WE VISIT THE POLICE STATION
Part One
We Encounter the Spanish Bureaucracy
During which we are misused, abused and refused
On the morning before our departure for Spain, we went to the Spanish Consulate in San Francisco to retrieve our passports and 3 year visas. We found, to our surprise and dismay, that the documents placed in our passports were good for only 3 months. This document, we were informed, allowed us to apply for a one year residency visa once in Spain. We would need all our documents and could renew our visas each year.
Attached to each of our visas was a small, green piece of paper with the following instructions: In your passport a visa for Spain has been authorized. The Foreign Ministry wishes you a happy trip and a nice stay. Don't forget the following rules: 1. Make sure your passport is stamped by the police services upon entering Spain. This first entrance must take place within 90 days. 2. In order to receive your residency permit, contact the civil government of your province as soon as possible. Thanks you very much for your cooperation.
Well. What're you going to do?
We arrived in Spain on Friday and spent the day arranging an apartment and then outfitting it. Monday was a holiday. We went to the police department late Tuesday morning to get our passports stamped. We found ourselves in a large, interior, 3 story courtyard. Glass enclosed offices lined two opposing walls each with 4 service windows. The floor was made of paving stones and there were benches in the center. It was raining lightly, but although the courtyard was covered, a few drops made their way through. I always managed to be standing under the drops.
There were four lines, one dispensing information, one for registering a change of address (a requirement in most if not all the EU), and 2 other, much longer ones. We began with information.
After 20 minutes we reached the window. Flannery told the man that we needed our passports stamped. The man looked at our passports. "Over there," he said and pointed to the shorter of the two long lines across the courtyard. "That line?" Flannery asked. He pointed again.
We got in line and slowly inched our way toward the window. At the head of the line a tiny lady stood. She was apparently waiting for someone because each time her turn came up, she waved the next person forward. Behind us a family of gypsies talked and smoked.
Just as we reached the head of the line, the little lady's friends arrived. They were also tiny ladies. Not one of the three was more than 5 feet tall. Arriving at the window at the same time was a tall, very black African man and his wife. She was enshrouded in a flowing, colorful, traditional African dress. The Gypsy man behind us began to berate them all for cutting in line. The ladies totally ignored him. The African man defended himself vigorously. He had been told to come to the front of the line with whatever document he'd been missing the first time, he said. The gypsy man continued to harangue them. "He's only following instructions," Flannery told the gypsy, who ignored her.
Finally, after standing in line for 45 minutes, we reached the window. "This is the wrong line," the woman said. "Go to that line." She pointed at the very long line that led to two windows. "But we were told to stand in this line," Flannery said. "Next," she announced.
We looked at the long line. I muttered foul comments about the Spanish bureaucracy. I questioned the heritage of the man at the information window. We decided to come back the next day.
On Wednesday we arrived at 9:20. The line was long. We waited. The closer we came to the window, the more people returned to the window with missing documents or copies. Finally, 40 minutes later, we arrived at the window. "We need our passports stamped," Flannery said. No, we were informed, you need to fill out these forms and return with two photos each and all the documents you provided the Consulate in San Francisco.
It was time to breathe deeply and remind myself that we were retired and had sufficient time to complete the task at hand. No matter how frustrating. We would fill out the applications, have photos made, and enjoy the day.
We set the clock for an even earlier rising and arrived at the police station at 8:40. There was a line, perhaps 8 people long. At 9 the doors were open and we found ourselves tenth in line. Where the extra people came from, I don't know, but with two windows we didn't anticipate a long wait. We saw familiar faces from our previous visits. At one of the windows ahead a very stubborn woman didn't like the answers she was getting and refused to comply or go away. The women at both windows and what appeared to be their supervisor spent 15 minutes arguing with her. All work stopped, the line didn't move. Eventually a man was summoned. He took her from the window and escorted her upstairs. We listened for screams, but heard nothing.
Thirty minutes later we arrived at the window. A very pleasant woman began to go through our papers. We needed copies of our applications. Fortunately, Flannery had made note of a nearby copy service and rushed out and made copies while the woman looked through our papers. Upon her return, Flannery had to identify each document - proof of insurance, proof of non-criminality, proof of sanity, etc. "The documents should be in Spanish," the lady at the next window said. "I won't accept anything I can't read."
But isn't that why the documents were processed and accepted in San Francisco? What if we had ended up at her window? Our luck had turned. The kind lady glued our photos to our applications, put the documents in order and stapled the stack together. In about 30 days, she told us, we would receive a letter instructing us to come in for our 1 year visas.
We left the police station and headed to the nearest cafe for a celebratory breakfast.
OUR STREET
Our street, Calle Elvira, begins at Puerta de Elvira, one of the four remaining gates into the old city. A portion of the old wall is still attached to the four story gate. The interior of the arch is 3 stories.
At the other end of the street, less than a half mile away, is the Plaza Nueva, one of Granada's principle squares. Dominated by the Royal Chancellery of Granada, Plaza Nueva is filled with cafes, each with its own section of umbrella-protected cafe tables. Our apartment, or flat, is a two minute walk from the plaza.
Calle Elvira can be walked from end to end in 9 minutes. Made of stone bricks with a shallow drain trench in the center, it is just wide enough for one car or small truck to pass. The sidewalk, when there is room for one, is made of paving stones and lined with short, decorative, metal posts whose purpose it is to protect pedestrians. It is best walked single file. Three and four story buildings line the narrow street. Most buildings have a small business downstairs and two or three floors of apartments above, each with its own small balcony. The street twists and turns so much that at no point can you see more than 100 meters ahead. The single, straight stretch is perhaps 50 meters long. Although the narrow streets leading down to the broad Gran Via Colon are wide enough for traffic, not one street on the uphill side is.
Calle Elvira marks the lower boundary of the Albaicin (or Albayzin, both spellings are used), Spain's best preserved Arab quarter and the only part of the Muslim city to survive the Reconquista entact. From Calle Elvira, a maze of twisting cobblestone alleys and passageways, narrow steps and rubble strewn paths zigzag steeply uphill between stucco, Moorish houses stacked like blocks. On top, in the upper Albaicin, there are cafe-filled plazas, churches, monastaries, and restaurants. The views of the city and the Alhambra are fabulous.
Calle Elvira is a busy street, filled with both vehicle and foot traffic. There are 10 cafes, 7 bars, and four restaurants along the 9 minute walk, plus 2 carnecerías (meat markets), 2 panaderías (bakeries), a frutería, 2 tiny convenience stores and a supermercado, which is not really a supermarket at all, but a small market selling everything from paper towels to fresh meat. There are also 2 hotels and several offices and small repair shops.
Beginning on our street, between our apartment and Plaza Nueva, is Calle Calderería, a steep, cobblestone street lined with Moroccan tea houses and small shops selling "ceramica artesana", tea glasses and shawls. Barely 3 people wide, the street is filled with merchandise and tiny tables occupied by tea drinkers. It is not a street that one could hurry through.
Our street is perfectly located in almost every way. Granada's main boulevards, Gran Via Colon, the city's main bus artery, and Calle de los Reyes Catolicos, intersect 3 blocks away. The Cathedral, pedestrian shopping area, barn-like city mercado (meat, fish, and produce) and an internet facility are a short walk away. Reyes Catolicos leads to the broad Ramblas-like promenade and shopping area, then onto the river.
Unfortunately, the Albaicin is also the Latin Quarter of Granada, our street its Bourbon Street. It is where the young, both Spanish and tourists, come to party. And they party late; the clubs don't close till 5 am. Thursday through Sunday nights the street is filled with whining motorscooters, radio-blaring cars, and roving bands of shouting, singing students well into the morning. Fortunately, we have discovered quite effective wax ear plugs.
SPANISH INQUISITION ENDS-QUINNS FLEE COUNTRY
At long last the visa wars are over. by the end of September, we had our passports, proof of income, proof of insurance, proof of physical and mental health, and proof of the validity of our marriage certificate. Although we still hadn´t received our "Letters of Good Conduct" from the Department of Justice. the Spanish Consulate said that they would begin processing our resident visa applications without it. Receiving the visas, however, would be contingent upon our having the Letters. So in early September we left for Florida and North Carolina to visit family and friends. But the end of Sept, 8 weeks after applying for the letters, the letters still hadn´t been delivered to Bax and Renee´s in Novato. I called the DOJ and received apologies and a promise to mail them that day. They did. We flew back to San Francisco on Sunday, Sept 6, and found the letters and our visa approval letter waiting. On Monday morning we went into the city to drop off our passports at the Consulate, on Tuesday morning picking them up, and on Wednesday morning, October 8, left for the airport.
Thus began a 42-hour journey to our new home. For those with nothing better to do with their time, an hour by hour account follows.
HOUR ONE. 11 am. We leave Novato on the Marin Airporter. Our original plan was to fly United to Frankfurt on the 8th (because the flight was open), then on to Malaga, the nearest international airport to Granada, via Lufthansa. Because the flight to Malaga was booked on both the 9th and 10th, we tried to book a room for two nights at a hotel we had used before. We were informed that due to an international book fair, there were no rooms available in Frankfurt at any rate, especially ours. Plan 2: fly one of three Lufthansa flights to Madrid, then get down to Granada by means to be determined. Madrid would be our only hope.
HOUR 3.5. 2:30 pm. We take off. Possibly due to economic reasons, the coach seats in this 777 have been reduced to the size of a highchair. We did enjoy two movies and a one-hour nap.
HOUR 13.5. 10:30 am Central Europe Time (1:30 am Pacific Time) We land in Frankfurt. We check in with Lufthansa to list for the 2pm flight to Madrid. It seems that flight is a codeshare with Spanair. Are our tickets good? They don´t know but will check. We do not breathe. We wait. Twenty minutes and two phone calls later, we are informed that our standby tickets will be accepted. There may be seats. We breathe.
HOUR 14.5. 11:30 pm. We sit, we wander about, we take liquid refreshments, we stare blankly, we wait.
HOUR 17. 2 pm. We wait for our names to be called. They are not called. The flight is full and the 5pm flight is "heavily booked." We sit, we slump, we stagger about, we lose consciousness, we awake, we try to remain upright, we try not to despair. We wait.
HOUR 20. 5 pm. Our names are called. We board. Drinks arrive. Dinner is served. We are going to Spain.
HOUR 22. 7 pm. We land in Madrid. We go to baggage. A small, handwritten note, attached to the wall, informs us that our baggage will arrive in Terminal 2. We are in Terminal 3. We walk to Terminal 2 and collect our 5 bags. We go to information. Although Flannery had informed us that a bus left for Granada every 30 minutes, I think a train would be more comfortable. We are sent to the train office. It is in Terminal 1. We drag ourselves and our 7 bags to the train office. We are informed that there are no night trains.
HOUR 23. 8 pm. We catch a cab to the bus station, hoping to get a 9pm bus. After a fast start, we encounter stop-and-go traffic.
HOUR 24. 9 pm. We arrive at the bus station and go to office which serves Granada. The next bus leaves at 11:30. The every 30-minutes schedule was the summer schedule. We try to call Flannery and can find only one phone in the station that will accept our calling card. We call Flannery, who will meet us at the Granada bus station.
HOUR 25. 10 pm. We sit, slump, snack, stumble about, attempt to remain upright while waiting. It seems that our lives have become a waiting game.
HOUR 26.5. 11:30 pm. We leave on the bus. The bus is very nice, with comfortable seats that can be adjusted horizonally for more room. There is a movie in which J Low plays a cop. It is in Spanish. Half way through the five-hour drive we make a comfort stop. We nap. So far we´ve had four hours sleep.
HOUR 31.5 4:30 am. We arrive. Flannery is waiting. We wait for a cab, then head for our hotel.
HOUR 32. 5 am. We arrive at the hotel.
HOUR 33.5 5:30 am. We lose consciousness.
HOUR 37.5. 9:30 am. We awake and rise to meet the day. After breakfast, Flannery walks us to our two possible homes, an apartment in the historic district, the other a house high on the hill overlooking the Alhambra. The house is pretty expensive. Both are fully furnished. We call the agent.
HOUR 39. 11 am. We meet the agent and tour the apartment. It is perfect. We walk to the realty office and discuss details with the manager.
HOUR 40. 12 noon. The owner arrives. He and Flannery discuss the contract. She translates. We are agreed and sign an 11-month lease for 400€ per month.
HOUR 41. 1 pm. We walk to the apartment with the owner and get instructions (instant water heater, locks, etc) and inventory contents, which includes pots and pans, dishes, plates, etc.
HOUR 41.5 1:30 pm. We take possession of our new home.
HOUR 42. 2 pm. We lunch, then shop for sheets, towels, soap, etc. Who needs sleep?
The apartment is located at Calle Elvira, #40, 1o, 18010, Granada, in the Albaicin, the oldest quarter in the city. Our street is narrow, cobblestone and winding. We occupy the second floor of a three-story building, with another apartment upstairs and a cafe down. There is a narrow street beside us leading up the hill. We enter into a foyer which has French doors which lead onto a 7x7, tiled lightwell and into the livingroom. The livingroom/dining room and one bedroom front the street. The livingroom has two French doors with heavy inner shutters that lead to small balconies, the bedroom has one. The living room has a dining table with four chairs and a small sofa and coffee table. The kitchen, bath and larger, back bedroom face the alley. The kitchen has a gas stove, 3/4 sized fridge, plenty of cabinets and a washing machine. There is a small, covered patio on the roof with a clothes line. The bath has a small tub/shower and bidet. The bedroom has a desk and table and, like the front bedroom, lots of closet space and storage. These three rooms have double French windows with heavy inner shutters that overlook the narrow side street. With all the windows, the apartment is fairly bright. The building is somewhat old but the apartment is in very good shape, with white walls and all tile floors. We have spent the last few days building our stock of kitchen supplies and food.
The only shortcoming is our noisy location. Our first weekend was a national holiday and our street is a major party route. The singing and shouting goes on till 5 am. We have managed to sleep with the aid of ear plugs. Visitors be alerted. We think the weekdays will be quieter.
How good can it get?!
