You Know You’re Living in Spain When…

We’ve been keeping a list of things that are perpetually different living in Spain. Things we will never get used to. I mean, it’s not like the entire country – or the EU in general – is going to look at this and say ‘Wow! We never realized. We’ll make changes with immediate effect.’ That’s never going to happen. But when we encounter these things it just makes us go ‘Oh yeah. I remember this now.’ And sometimes it makes us go ‘What the actual…? Ugh.’

#1. Lights on a timer. I think this is a hold over from after the Second World War trying to conserve energy, and there is a part of me that understands and appreciates it, in theory. But the implementation of it in practice? Well, mileage varies. For instance in our elevator in our building. Adjustment have been made recently. Jeff came home last night with a smirk on his face. I wanted to know why.

‘Well. Now I know our neighbor two floors down really well. The light in the elevator went out as the doors closed. The old man is 4 feet tall and I think he was nervous riding in the dark with me. So I turned on the flashlight on my cell phone and he stopped breathing like he was going to have a heart attack and thanked me profusely for it, as he practically jumped off at his floor.’

Stairwell and landing lights never stay on. Push them and run! And then there is the bathroom. It’s hit and miss when we go into a cafe bathroom and the light remains on the entire time we’re in there. It can get interesting when there isn’t a toilet seat (somewhat common in Europe) and you’re unfamiliar with the layout. Often, when one of us returns to the table it’s with a story to tell about the adventures in getting out without feeling the walls for the door knob. Inevitably, Jeff says ‘Well, that was interesting.’ And then he regales me of his most recent adventure in tiled darkness. I keep wet wipes and hand sanitizer in my bag for just such emergencies.

But my favorite was the other day at the Dr. They sent me in to collect a sample for my physical. I don’t know about you, but the gymnastics of that are hard enough with the lights on. When they went off midway through, casting the shoe box bathroom into a light deprivation chamber, I was at a total loss. Waving doesn’t help and you need to hit the switch which has been measured, through a conspiracy between the plumber and the electrician (no matter the length of your arms), to be exactly one inch beyond your clawing outstretched hand, toward where you think the switch might be. It just won’t happen. I know when I came out flustered and red faced my rambling and swearing could be heard by my fellow patients sitting outside the door. It was all in Ingles but I think they got the gist. There should be a sign on the door ‘If you have a cup in your hand its not going to go well.’

I’ve taken to quickly memorizing the position of all the pertinent appliances before I shut the door. It’s like a child’s game of Concentration. Only grosser.

#27. Amazon delivery is always days before they promised. Always. This last week, Jeff ordered some things at 10 pm. They promised to deliver the following week. We foolishly went for a walk the next morning and got frantic calls at 9 am from the delivery guy who was at our door with ALL the items he had ordered. That’s 11 hour delivery! They’d prompted him at check out to choose overnight or 2 day shipping but he just laughed – why bother? I hung up the phone.

‘Oh yeah. I forgot. When I order something from Amazon we need to stay home from that moment until when they say it should arrive.’

The guy told me he would return the next day to make the delivery. We went home and the delivery guy came again after lunch, rang the bell and brought it up. It’s so weird and yet wildly appealing to me. Jeff just finds it incredibly frustrating.

#32. No.This is Impossible.’ We are told so many times that something can not be done. But if you do your research in advance and bring the documentation with you for whatever you’re trying to do, Suddenly! It can.

‘I need XYZ’ or ‘To do XYZ.’

The person shakes their head emphatically. ‘It doesn’t exist. No. Never. It can not be done.’

But you insist.

Sometimes they’ll try to send you to another shop or office across town or give you a number to call. But they’re still insisting it is ‘impossible’. So you break out the ream of paper backing up your request. Papers that have government coats of arms from their website. Or just stuff printed off the internet. They will study these papers with the attention of a Supreme Court Justice. Maybe they’ll call over a colleague for a consultation. Chin scratching and scowling will undoubtedly occur. They may start arguing with each other. There might be a phone call or a trip to the back room where an unseeen oracle resides for just such requests. But finally, they emerge with your wad of papers. They look will around so as not to arouse suspicion.

‘OK. We can do it. But just this once. I will tell you how.’

Why all the cloak and dagger? Why the drama and the subterfuge? I want to say it’s a communication thing. Maybe they just don’t understand what we’re asking for. I get that. But I really think it’s the same method used by US Medical insurance companies when you call them.

First, they say ‘NO!’. Statistically, 50% of people will quit right here. The second call they say ‘We don’t do that.’ Another 30% drop out. Third call they say ‘This is not normal procedure’. And the forth call you feel them start to break down. By the fifth call you have direct line phone numbers and you’re calling the person by their first name and asking how their vacation was.

They’re betting that each round of phone calls will winnow the faint-hearted, who won’t keep up the fight and will just PAY. Any medical provider or insurance company I’ve ever had should have warned the Spanish bureaucracy that I was moving here. I never give up. Nunca!

Our actual list is much longer – but you get the idea. None are insurmountable, and if they drove us too crazy we would hop on a plane and head back to the good old U-S of A. But we’re not doing that any time soon. It will take a lot more than dark bathrooms, unpredictable deliveries and bureaucratic gymnastics to get us to abandon our new home. But if you’re ever in Valencia and you hear shouting coming from the ladies room. Take pity on a girl and help her turn on the light. Cause more than likely, that girl is me.

The Hooker and a Bone Scan

Under the heading of ‘What can go wrong, will go wrong’, the last 12 hours have been interesting. It felt a little like we were Tina Fey and Steve Carell in the movie ‘Date Night’. How can so many things stack up against you?

We were spending a quiet evening at home watching ‘Drunk History’ on Hulu. We weren’t even drinking, but apparently it made Jeff thirsty for a beer.

‘Let;s walk down to the Nagini (not the real name) and have a beer.’

I don’t drink beer, but I said ‘Sure, as long as I don’t have to change out of my pajama pants and my Georgetown t-shirt and my Birks.’

Jeff acquiesced – he’s used to my eclectic attire on the street. And so are our neighbors. Over a beer and a bottle of water, we free associated about some of the real estate listings and the potential for our favorite one. Kitchen remodels and the like. It’s got property to put other buildings on the site. He wants to find a way to convert some classic cars to electric and he could have a garage. Then Jeff had another great idea.

‘Let’s go down by the Creative Space and look in the windows of the kitchen/bath remodeling place that sells high end finishes. It’s almost on our way home.’

So we took a small detour and looked in the big windows and picked out our favorite finishes. As luck, or coincidence, would have it one of our favorite places to enjoy a night cap was near by. Keep in mind, I’m still dressed in, essentially, my pajamas. And this place is hipster central. So all I had to do was own the look and I was good to go.

After a Jameson con hielo, we were ready for bed. Time to hit the hay. Only 9 blocks to walk home. We could do it in our sleep. We got to the building and Jeff first checked one pocket, and then another. And then he checked them all again.

‘You have the keys, right?’ he said to me.

Fire nearly shot from my eyes. ‘Uh, No. You have them. When we left I said ‘You have the keys right?’ and you just rolled your eyes at me and said ‘Like I always do.’ So, No – you have the keys.’

Except he didn’t.

‘I must have dropped them.’

So we marched back – it was getting cold – to the packed hipster Benimachlet watering hole and asked the bartender if any keys had been turned in. She checked with the other bartenders and shook her head.

Then we marched back to the Nagini. The chairs and tables were stacked up. It was closed up tight. I looked at Jeff. ‘Any thoughts?’ He had none. My mind started going through potential options. None of the first few were doable between midnight and 1 am.

‘I guess we’re going to a hotel.’ I told him.

‘I think that’s kind of extreme’ he said. But he had no other ideas. And we weren’t going to wake up friends with our instant, middle-of-the-night homelessness. I hailed a taxi and had the driver take us to an area with a bunch of hotels. We couldn’t reserve a room on Expedia or Booking.com on my phone because it was after midnight. We would have had to wait until 4pm to check in. We needed heat and a bed right then.

In the US, walking into a hotel and saying you need a room is not that big a deal. We do it on road trips. But here, it’s not really done. You call or reserve online or through a booking service with a credit card. I did this once in Milan with my friend, Stephanie, and it was frowned upon. You don’t show up in your pajamas and Birks with just your wallet, and a tall dude, at 1am and say ‘Got a room?’. And you know how I know this? Because the first 5 hotels we tried all looked at me the same way. Like I was a Hooker and the tall Scandanavian Lurch character looming behind me was my client. I really wanted to say ‘Look. If I was a Hooker, I’d be a lot hotter, and a lot smarter about getting a room than showing up in my pj’s, because if I was a Hooker I wouldn’t need pj’s. Just take a minute and think it through.’ But I didn’t.

By the 6th hotel I had my speech ready and I was able to conjure a tear that said – ‘Help us.’ The old guy took pity on us and gave me a room. He didn’t bother to ask for Jeff’s NIE card – just mine. Which told me he was pretty sure I was a Hooker but he was willing to look the way to fill the room for what would now be just 8 hours at the max. He asked if I preferred to ‘pay cash’. So, yeah.

In the morning I messaged our landlord. He was out of town but was willing to come into Valencia to let us in. But we’d have to wait until noon. In the meantime, Jeff suggested we go back to the Nagini since they’re a cafe and open for desayunos (Breakfast). We walked our 10,000 steps back to the cafe from the hotel (I’m still in my pajamas from the night before). No, they haven’t found the keys.

I’m cold now. So cold. So we head to our local El Horno (bakery) across the street from our apartment and wait until noon for our landlord to arrive. At noon we head to the bench in front of our building. Javier is always on time. Noon comes and goes. No Javier. 1 pm passes and I message him. Nothing. Finally at 1:30 he messages me. He was in an accident on the motorway and he will not make it. He apologizes profusely. Luckily, his wife and kids weren’t with him.

‘I will call my brother-in-law. He sometimes has success getting that door open. If that doesn’t work I will call a lock-smith. He will call you in moments.’

I didn’t want to ask why his brother-in-law had broken into the apartment enough times to warrant the ‘sometimes has success’ title.’ But he didn’t call or message me. We just waited. and we got colder. Neighbors who had seen me the night before in my pajamas were giving me looks. Usually, I have very little shame but even I started feeling weird. I left Jeff there and went and sat on a bench a block away, shivering.

The landlord messages me asking if I’ve heard from his brother-in-law. I said No. Then he texts me. ‘He’s just looking for a bone scan. Then he’ll be there.’

What?! A Bone Scan? To Javier: ‘I don’t know what that is. But if it works I’m happy,’

‘It’s radiology.’ He responded. Like that cleared it up. So this guy was getting an x-ray machine to break into our door? What the actual…? Could this get stranger and more difficult?

Finally, the brother-in-law calls me. He and his son are on their way. I am in the lobby with Jeff when he arrives and Jeff lets him in (he had followed a neighbor in).

‘Kelli’s Husband?’ he asks Jeff. I love that he called him that. I look him up and down. I don’t see the promised x-ray machine. He’s just carrying an actual x-ray image. He looks me up and down and is rightly alarmed at my disheveled, pajama’d appearance. I need a shower.

We all get in the elevator and head up to our front door. He holds up the x-ray.

‘Usually, I like to use a much bigger one, but this is all I could find. We shall see if this works.’ And he starts shaking our door. Then he slides the x-ray between the door and the door jam. He instructs his teenage son to wail on the door, over and over, while he slides the x-ray up the door jam, slowly slowly. Zip Zap – the door pops open! He kisses me on both cheeks, shakes Jeff’s hand, gathers up the little dog he had brought with him and says ‘Vamos’ to his son, and they take their x-ray/bone scan and leave.

We head into the house that is blessedly warm. A shower is in my sights. Then I look over, and what do I see? Jeff’s keys are on the entry hall table. He didn’t lose them. HE FORGOT THEM!!! When I asked him if he had them and he rolled his eyes? Yeah. That. But I have no energy to throw it in his face. This tired Hooker needs a shower and her beauty sleep. And I don’t even want to think about how much worse it could have been. But I know one thing. Screw keys. I’m never leaving the house without a bone scan again.

Look Out World – Here She Comes!

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away. Well, it’s far from here, anyway. Thirteen and a half years ago, at a McDonald’s in Bellevue, Washington we met a little 4 year old girl. We had come specifically to see her and it changed our lives, and hers, forever.

That little girl had what I called then ‘The Thousand Yard Stare’. She might just be 4, but she’d already lived and seen more things – scary things – than many of us will ever experience in our lives. The details of which I wouldn’t learn for several more years. I will never forget my first impressions of her. Much smaller and thinner than an average 4 year old. But she was tough. I could see it right from that first moment. She gave me the first of the many once-overs she would give me in subsequent years. I guess I passed.

They told us she was behind on her speech development and she was. I asked if she wanted something to eat and she nodded – suspicious. But she followed me to the counter to place our order. We got in line and I looked down into a face with big chocolate brown eyes looking up at me. I was being studied, boldly. Then she said ‘You gone ‘dopt me?’. I said ‘We’d like to. Would that be OK?’. She scrunched up her little face and whispered ‘OK’, and then she reached up and took my hand for the first time.

Every night for months we would read her The Madeline books about the little girls in Paris in two straight lines, but the youngest of them all was Madeline. ‘When you ‘dopt me, you take me to where Madeline lives?’ she’d ask. And I’d always promise we would. We slept on her floor for countless nights and I held her hand through night terrors. In the mornings she would ask ‘Is this the day you ‘dopt me?’ And every day for two years I’d have to say ‘Not today.’ Finally, the day came and it was a done deal. And we got to take her to Paris and London, to where Madeline lives to celebrate. That’s why she’s ‘Emilie Madeline’.

She is the most resilient human being I know. When she turned 5, we enrolled her in Montessori kindergarten. An environment that teaches respect, gentleness and self motivation. I remember going to her first Parent/Teacher conference. They told me she was behind on everything and asked if perhaps their school wasn’t the right fit. It was a dismal report card. I asked the teacher ‘Tell me one good thing about her. Just one thing. You like her hair or she draws pretty unicorns. Something. Anything.’

The teacher looked doubtful ‘Well, she’s got a mean right hook.’ She’d been beating up the boys on the playground. Not the done thing at a Montessori Kindergarten. But I smiled ‘Well, that’s great!’ I told her, optimistically. The woman thought I was crazy, so I enlightened her. ‘Where Emilie comes from you need a mean right hook. Now it’s our job to teach her that she doesn’t need it anymore.’ The teacher just shook her head.

When Em was 8, she played soccer on a team whose players showed up to Saturday games when it was convenient for them. One game, only 3 players turned up and the coach didn’t want to forfeit the game. He put one girl in the goal, one girl as a defender and he put Emilie up front. She was fast and their best scorer every season she played.

‘Emilie. I want you to score 10 goals for me and don’t let them get the ball near our goal.’

Emilie nodded and went to work. We watched from the sidelines as she weaved in and out of the other players and scored goal after goal. She never smiled after scoring, or reacted to our crazy cheers from the sidelines. She just worked. She’d score and immediately march right back to the place where the kick off would be – waiting for another chance to take the ball away from the hapless full team of 8 year olds on the other side. And then she’d do it again.

By the end of the game Emilie had beaten the other team – almost single-handedly – and when we ran to her and lifted her up she barely smiled.

‘Emilie! You did it!’

‘My coach told me to score 10 goals. So I did.’ She was unimpressed with her accomplishment. She expected nothing less from herself. Just doing what was required to win.

I tell you all this story of our Emilie because yesterday she did another extraordinary thing. Emilie got a full scholarship to her university of choice! A top college in her chosen field of study. ‘And they’re paying for my books too, Mom.’ she told me after getting the embossed folder with all the information and the letter inviting her to accept. The books-thing seemed to be the clincher for her.

‘I think they liked my essay. I wrote about what I learned on our walk on the Camino. Those professors from NYU that we met in Santigo told me that would be the best college essay.’

Well, it worked. That little girl at the McDonald’s all those years ago, is going to be a lawyer. And it’s a surprise to none of us who know her and how hard she’s worked. Has it been easy? Not for one day, for any of us. But she’s always bounced back from adversity. Able to see what adjustments need to be made. Learning and growing from stumbles and mistakes.

I sit here today and tear up thinking about how far its been from there to here. The mountains that had to be climbed and the countless sleepless nights. Deep, deep water at times, when we couldn’t touch the bottom and we were tired from trying to stay afloat. The doubts, tears and days of real fear. And today I can let out that breath I’ve been holding for her for longer than I can remember. Today, our girl is on her way!

We’re Not in Kansas Anymore

There are days…oh, there are days. Days when you gamble your sanity. Days when you wonder why it’s so freaking hard to understand. Days when you wonder if it could get harder and then it does. Bureaucracy kills.

Jeff is exactly one year behind me in getting his driving license. I’ve been through the entire process. And you all went through it with me on this blog – lucky you! So I know the procedures. But do I? Do I, really? You’d think the answer to that would be a resounding ‘Yes!’ but it’s really ‘No’. Can you guess why that is? Well, you’re not alone. Me neither.

When I went through the process it was all hit and miss. And I hit everything in my way, and missed almost nothing. I made it through, battered and bruised, but I got my license. So I knew how to do it. Or so I thought. But like everything in Valencian bureaucracy ‘It depends’. And mostly it depends on who is manning the booth on the other side of the glass.

Now, I’ve been lucky in my forays with touching the third rail of the bureaucratic state here. And I think’s it’s because I usually approach everything with the naive (some might say foolish) enthusiasm of a Golden Retriever. I mean, really, who wants to kick a Golden Retriever who approaches you, tongue out and tail wagging, imploring you to just throw the ball? Even in your worst mood, you’ll grudgingly mutter ‘OK’ and you pick up the ball and throw it. And then you smile a little as the dog runs off to fetch it like it’s Spanish gold. I’m that dog. So when I have had to do anything involving a government office and a glass window, I approach it friendly, optimistic and appropriately humble. Because I truly am. Perhaps this was where my latest mistake was born.

We went to the Jefatura after I made the appointment online, to make the appointment in person, to take the theory test for El Jefe in middle of the rice field. Yes, this reminds me of the children’s book my Mom used to read to us as kids ‘When the fly went by’. But I digress.

Why has it taken him so long to take this test? The easy answer is he’s been busy. The real answer is that he didn’t want to do it at all. He rode his motorcycle over here on his international driving license and prepaid EU Green card insurance for a year. He doesn’t understand why he has to take tests. But surprise! The Spanish government doesn’t care what he wants or his lack of understanding as to ‘why’. And his whining and dragging of his feet have gotten him no closer to driving. We’re moving soon. So the clock is ticking.

Yes, I have figured out how to navigate in Valencia. I have contacts and resources here that I have cultivated for nearly 2 years. A network I can tap when needed. So I know how to do the paperwork and the one driving school here with lessons in Ingles. In Galicia I will have to start all over. I think that’s what Jeff was hoping for. In the meantime, he could use that as an excuse to delay the inevitable. And use me as a chauffeur while he was lamenting our lack of knowledge of how to get it done there. But I drew a line in the Valencian sand.

On Tuesday, I dragged him to the Jefatura like an angry toddler before his mid-day nap. I fed him before we left to ensure his blood sugar was at the appropriate level for the journey. I had all the copies and forms and stuck him in the photo booth at the metro station for the requisite photos on the way. His license picture will forever reflect his protest scowl and the bitterness of a man whose wife won’t take No for an answer. I held up the card of horrible images.

‘Really? This is what you want on your EU license – forever?’ I asked.

‘Who cares. If I get stopped, do you think the cops are gonna care what I look like? And anyway – it’s not like in the US. You don’t show your drivers license as ID for anything but driving. They ask for your NIE card to buy a couch or see a doctor. Not a drivers license.’

He was right, but his tone was a tad condescending. Good thing he had a little Panettone bread before leaving the house or we would be in full Escuela infantil mode in the Benimachlet subway station, all in front of the policia, who were standing nearby. I shook it off. We just needed to move this ball down the field. So, we made our way to the Jefatura at Jesus on the metro. The angry security guard had nothing on me this time. I just waved him away and we made our way upstairs and took our number, after entering in his NIE number – which I have now memorized.

The waiting ticket numbers are not sequential – letters and numbers – so you can’t just notice you’re 10 away from being called and read Twitter or Reddit – absently counting the dings. You have to watch the screens. Ding! We were up. We got to the window and I gave the guy all the papers I had filled in and prepared in advance, and explained – in my rudimentary Spanish – that Jeff needed an appointment for the theory test. Easy.

This guy unloaded on me. Like, he blew our hair back. He held up the paper with our appointment and pointed at words and shouted. Now I’m pretty good with understanding Spanish, even if I can’t conjure everything quickly in response. Except when I’m being shouted at. It’s like my brain goes into hibernation mode, and crawls into a ball somewhere, and sticks it’s thumb in it’s mouth. Jeff looked at me like ‘Do or say something!’ I found I could do neither. It was a few minute of this lament before I finally found my voice and said to the guy ‘He’s American.’ I only said it because I thought I had caught something in the rant about EU citizens. But it saved us.

The guy stopped. ‘American? Why didn’t you say so?!’ As if this man was that weird little guard at the gates of the Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz. If he’d said ‘Dorothy? Dorothy from Kansas? Well, why didn’t you say so? In that case the Wizard will see you now!’ I wouldn’t have been surprised. Then he prints out another letter/number chit and tells us to ‘wait over there’. Which we do. We’re confused, and a little afraid, at this point.

The rest of the transaction goes much like I thought it should. We continue to keep our eyes glued to the screen. When our number is called we approach the window with a bucket of freshly minted PTSD, and a full tank of humility (based on our previous window). Snip Snap! It’s all done and he’s got his appointment to take the test in two weeks time. Plenty of time to cram for the exam.

It’s just a lesson that you never really know anything for sure, and a good one for when we move up north. If we live here 20 years, Dorothy and the Tin Man will always be foreigners in OZ, so we need to remember that and take nothing for granted.

Queue Up

Jeff and I do most things together. This doesn’t mean we don’t have other people we do things with, but the majority of our time we hang out with one other. And we do most of our bureaucratic, medical stuff, etc. together. My Spanish is better than his so even if the topic has nothing do do with me I’m there for support.

There are times I’m busy and can’t go with him. Or I’m just tired and don’t want to venture out. So he has to go it alone. This is where his frustration can start. He’ll come home shaking his head.

‘I just don’t get it. I got there and there was this mass of people. No line, just people sort of standing around and sitting on chairs. Then the door opened and they lined up. Even the people who got there after me cut in front of me. I was like ‘What the Hell!?’.

Spanish queuing is a marvel to me. Every government office or medical building has a great system with numbers and letters that ensure orderly service and provide privacy to all. In the US, when you go to the doctor they have people stand 4 feet behind you ‘for privacy’ while they loudly ask you to spell your exact name, date of birth and then ask you why you want to see the doctor. I used to just say ‘I have a rash.’ This meant the receptionist wouldn’t ask any more questions – even if I was there for a broken arm. Then the piece de resistance – shouting out your name for all to hear when it’s your turn. This would never happen in Spain. Because they’re serious about privacy – not just playing at it.

So I didn’t really understand why he would be having a difficult time on his forays out into the world of Valencia alone. And then today happened.We needed to get some blood work done. Our regular doctor doesn’t take appointments. I know his work schedule – its not complicated – and when we need to see him we turn up and Espera (wait). It never takes too long. But getting labs done can take forever. They open at 8:30 so I had us there at 8 am sharp. There were already two people waiting before us outside on the pavement. I smiled and said ‘Buenos dias’ and they smiled back. Luckily there were only two others. Great! This would take no time at all.

Slowly, more and more people came and then I remembered what I had forgotten since the last time I went to the bank and there was a line. This is la vez. Each person stopped and asked those already there ‘Ultimo?‘ (it mean’s ‘Last’) and the last person who arrived before them raises their hand. Today, this went on and on until there are about 30 people standing around on the sidewalk waiting for the clinic doors to open. Not an actual line – just a collection of people leaning on cars, sitting on the one bench or the stairs of a building. All waiting. When you ask ‘Ultimo?’ you are attaching yourself to the person who raises their hand. Then, when the next person arrives and asks the same question, you raise your hand and they attach themselves to you.

This is the Spanish form of lining up, often without the line. And it is sacrosanct. There will be no cutting in line, for the line that doesn’t exist. But it does. It’s virtual and just as real as if we were all between stanchions to board a plane. Everyone has a place and it will be enforced by all who are also queuing. Break the rule and there will be words and the group will turn on you. I’ve seen it in a bank.

What la vez also does is it allows those who need to take a seat – the elderly, those with children, the infirm – or those needing a bathroom – to do so without losing their place in the either real or virtual line. If someone arrives and the last person has gone to the restroom or is sitting far away so they can’t hear, the others in the line will point out who they are so that this person understands who is in front of them. It’s kind of genius, actually. It provides order from potential chaos. I explained this all to Jeff as he was confused as to what was going on and how this would all pan out.

‘See? I’m glad we’re by the door because when they pull up the shutter there will be a crush to get in and we’ll end up last.’ He cautioned me.

‘No we won’t. I raised my hand when the next person came. That guy is before me and the lady is after me.’

He was confused, so I went through the simple rules. He was flabbergasted.

‘We’ve lived here nearly two years and you’re just now telling me this?!’

‘I forgot. And anyway, we’re usually at places that have electronic queuing so then it’s a moot point. But now that you know how it works it’s easy.’

‘If I’d known this I could have saved hours of frustration. I’ve had people ask me ‘Ultimo’ before but I didn’t know why they were saying ‘Last’ to me and I didn’t answer cause I didn’t know how to respond. They probably all thought I was rude or trying to cut in line.’

Jeff doesn’t do line-cutting. In any culture. I felt him having visceral line -shaming flashbacks from the last 2 years.

‘Well, now you know. When you walk up you say it, and then respond by raising your hand when the next person comes.’

Jeff looked thoughtful. Its like the clouds cleared out. As we were walking back to the apartment he smiled. ‘It all makes sense now.’ Which made me feel a little guilty for not filling him in since this method of queuing is so integral to getting what you need. And it just goes to show that you can learn (or remember) something new every day.