. He clutched the candle in his fist and looked at the woman next to him who clearly was the "Spanish" speaker between the two.

"No," I said, "not 'dinero,' 'tenderero,' 'tenderero,' like for your clothes!"

He was not buying it, but the woman looked at me in my jeans and white t-shirt and pink scarf, a fat, 40-year-old house wife rolling her eyes at him and she bought it. He must have been her husband because she rolled her eyes at him too.

"Al fondo!" she barked which roughly means "at the end."

I dutifully proceeded to the end and found 3 tendereros none of which would work. Dare I ask again? I dared.

This time: "Al fondo, izquierda" (at the end on the left) where I found hangers and a sort of men's valet thing. I left, completely defeated.

But I had to wonder. Did he think I was going to hold him up with a frying pan? Really?

Today I had the freaking fuku

If you don't know what the fuku is, you should read The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. It's explained in there. Basically, to sum it up, the fuku is a super evil bad luck which follows you and fucks you over and over and over until you can't stand it any more. And not in a good way.

Let me give the back story: I have trouble finding clothes that fit my, how shall we say, wide load size (getting slightly less wide and more simply over sized load). I've looked here in Spain and my choices are limited to old lady polyester or my increasingly stained and falling apart wardrobe I brought to Spain with me. I am actually down two shirts since they became stained so badly while cooking that I could no longer wear them out of the house. So I broke down and ordered some clothes online in the US.

These I had delivered to my mom who kindly agreed to ship them to me in Spain. We had to do it this way because 1 my mother-in-law was bringing heaps of things with her already and 2 they would not be delivered before she left for Madrid.

Yesterday in my post box I received a slip (dated 2/28/11 oddly enough) saying my package had arrived! Just in time! I was having lunch with friends today! I'd get to wear new clothes. Be a new gal! Yeah!

But why hadn't he rung? I'd been home that day. And at 1:00pm too. Odd. I shrugged it off. But I did not see it for what it was. The fuku was encroaching.

Ricardo had an errand to run today. A colleague of his had an image that needed to be picked up in person from a museum here in Madrid. Why did it need to be picked up? Why couldn't it be mailed to him? Good question! Sadly, since this is Spain, no answer can be given. What he was given was a specific set of instructions about how to pick up the image in person. Since he was going to need to go to the post office to mail the image and since I needed to go to the post office to pick up my package and since I did not need to cook today thanks to the generosity of friends, I decided to go with him on his errand and he would come with me on mine. I tucked the package slip in my pocket, checked I had our passports and away we went.

We took the train to Tribunal (see? the signs are all around and yet I am too blind to notice!). There we looked for an unmarked building which had no door one could get into. We asked a police officer who pointed us to the boarded up museum and said that there might be an office or something in the back on another street (although our instructions clearly indicated 78 Fuencarral). There was indeed an office and another security guard. We showed our passports, had the numbers written down, (the Spanish love passports and DNIs) took the elevator up to the 1st floor and picked up an envelope with a CD in it.

Since it was a nice morning we decided to walk from the museum to the Palace of Mail. Yes. That's right. The Palace of Mail. It's not really the Palace of Mail any more. It's City Hall. But there's still a post office in it. Our post office. And that was where we had to go. Along the way we stopped and picked up a padded envelope to mail the CD which could not be mailed by the museum.

We had a lovely walk, about 40 minutes or so and arrived at the Palace of Mail. There we pressed the button and got our number to wait our turn (like a deli, but much much more irritating). When we got to the desk I reached into my pocket. The slip was gone. We explained it was gone. The guy behind the counter thundered at us: "How can you expect to get your package without your ticket (they use the word ticket here oddly)?! There are thousands of packages here! It's like looking for a needle in a haystack!"

Ricardo asked if they could just re-deliver it to us? "No! Of course no!" So I was emotional now. So I asked him, "Why? Why can't you" I thought he might turn purple at this point. "We have rules here! This is a government office! You can't ask us to change the rules because you lost your ticket!!!! You have to find the ticket or you cannot get the package. No one can get a package without a ticket in Spain. Where do you think you are?!"

And the thing is, after 7 months here. I've been trained. This behavior is so par for the course. His response so normal that what did I do? What did Ricardo do?

I went out and began to trace my steps. I walked all the way around the Palace of Mail. Ricardo went back to the paper store where we got the envelope. I went back to the apartment in case I left it there. I took the train back to Tribunal and Ricardo walked back towards the museum. I went to the museum. Along the way we looked at every scrap of paper on the ground between the palace of mail and Chueca.

And it never occurred to us that the guy was just a big fat douche.

Once I'd run out into the middle of traffic and nearly been hit by a car, Ricardo decided it was time to go all Ecuadorian on them. We'd been looking for a fucking piece of paper for an hour all over Madrid on a windy day and across large roads. This was crazy. We were headed back to beg.

Which we did. Tears helped. We got a new guy and explained the situation. His response? "Oh, that's not a problem. What's the name and address?" We gave it to him. He looked in the drawers but couldn't find it. Looked in the closet, not there. Asked about the date and said there was nothing for our neighborhood which was a "carta" (envelope but big) for that day. But not to worry, there were copies of all this at the other office. We could go there and they'd give us the number and then they could get it to us.

Another office?

What other office?

On Doctor Velasco 14. Or as it turns out 4 but really, who needs a correct address. From the mail service.

By then it was 11:50. We'd been at this since 9 am. Ricardo had an appointment. I smelled so bad I thought it might permanently ruin my coat. I went home to shower and we agreed to meet at the good doctor's and try to set this right. Today.

After my shower, I was cleaning my glasses and the lens popped out of my good pair.

I decided to take a cab. After I'd put on my hand of fatima. No more fucking around with this fuku.

Met up with Ricardo at the office. Oddly enough it was for the association of retired postal workers. How do these people manage to retire? How do they not get lynched in this country? I ask you?

We went in and saw our good for nothing delivery guy Enrique who totally avoided me (because the rat bastard knew I was home that day and he never fucking buzzes me. He always leaves the slips and never brings the packages. Lazy fuck. But he does get his).

Inexplicably, someone is trying to do a handstand.

Of course, this *is* a government agency. We have rules here!

We ask them to look up our package, which a very round by elfsized woman agrees to do. We tell them what was on the slip. They look on the 28th. It's not there. They try 27-22. Nope. We try 1st, 2nd. Nothing. WTF? I say to the woman, "Isn't that my mail carrier?" It is! She calls him over.

Did you deliver a package to these people, she asks?

I think so, he says.

When was that?

A few days ago.

What kind of package?

Ordinario (regular).

Well, why did it say carta on it then? (which implies that it was certified and he'd mislabeled it.)

He didn't have a reason. Also it came out that he never had had the package with him, nor had he rung me that day. Nor had the slip been put in the box until yesterday. Enrique receives some pwning by a superviser while the red haired, rotund elf woman finds our slip effortlessly in the ordinary lists. She gets out a ticket, writes my name on it, the date, and a made up delivery time. We thank her profusely and leave.

As we depart I notice there's no number for the package which was why we couldn't have it in the first place. We go back in to ask her.

"Oh you don't need one for an ordinary package."

We just looked at each other at that point.

We hopped in a cab and went back to the Palace of Mail. I got our number and we waited our turn. Silently, I handed the third person of the day our slip and my passport. He went around the corner and returned with the package.

"Weren't you here earlier today?"

"Yes we were."

"Well, you see you had to have the section number or we couldn't get it."

"Right we said. Of course. We totally understand. Thank you for everything."

The section number is, of course, our zip code. Which we'd given them before. There was not a thing on that paper that we had not given them at any of the other times we'd been there that day, except, a piece of paper with the official logo on it which looks like this:

We walked out of there and began to laugh so hard I thought I might pee myself on the street. We got a cab back to the apartment, I opened the package (the fuku continued unabated since the bag with the emerald green beaded top held no such thing. But now I have a nice cashmere turtleneck sweater which I don't need right now, but I will need next year).

We had a lovely lunch with friends. And in the end, I wore a new shirt!

There is no general information

For those of you who are aware of our ongoing struggle with Spanish bureaucracy you know that we have persisted in the belief that we could in fact be in Spain legally this year. I know many of you think this is foolish. Many of you have pointed out the absurdity of this belief by quoting short stories to us, by alluding to your experiences, by teasing us, both gently and mercilessly about our naïveté in thinking that we could do this.

I am here to say, that this week, it has literally landed us mere steps from the mad house.

And in prison.

Twice.

Let's go back. Let's go back. Let's go way on way back when, to quote Aretha in what I consider to be my personal anthem, all the way to July the 19th when we dropped off our documents to get our resident visas (without work permits since we knew that would be impossible) at the Spanish Consulate in Washington DC. We were told on that day it would take between 1 and 6 months for us to get them. This was after we had been finger printed, all documents had been translated, apostilled, notarized, sanitized, baptized, euthanized, and simonized. A mere 4 months, $500 later, we had temporary resident visas! And it only cost us an additional $2500 since we had to fly back to the US to pick them up! We returned to Spain triumphant! Ready to turn these temporary visas into little plastic cards with a picture and a number on them, good at every Corte Inglés in all of Spain for identifying you! Huzzah!

But no. Because at the Consulate all they said was "you have to go to the police station and get your cards there."

What did this mean?

We called the police upon arriving home on November 29.

What the fuck were we talking about? They had never heard of this. We needed to look online.

We went online. There were a series of places that seemed to offer appointments to issue resident cards. Some were in the city and some were out on the outskirts. Some took appointments and some did not.

Like all Spanish websites, it was both impossible to navigate and to understand. And like all Spanish websites there was no way to locate a phone number on it directly.

So we made an appointment. And then waited until January 24.

Fast forward to this week. It's Monday. We have our cita (appointment). We sleep in. Everyone showers and puts on nice clothes. Today is the day! We arrive and there is a line. But we have a cita and go right in. We are given numbers and sent upstairs.

Where we see the sign: all pages of the passport must be copied. I turn to Ricardo.
Did you know this?
No.
Is it on the form.
No. Shit. Yes.
Fuck. What are we going to do. They don't make copies.
Do you think there's a copy place near here?
Yes there has to be.

OK. I'll go find it and get the copies. You stall for time.
OK. I'll explain the situation. You go.

And off he goes. There is not a copy place nearby and he ends up in a post office where Pilar proceeds to copy everything slowly (God forbid anyone but an empleado be allowed to touch the machines!!) while helping other people. The Kid and I watch the numbers flash. Shit. We're up.

We're asked for our passports.

We don't have them. My husband is copying them in the post office. He's on his way back.
Why don't you have it? It's on the forms.
Yes I know we got confused. (she's now rolling her eyes at me).
You have to go get new numbers and wait all over again. she says stamping the backs of our numbers and handing them back like decayed turds.

We go downstairs and get new numbers. Ricardo is running back. We are called again as soon as he comes in, thankfully not by little Miss Bitchy.

We hand her our things and she looks at them like they are covered in vomit.

You need FBI finger printing.
We were told by the Consulate we needed only the state fingerprinting.
That changed on January 1.
We couldn't get an appointment before that point. We tried!
Let me check with my compañera. (this is absolutely never a good sign).

Who should the compañera be? Little Miss Bitchy. And we're already bad people because we hadn't had everything copied appropriately. She starts going through the papers.

This translation isn't apostilled. she says about the medical letter.

It is, Ricardo patiently tells her. The apostille is here.

It needs to be redone here in Spain. The apostille has to be on the same page not another one. How do we know it goes with this document if it's not on the same page? These men they come from Morocco and they have all their papers translated and it's much harder for them.

So now we're being shown up by the Moroccans at the next desk. Lovely.

And, she says. You need FBI background checks.

We did all this before January 1.

But it's after January 1 now.

But we made the appointment in November.

She looks at us like we've just told her that the Reyes Magos are in the building looking for asylum. But it's true and the other woman has found the request. And then she looks at the visas.

Just how long have you been here? she asks.

About 5 months.

No one comes here who hasn't been here more than 3 years. This is the office for people who have been here illegally and who want to become residents now.

It gets very quiet.

We are in the wrong place.

So, Ricardo begins. Where do we need to go to get our resident cards?

I don't know, says the woman helping us. Do you?

I don't know, says Miss Bitchy. Hold on, I'll make a phone call.

Because as soon as it's clear that you are not their problem, everyone is much nicer to you.

The phone call is made and the answer is handed down: Aluche. Sin número. (What the fuck kind of building has no number?)

We leave and head to Aluche.

Aluche is on the edge of Madrid. You take the #5 Metro almost to the end or you can take the Cercanias train. When you get off the train and look at the map of the area there is almost nothing. There is a large lunatic asylum. And there is a prison for foreigners. And a shopping mall.

We stopped at a café, got a drink and a bite (because who knew how long it would take to get to a building without a number) and asked the woman how to get to the office for visas. She pointed us in the direction of the prison. I made Ricardo ask someone else because we were going to an office not a prison and I didn't want to go to a prison.

The second person explained it was straight up the road, past the bus stop, about a 10 minute walk. You'd see it.

You sure do, because as it turns out, it is the prison.

And it is across from the lunatic asylum.

We arrived at Aluche and were greeted at the gate by a police officer who would not let us in.

Information, he explained, is only open from 9-1. It was 1:10. We saw there were tents inside full of people waiting.

Can we call information? Yes. He pointed to the phone number which we jotted down.

We left, completely discouraged.

The next day we called. They put us through to the "general information line." There, Ricardo was told: There is no general information line. You have to go to Aluche in person.

And so, yesterday found us up bright and early, dressed in sweaters and bringing our books. At 8:55am were were outside the metal detectors of the prison and in a nearly full tent in line with about 75 other people. We sat on freezing benches. Every 15 minutes or so and Ecuadorian guy would come out, count off about 15 people and herd them into the building. There we waited for an hour to get to the information desk.

Eventually we made it to the person who dispenses information. He told us we needed to go to the SACE line. But there was no one there to help us. We could however, talk "to that guy over there."

We'd waited about 1 hour and a half for 30 seconds of information.

"That guy over there" listend to us for 10 seconds, handed us a phone number and took the next person in line.

That was all the information we were going to get.

We called the number. We gave our name. We were in the computer. They could see us on the 2nd. This was the right office.

Will it really be the right office? Will we get our resident cards? Will we end up in Spain illegally? Who the fuck knows at this point.

All I know is this. I am fucking treating all of us to a Parador this weekend (thank you 100€ deals in Leon!!!). We're having a weekend away of rest and relaxation. Because I need to like Spain again. And I want to like Spain again. Because right now, I am wondering how long before I am thinking that that lunatic asylum is calling my name...