E is for Earn it Little Ms.Extranjera

Day 18

Off on what has now become my weekly jaunt to the Police Department to check to make sure the Spanish Bureaucracy is truly chugging at maximum inefficiency, I stumble onto the street with the other crepuscular zombies of Malaga, wandering purposefully on autopilot. On my last visit to the Police I was told to go to the Office of the Extranjero (Foreigner) because my file was missing 1 little ‘fact’ that they could not disclose, but rather the salon blonde secretary scribbled a long list of sloppy numbers on a tiny note card and instructed me to give it to the secretary at the other office, “she’d understand”. I may not know Spanish perfectly, but I know bull shit when I hear it. Right, I thought, surely this must be a code message for “want to get coffee at 2?” I was imagining the scene in my head; the woman reads the note, makes a quick phone call to her secretary friend, drums her fingers across her computer key board feigning productivity and then say that the office is closed for a siesta. Come back next week.

So none of that happened, hallelujah, but it could have. Instead I had the joy of standing outside the gates of the Office of the Foreigner for 1 hour before I could get in. I felt like I was a prisoner awaiting processing. The foreigner’s office had high walls preventing peeping noses to peer into the belly of the building they were anxiously waiting to enter. Black gates stood sentry at the entrance, casting long shadows down the guard’s face. It was silent except for some quick questions between people waiting around. Occasionally the guard would come out and yell for the next 4 people, scolding those who tried to sneak through as the invisible 5th. The guard had a close resemblance to Elmer Fudd, a deep grimace and a finicky demeanor, slightly edgy, just waiting for someone to jump the fence. There were clusters of people in dark layers, stomping around to keep warm in the cold October morning, lines of people stretched around the sides of the buildings, smoke curling up from their cigarette butts as if they were a line of train cars, at an idle stop.

The magic of an ipod is that it lets your eyes roam wherever they want, as if they were given a free pass because your ears can’t hear the sounds of the outside world. So ear buds in and eyeballs out on patrol. Some primetime people watching when you are with all the immigrants of Spain. My favorite game was to try and guess where people were from, make up a lengthy back story about how they swam to the rock of Gibraltar, snuck aboard a cruise ship, ate ice-cream and waffle cones to stay alive, and then swam up on the beach of Malaga like any old tourist going out to the beach for a beer. Grabbing what they could see from sleeping or swimming sunbathers they assembled a hodgepodge of clothes , vests layered over US Steelers shirts, big black jackets hang over jeans that hold their breath over the floor, gripping the ankle, and dresses that resembled spandex quilts. And now, bedecked in their scrappy identities they were applying for a Spanish residency.

When I did get in, they spit me right back out, off to the police they said, finding that small fact was perturbingly quick! And I walked with a bounce in my step, I’m going to the PD, and I’m gonna get my residence card! Scurried in and wah-bam. The secretary told me I was missing A LOT. I smiled and said that couldn’t be possible because the LAST 2 TIMES I had come I only lacked a photocopy of my passport, which I now have 2 of. I think the angel on her right shoulder must have clotheslined the devil on her left shoulder somehow, because she said, “I’m going to make this really quick and easy for you then.” THANK YOU RANDOM NICE SPANISH LADY! She wrote the list and then gave me the ticket to heaven, a note that said, “NO FILA, KATHERINE” which means = NO WAITING IN LINE FOR MS. KATHERINE” 2 hours later, I walk out with my NIE. Whoop! But 40 days from now I have to go back and get my Residence Card, or else I’m deported…..which may not be so bad depending on how the next month goes….hehe.

Later I treat myself to some fun, I head to the central market where life is pulsing and bright with just picked color. Shirking from the fish aisles I high tail it to the fruits and veggies, making sure I stop by the odd pickled things stand, squirming as I look at buckets of pickled eggplant, olives, cucumbers, and other odd greenish produce. I cock my head in wonder at the people buying bags of the smelly pickled produce, what could you possibly need 1 kilo of pickled eggplant for?

Heading home with a bushel of bananas I dream of the hordes of peanut butter and banana sandwiches I will soon devour since the lovely mama and papa have just shipped me some good organic creamy goodness. Swooning in a PB coma I felt a siesta was in order after lunch. Not sure the Spanish would approve of peanut butter when there is ham to be eaten, but I have a feeling Spain would have patted me on the back for taking a nap.

Because my roommate’s still at work, the piso is quiet. So I sleep like a baby because all the rest of Spain is out for the count too. When I awake there’s even time for me to go peek at the ocean before it gets dark. It’s much to cold to go swimming, so I smile through my layers as the cool ocean winds come up to tousle my messy bed head hair. While it is often miserable to be here alone, on days like this I love the freedom of being unattached. I’m fluid; wandering through the city and along the beach like a breeze so subtle you don’t even feel it, much less see it. I feel like I’m tiptoeing around the world, waiting for her to catch notice of me and grab me in her arms asking where I’ve been all this time, then throwing me back into the mix of people that I love.

Best day off yet.

Peace and love my darlings. I hope it was a “NO FILA” day for you too ;)