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...

I'm not a doctor, but I play one in Madrid...

Back in August we noticed a lot of signs for flu vaccines in the pharmacy windows. Flu vaccines? In August? Too early! thought we. One doesn't get a flu vaccine until flu season, November, December, sometime around then. So we waited.

Pharmacies in Spain are not like those in the US. First off, all pharmacists act as gatekeepers. You want to buy tums? No they tell you, you don't. You want pepcid. It's better. But, you explain, I have heartburn right now. I want tums (rennie is what it is here). Pepcid works fine for that. No, you say, it doesn't. It will take an hour or more for the pill to work. Fine, she says rolling her eyes, have some omeprasole. No, you say, that's prilosec. It's a 24 hour acid suppressant. You take it in the mornings before you eat anything. It's not for once you have heartburn. You want something to make the pain stop now. Ok then, take the rennie she says, thrusting it at you with disgust (the Spanish have disgust down to an art, but really that's a different post). So you do.

And that's a typical stop at the farmacia.

What with being busy, heading back to get visas, having things closed every day from 2-5pm for lunch etc, we've been slow to get our vaccines, so yesterday I finally said to Ricardo it was time. We stopped at the 24 hour pharmacy to get one for him and I would take The Kid and get ours later in the day.

It went like this:

Do you have flu vaccines?

Yes. How many do you want?

One.

Sure. €7.95

A bargain! we thought as he went into the back and came out with a small box which he handed to us.

Which he handed to us.

Um, what do we do with this? Is it the nasal spray?

No, it's the shot.

OK.

You give it to yourself. In a muscle. Arm, leg, whatever.

OK.

Look, he said. A health clinic can do it if you want. You'll probably wait a long time. (can you pick up on the classic levels of disgust? because they were wreathing us like a curtain).

OK. €7.95?

€7.95.

We took it and left. I put it in the fridge. Ricardo went to the library. I went about my errands and tried to find a pharmacy where they'd give me the shot. No dice. This one didn't have it. That one didn't have it and didn't I know how late it was? No one would have them any more. I should have gotten it ages ago! (disgust, disgust, disgust!)

Back to the 24 hour pharmacy. I'll take 2 more. And a bottle of rubbing alcohol please.

So now I had 3 flu shots, a bottle of rubbing alcohol and sheer will. I knew it couldn't be that hard. I'd had dozens of flu shots and hundreds of allergy shots in my life. How hard could it be to give myself a flu shot in my leg? If I couldn't give myself a flu shot how could I give them to the rest of the family? Because no way in hell was I going to let Mr. Genetic Hand Shakes Ricardo give me one and the Kid is terrified of needles. So it was down to me. And I was first up.

I went in the bathroom and washed my hands. Then I alcoholed the crap out of my leg, took out the shot and sat there.

I could do it.

Just do it.

OK. Now!

Now!

Just do it Now!

Ok really do it now!

OK this time for real. Now!

Now!

OK. Now!

I partly stuck the needle in and realized that was not going to work and jabbed it in. Then I tried to slowly shoot it in, realized that wasn't the way and plunged. It was done. Whew!

And then I was left with a biohazard, which apparently in Spain, no one seems to care about since there are no directions at all for disposing of it. Creepy!

The Kid came home from Taekwondo, took his shower and I announced it was time for his flu shot. He got all pissy with me.

Do I have to get dressed? Why did you make me shower? Why didn't we just go after Taekwondo?

Go get your rabbit and come in my bathroom I told him. (the bathroom of doom!!)

He did and I started telling him the saga of my rosetta stone debacle (long story short, time machine does not remember your activation codes for rosetta stone, but apryl in harrisonburg is a doll and was a huge help for 2 hours!) while I did this, I cannily washed my hands, alcoholed his arm and jabbed the shot in! boom! done, baby!

By the time it was time to do Ricardo's (it burns us precious!) I was a fucking pro!

And so we've all had our flu shots. And the only one with ill effects is me. Can I recommend, not getting one in your thigh muscle since it hurts like fuck and now my leg is killing me today?

Oh, and it's really late in the season to get a flu shot. Why didn't you just get them when the signs were up? Not that we'd have given them to you when you'd asked...

Would you touch a lugie covered cash machine for 3.5€?

This morning I was faced with just such a dilemma.

You might wonder why I would stoop to such a level and even consider the question. It's kind of a long answer, but since I have you here and I have all the time in the world, why don't I explain it?

Let's start with the fact that banking in Spain is an interesting enterprise. It's not the easiest thing in the world to set up an account. In Spain everyone and their mother want something called your DNI. This is basically you national ID number, what in the US would be your Social Security Number. To open an account at most banks, the big banks, you need either a resident number or a DNI.

We have neither since we are here (at least until the week after next) on tourist visas.

However, some banks, the smaller ones, the ones who charge fees, do not have such issues. As a foreign national you may open an account here with a passport, cash and a recommendation from someone else who banks with them. In this case we have this, via our landlord (who is lovely!). And so we came to bank with Banco Sabadell Atlantico. This is a small bank whose symbol we found to be hysterically funny when we arrived at the bank as you might imagine we would:

Upon opening our account we were told that we could use any ServiRed machines, but that only the BS (LOLOLOL) machines would be free of charge and only then if we took out over 60€. No problem we thought.

No problem that is until we came to learn that there was but one machine in our area. And that one machine was right in the Puerta del Sol. In other words, it was in the heart of Touristlandia. But no matter. I could walk right past it on my way from dropping the Kid off at school. As long as we only took cash out every other week or so, we were fine.

Since moving to Spain, certain things have been a bit surprising to me. For one thing, roughly half the public bathrooms lack both toilet paper and soap. This includes the bathroom in the Kid's school. His current assignment in Art class is to create a sign to put up in school that warns students of a hidden danger. He chose to make one that warned potential potty goers that the bathroom lacked soap and paper. No one thought this was funny. They looked at him like he was nuts. Why, they wondered, would anyone care about that? Bathrooms often lack these things.

The Spanish are impeccably dressed, coiffed and cologned. Their clothing is always neat, pressed and matching. They (unlike Americans) would never be caught dead going to the grocery in sweatpants. As a whole, people here are beautiful, and I always feel that it is important to look nice whenever I leave our apartment.

However, this does not extend to hygiene necessarily. And I don't meant o make blanket statements, because it's no one's fault if they can't wash their hands in the restaurant bathroom when there is no soap provided them. But it's not a hand washing kind of place. Hand sanitizer is expensive (or impossible to find in some places). And people do not cough or sneeze into their arms, but in their hands, which they then use to press the buttons on the elevator, open the metro door with, or place on the escalator.

In addition, like Latin America, Spain seems to be a place where trash is discarded rather than kept upon the person. Cigarette butts are thrown willy nilly on the streets as are tissues, cans, and other detritus. In Mexico once, a woman throwing her trash out the window explained her disgust of Americans to Ricardo thusly: "Why would you want to carry trash with you? It's so dirty!" Which seems to be true here too. And since there is a huge army of people out cleaning the streets at all times, the city is extremely neat despite the way that littering takes place, with people sweeping, mopping, and even bleaching and hosing down the streets daily.

Which brings me to my lugie this morning. There is but one BS machine in my life. And it is in the middle of tourist land. Whether the lugie was placed by a Spaniard with a cold and bad aim, a stupid American without regard for others, an angry Ecuadorian wanting revenge on the Spanish who employ him, a German who missed the hanky, or someone else, it ended up on my BS machine. And I had to make a choice.

Would I spend 3.50€ to use the La Caixa machine next door? Or would I touch the machine with the lugie on it?

We've been in Spain nearly 90 days to be exact. And in this time, I have watched people exit bathrooms where I know they have been going number 2 and not washed their hands. I have seen people kiss hello after they have sneezed into their hands. I have been to dinner with people who have no soap in their own bathrooms (and these are professionals).

3.50 € is milk for a week or more. I used the lugie machine.

And then I came home. And I washed my hands.