There I was, worrying about not making it through the clusterfuck of Galleria traffic by 2 PM, when I arrived at the consulate with ten minutes to spare! …Only to find the doors locked, with a Labor Day closure notice posted on the window.
I panicked.
I called the main line and paced, impatiently distraught, through the phone tree, first in Spanish, then in English. An older-sounding woman answered and politely asked how she could help, to which I responded that I was outside and would just like to pick up my visa.
“You’re outside? Right now?”
“Yes.
“Just one moment,” and she transferred me to the appropriate person while I breathed a desperate sigh of relief.
Visa lady answered the phone and sounded simpática enough… Until she refused to let me in to get my passport. Even though it is ready. Even though only a waiting area separated the two of us. And, at 1:53, they should still be open for business, right?
Wrong.
After an extremely abrupt and unpleasant exchange with this woman who owns the monopoly of releasing visa documents (“You will have to come back on Monday–no, Tuesday…We are closed at 1…EVERY DAY…NO, you have to respect our working hours!”), I spun around with indignation, only to see their new(?) hours of operation taped over the seal by the entrance: el lunes al viernes, 09:00 a 01:00.
So if I haven’t painted a vibrant enough picture for you already, imagine me, fuming inwardly at my folly in thinking the consulate had always been open until 2, boiling on the outside because I power-walked a mile to my car at high noon (read: Texas is HOT), and on the verge of crying in the nearest corner because I find it more than ridiculous that all I have to do is show my driver license to someone who is RIGHT THERE–to take my passport home and never have to come back again–but can’t because of some arbitrary set of [insufficient] hours. I mean, come ON! Even banks are open longer. Oh, this is just a prelude to what I might encounter in actual Spain.
I walked around in tiny hopeless circles for a few more minutes in an attempt to gather my composure, but then another woman stepped out of the elevator and headed for the consulate door, keys in hand. A defeated sigh escaped my lips as I retreated to the open lift, when she turned around and asked if I needed something. I explained my situation, and this gracious woman offered to try and retrieve my visa for me, after confirming my departure date and that, yes, they’d already called me earlier to pick it up. I handed over my driver license and crossed my fingers.
…To no avail. I could actually hear it through the walls: something shrill and angry and reminiscent of the lady who’d just scolded me on the phone. The second woman opened the employee entrance and handed back my license with a pitying smile and apologized, “I’m so sorry, she is leaving now, but can you come back on Tuesday?”
“Yeah, I’ll try. Thanks for trying,” I said, even though I’m really not sure I can take off in the middle of clinic on a Tuesday morning, but I really was grateful for her random act of kindness, and really sorry that she got yelled at, too. “Have a nice weekend!”
“Thanks. Ju, too.” Aw. What a COW (a.k.a. cute old woman, for anyone who doesn’t work with me, which means everyone except Caiti), and what a cute Spanish accent.
But I still left empty handed.
TL;DR Spain’s labyrinth of red tape is designed break your spirit. Do not get discouraged, and always, ALWAYS be prepared [for disappointment].
dreaming, scheming, fantasy-weaving 