The man in the bank knows best!!

Some time ago, in one of my earliest blog posts, I wrote about the frustration of the Spanish catch-22: no bank account = no aval (bank guarantee for renting a flat) = no flat = no fixed address = no NIE (foreign national’s ID number) = no bank account!

Today it came back to haunt me slightly. We have been flat hunting for the last few weeks. The seemingly endless reformas which have been going on in our building since May and which have promoted graffiti in the lift asking when they will end - ¿Y cuándo acaban? !Joder! – have finally driven us out. We have found somewhere slightly smaller, considerably cheaper and, amazingly, with a view over the estuary. OK, we will also have a view of cranes at the port but the flat is high enough up to make it possible to ignore them.

Anyway, needing to pay a deposit on the new flat I went along to the bank, not my usual branch but one closer to home. The ever-helpful Monica who solved our catch-2 problem for us had told me that she was being transferred to this closer branch and so I could kill two birds with one stone: say hello to Monica and do my banking. In the event, she was not there, having been deployed to another, more distant, branch to cover for staff on holiday. And so I got to know the almost equally helpful Laura.

However, for various reasons Laura was unable to transfer the deposit directly form my bank account to that of my new landlady. I would need to go to the counter and withdraw the amount in cash: not a problem, I thought. I made my request and handed over my libreta, alarmingly identical to the savings book I had with the building society back in the 1970s. “Su carné, por favor,” demanded the rather grumpy (male) bank clerk. I handed him my passport which he scrutinised, rather suspiciously I thought, and then asked me if this was the document with which I had opened the account in the first place. I assured him it was but added that I used my NIE for online banking.

He gave me a withering look, which became positively sneering when he discovered that I do not carry that document around with me at all times. The NIE is a sheet of A4 paper; I feel it might not survive for long folded up in my handbag. Eventually he photocopied my passport and gave me the money, MY money when all was said and done, but not before he had leant forward, looked me in the eye and told me: “El documento con el cual usted abrió la cuenta es el NIE.”

I declined to comment. There was clearly no point in explaining to him that at the time I did not even have a NIE, let alone use it to open the account. There’s something very frustrating, annoying, amusing, even faintly reassuring when you meet petty officials who know your life better than you do!

Oh, helpful Monica, do come back soon!