Words that strike fear straight through the heart of anyone living in Spain.
The Golden rule is...never attempt more than 1 official job per day.
Waiting in line...The Medico, the Pharmacy, the Post Office....and now ...the Bank.
Last week, Josh - my son - and his friend decided to place a large order with an online Sports company here in Spain. Actually, because a larger order meant free next day delivery. Yes, really.
The next day the goods arrived on time - really - and his mate had his longed for order, and Josh had the shoes he didn't really need, want, like, oh and as well as that they were too big...just the usual really.
So the friends mother, who had placed this large order on her credit card required dinero, but we are car-less this week - yes I know, we have 3 cars, one is borrowed by a client, one is in the garage, the other is banjaxed - so we had to wait until Monday.
Why the need for a car? Well, the 'Aaah' factor of living in a quaint traditional pueblo soon turns to the 'Arrgh' of living in the arse of nowhere - pretty it may be but cash point it has not...but we do have a Caja Granada. Sort of.
We have an efficient Bank Clerk too, but she is on holiday, so this week we have a proper Banker.
Stan arrived early at 10am on Monday - just one customer at the counter - yay hey Stan thought, I have an hour and a quarter before I HAVE to catch the Post Office, so he jiggled his 50 ebay parcels and sat down. And waited. And waited.
Said chap stood there, an Octogenarian dressed in wax jacket, camouflage trousers and sturdy boots. Not from here, but from a neighbouring - sort of - village of Turon, we can tell that because his trousers were firmly tucked into his boots - he came to pay a land rates bill.
Simple, eh?. No.
As the bank filled up with locals, he explained to each one as they came in that his land was split into 20 different parcels, and he was the only surviving member of his clan - also he owns 7 Cortijos and farmsteads, with attached paperwork...
Each owned bit of house and land had its own bill, so as he explained and the growing customers groaned, and as the temp banker didn't know his Giro from his elbow, the queue grew longer. Soon it was as packed as a rave party in the 80's.
To lighten the atmosphere, said chap pulled a card from his nether regions, anyone know what this is? Heads shook. Stan jumped up and shouted, that's a Catalan ID card - yup the foreigner has it!
Another furtle, another card....This one? Again, shaken heads...Stan struck again, A Basque ID card?
Yup, he had it again.
Why have you both? Asked unsuspecting Stan. Well, simple, replied the old boy.
If any of these get independence, and they are any better than this shower of eejits, I'm off...
Finally, on processing his 100+ items in triplicate, he left. The rest of the crowd turned to Stan and said...
http://www.flickr.com/photos/mares87/5985370876/ Yer man is from Turon, he has never even been this far in all his life - his mule would get travel sick coming here, but you have to admit, maybe he has a point...!
By the way, Stan missed María and her Post Office...
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