Tomorrow : general strike
Tomorrow : general strike. I felt people particularly nervous today in the streets of A Coruña. However, it was a day like the others, bathed of sun as it's the case since several weeks now. And when the rain will begin to fall withoup stop, will the gente be grounchier ? But the politic situation is on a wire. I felt some situations that I felt full-size in Paris : the avenue Juan-Florez populated by bystanders and beggars, with ochres facades blackened by the pollution. This artery does not smell very well. Some mouseholes in high buildings of glass let see the ocean, like a breath of fresh air in a universe tinted of grey. I had discovered the city of A Coruña in a saturday of september, crossing it long, wide and cross. Yesterday, I had the feeling that it had a goal to reach. And then there is a flaw in the preparation, an unscheduled : the N.I.E. that I can't deny now. To receive my money for the food accomodation and the pocket money, the coordinator structure of my EVS asked me and accompanied me for the opening of a bank account in the Caixa Galicia bank.
I said on my Facebook's profile that Spain began to know me. The reverse is true also, even I just grazed the base of the cultural iceberg. Two years ago, I had hunt the firemen in the catalan's street of Gerona at five o'clock. The young girl Marianne, 19 years old, had known an epilepsy crisis in a trip when I was monitor. And I converted myself to a traductor for a good cause in the hospital. I had translated all the instructions, who had changed in the process : the young girl had to be kept in observation all the day long, then until midday, and finally she was released a ten o'clock in the morning. And the policemen had pursued me in the corridors of the hospital because I brought food to my starved director... and of course it was forbidden to bring food in the bedrooms. Sometimes, I pretend of understand nothing to Spanish language, sometimes effectively I don't understand Spanish people but I like them anyway...
Come back to the present then. In order to eat salads, tomatoes, eggs, sausages, mash, rice, pasta, cheese, yogurt, tortillas and fruits ; as well as drink (whole !) milk and fruit juice, I have to open my bank account. By the way, there are actually the ingredients more commons in my plate. And administratively speaking, I have effectively for my account. The first time, I have to justify that I effectively pay my taxes in France. The second time, I don't have to do this. The third time, I have to gave a N.I.E. and this, I can't effectively deny it. So, the Mister of the bank receives me during one hour at the desk, blocking a impressive line of papas and mamas (= jubilados). But they are not gloating. All of this to say to me that I have finally to get the N.I.E. He sends me to the Hacienda and there, it's an internal hilarious. First, Ben Laden can't enter. There is a strict control in the reception. Then, I meet the new world. 6 floors but I have to stay downstairs with nothing which seems to match. I meet a Mister of the bank at the counter, who has already seen scroll X people. And then, a reply like Michel Audiard's one.
Me (in Spanish) : "Good morning. I am a French volunteer and I need the N.I.E. to open a bank account."
The Mrs of the bank : "Do you have the Spanish nationality ?"
Me : "No, I'm French !"
The Mrs of the bank : "I regret. You have to run to the police station."
I had prepared my blow and taken the police station adress before coming to the bank.
Once arrived, and after half an hour, and "quickly" (because the administration office closes at 2 pm !), I finally get the precious form EX-16 that I have to fill, copy (etc.) and get back to the Police. And then I have to recover the N.I.E. three days later. By the way, I noted how two young ladies was dressed and I understood that they came from the same country like me. Scathing reply : "we are not here to meet French people". That's exactly why I went abroad for a while.
Oh yes, it's a general strike tomorrow. But I will go to the college anyway, in the middle of "2 years more with Zapatero..." and with the camera in the bag. Maybe in order to see a Spanish manifestation.
I said on my Facebook's profile that Spain began to know me. The reverse is true also, even I just grazed the base of the cultural iceberg. Two years ago, I had hunt the firemen in the catalan's street of Gerona at five o'clock. The young girl Marianne, 19 years old, had known an epilepsy crisis in a trip when I was monitor. And I converted myself to a traductor for a good cause in the hospital. I had translated all the instructions, who had changed in the process : the young girl had to be kept in observation all the day long, then until midday, and finally she was released a ten o'clock in the morning. And the policemen had pursued me in the corridors of the hospital because I brought food to my starved director... and of course it was forbidden to bring food in the bedrooms. Sometimes, I pretend of understand nothing to Spanish language, sometimes effectively I don't understand Spanish people but I like them anyway...
Come back to the present then. In order to eat salads, tomatoes, eggs, sausages, mash, rice, pasta, cheese, yogurt, tortillas and fruits ; as well as drink (whole !) milk and fruit juice, I have to open my bank account. By the way, there are actually the ingredients more commons in my plate. And administratively speaking, I have effectively for my account. The first time, I have to justify that I effectively pay my taxes in France. The second time, I don't have to do this. The third time, I have to gave a N.I.E. and this, I can't effectively deny it. So, the Mister of the bank receives me during one hour at the desk, blocking a impressive line of papas and mamas (= jubilados). But they are not gloating. All of this to say to me that I have finally to get the N.I.E. He sends me to the Hacienda and there, it's an internal hilarious. First, Ben Laden can't enter. There is a strict control in the reception. Then, I meet the new world. 6 floors but I have to stay downstairs with nothing which seems to match. I meet a Mister of the bank at the counter, who has already seen scroll X people. And then, a reply like Michel Audiard's one.
Me (in Spanish) : "Good morning. I am a French volunteer and I need the N.I.E. to open a bank account."
The Mrs of the bank : "Do you have the Spanish nationality ?"
Me : "No, I'm French !"
The Mrs of the bank : "I regret. You have to run to the police station."
I had prepared my blow and taken the police station adress before coming to the bank.
Once arrived, and after half an hour, and "quickly" (because the administration office closes at 2 pm !), I finally get the precious form EX-16 that I have to fill, copy (etc.) and get back to the Police. And then I have to recover the N.I.E. three days later. By the way, I noted how two young ladies was dressed and I understood that they came from the same country like me. Scathing reply : "we are not here to meet French people". That's exactly why I went abroad for a while.
Oh yes, it's a general strike tomorrow. But I will go to the college anyway, in the middle of "2 years more with Zapatero..." and with the camera in the bag. Maybe in order to see a Spanish manifestation.
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