 |
Two popular short break destination's |
Once in a while friends or family forsake facebook, MSN Messenger, Skype and that miracle of modern technology the webcam, to come and talk to me face to face. Obviously they'd have me believe that even if I lived in say, Tajikistan, they'd still come over because it's me that's the important. It just so happens that I only live an inexpensive two and a bit hour flight away in a foreign country that is warm, cheap(ish) and very agreeable for a long weekend or a few days away. So for the duration of their stay my life and that of my guests is transformed as we both forget the stresses and strains of our regular routines. At the end of our time together, after he/she or they've flown home by Britain's least favourite airline - or their orange rival - refreshed, suntanned, still hungover or perhaps all three, life continues apace. What is life really like though for an ex-pat living in a foreign country? I can't speak for every exiled Brit in Spain, but here's a rough guide based on my personal experiences.
 |
A large thing of the past |
Sure, it's all new, exciting, different and fun, but only to start with because within a few days of arriving reality sets in and holiday mode rapidly disappears with the realisation this is permanent. There really is no need at all to continue with that "quick mental calculation" thing people spending two weeks away do to try and judge the price in Sterling. I quickly forgot those bloody great bank notes the United Kingdom chose to keep because of their paranoic mis-trust of all things French and German, and, in my new home quickly embraced the all together more user friendly, and wallet sized, euro. Perhaps though Blair the Liar and his ambitious but totally hapless side-kick Gordon Brown weren't so daft after all because a great many Spanish friends tell me that from 1999, the year the peseta began to be phased out, until 2002, when the Euro became legal tender, prices in Spain went through the roof with the new currency. Nowadays, generally speaking, I think prices compare reasonably well to their British equivalents. Still. those two tossers did leave Great Britain a smoking free zone I suppose!!!
 |
A complicated looking document was quite simple to arrange |
But, I digress, where was I? Yup, that was it, being a Brit permanently resident in a foreign country. Obviously, a UK National Insurance number is about as much use in Spain as tits on a fish, so I had to acquire myself a legal identity as it seems being called Kevin doesn't really count over here. What, at face value, appeared to be quite a daunting process wasn't at all to be honest, especially if you do what I did and invest fifty of those handy little euro thingy's in a translator and a few more in a passport photo booth. The combination of these two things and half a morning of my time yielded up an NIE number, (Número de Identificación de Extranjeros), crucial for non Spanish Nationals wishing to live and work in Spain. To be clear, the NIE doesn't confer residency - that's all changed and the whole system is altogether more diluted - but without it you can't, for example, open a bank account, register for tax purposes, acquire medical cover or take a car loan if necessary.
Fairly important then! Interestingly, for years and years now native Spaniards have had something the Palace of Westminster has traditionally used only as something of a political football or an afterthought on election manifestos; National Identity Cards - Documento Nacional de Identidad (DNI). And do you know what, for the indigenous population they really are no big deal. Unless the card is lost! In point of fact, a Spanish lady friend of my acquaintance who is now in her early forties actually had her first DNI card aged fourteen. Straight up!!
 |
Nationally, the Guardia Civil do so much more than pull speeding British motorists |
My newly acquired NIE number and accompanying document soon opened up one or two hitherto firmly closed Spanish doors, the most obvious of which was the immediate sense of relief that all my medical needs were catered for by a very efficient system which was only too pleased to provide me with a SIP card, necessary for Doctors appointments and subsequent prescriptions where necessary, (out here plastic is fantastic). Armed with this knowledge and sufficient Spanish to request another large beer or a black coffee, I set about my new life with gusto. Too much clearly, because, within the space of three months those awfully polite Guardia Civil, (the Spanish paramilitary National police force), had twice politely asked me to park my car while they patiently explained I was driving a tad too fast and would I now mind parting with a few euros by way of reparation. Of course I jovially agreed, since they asked so nicely. On the second occasion, I found out by chance that because the DVLC and Spanish Ministry, (Dirección General de Tráfico), can't be arsed to communicate, a United Kingdon driving licence holder isn't subject to the usual laws applicable to a native motorist; i.e., the locals start with a full set of twelve points and bit by bit lose a few with each transgression. If you're really careless, and some people are, no points equates to no licence and Shanks' pony apparently. Knowing this, I chose to retain my UK driving licence, (complete with a full head of hair on the photo), more than five years after arriving here and haven't yet had a third roadside "conversation" with those impeccably mannered GC types in their attractive green shirts and truzzies.
 |
Surprisingly, not the biggest Cockney shyster |
Thing is, you need to be here for a while to get the hang of the "system". Obviously, with a smattering or more of the language, life is considerably easier and Spain per se becomes altogether more interesting. A smattering though is all the majority of new émigrés can initially manage and life in Spain is almost always a work in progress. It certainly was for me. Little by little though things came together and after a bit of a rocky start because of a really shitty personal situation during which I gave serious consideration to saying "sod it" and scampering back to dear old Blighty, tail strategically placed between my legs, I hung around and come the finish ended up pretty glad I persevered. Eventually, and only after a lucky escape from two Cockney shysters who seriously messed up quite a few lives whilst continuing to enrich themselves, I landed on my arse which is the best most ex-pats can manage in Spain.
TO BE CONTINUED......................
