A trip to San Miguel...almost without incident

OK, so the idea was to go to San Miguel to pay my credit cards at the bank, have a drink at Hank's (one of the best bars in Mexico) and then a nice meal at the same place. We would stock up on wine at the "La Europea" that has a nice selection (although the wines are a bit on the young side).

Right, so the night before I say,

"We should take the ten o'clock bus so we can have plenty of time to do our stuff before lunch."

Of course that was the kiss of death to any plans that I make. It is like saying to C, "Why don't you find a series of ways to make us lose as much time as possible and get terribly confused at the same time?"

CUT TO:

INTERIOR, OUR BEDROOM, NEXT MORNING

(I am sleeping peacefully, dreaming of chasing a blond down the beach in Biarritz, and just as about I am to catch her...a scream!)

"Oh, my God! Look at my feet!" said C.

"Whaaaaa? Whasss...uh, where's the blon...uh... I mean whazamatter?"

"Look at my feet! They're alike balloons!

"Well, yeah, they do look a bit out of shape there..."

"Out of shape? They look like those tamales they sell here.

Indeed they did. So, I suggested,

"Look, we'll stop by to see the doctor on the way to the bus station. I'm sure he'll give you something for them, check your blood pressure, or whatever and then we can go on to the bus station 'cause I do have to get to San Miguel to pay my credit cards. What time is it?"

"Nine o'clock," she said.

"OK, we'll take a shower and go see that pill pusher."

Shower we did and then we walked to the clinic which is only a couple of blocks away from our house in Dolores. The doctor made us wait a half-hour so by the time he asked us into his consulting room, it was already 10:30.

The doctor took her blood pressure, looked at her feet, looked at the pills she usually takes for her blood pressure and said,

"You're retaining too much water. I am going to give you some pills that will help you eliminate it. I will also ask you to reduce your blood pressure medicine by half."

Lighter by 200 pesos and 600 pesos for the medicine he prescribed, we walked out of the clinic. I said,

"OK, off to the bus station."

"No," said C, "I have to go back home."

"Why?" I asked.

"I just can't go away like that. I have to go back home to see if there is anything I have forgotten."

"Look," I said, "we're not going off to the North Pole. It is just to San Miguel, which is only a half hour away. Can't you just think HERE and see if you have not forgotten something?"

"No," she said adamantly, "I have to go back home."

Off she went. I bought a paper and sat in the plaza to wait for her. By 11:30 I was still reading the paper, so I decided to go and see what was keeping her. I met her half way to the house.  I said,

"So, did you forget something?"

"No," she said,

"But, I did," I said testily. "I forgot my credit cards." Back we went to the house to fetch them.

By the time we got to the bus station, it was 11:50.  We took the 12:00 o'clock bus to San Miguel. Now, you have to understand that there are only 17 kilometers between Dolores and San Miguel, but these buses make a stop to pick up people or let people get off every one or two kilometers. So, a trip that should take 15 to 20 minutes usually takes 30 to 40 minutes.

We had only traveled about 4 kilometers and the bus had made its first stop to pick up people when disaster struck: the bus ran out of hydraulic pressure, i.e. no brakes and no gear shifting.

There we were in the middle of the desert with cars whizzing by and the bus driver trying desperately to fix the hydraulic pump. Now, if you remember, C had been given pills to help her rid herself of excess water.

All of us passengers had descended from the bus and we were hoping that another bus would come by so we could take that when C said,

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"C," I said, "we're in the middle of nowhere here...no wait, there's a police station over there. Maybe they have a bathroom you can use."

Off she went. The bus driver was hard at work and the buses that stopped for us would not honor our tickets so the bus driver said that we would have to wait for his bus company car to come, which would be in 40 minutes, and that that bus would take us to San Miguel.

I turned around just in time to see C come out of the police station and head south! Where is she going, I wondered.

Ten minutes later, the bus driver announced success! He had managed to get the pump running and now we can leave.

"Wait," I said to the bus driver, "my wife went to the bath room. I have to go fetch her."

I ran toward the police station, passed it,  and saw there there was a gasoline station with a convenience store near-by. There was a large sign saying "W. C.", so I imagined that that was where C was.

I ran into the convenience store and yelled "C! C! the bus is leaving, come out!" The store manager came toward me with a face  of fear. He must have thought I was mad or something. I said,

"I am looking for my wife. Is there a short blond woman in there?"

"No, no hay nadie, señor," he said.

Back I ran to the bus and guess who was standing by the bus door waving at me? C!

How she got past me, I will never know. The bus driver was threatening to leave without us and the bus was already moving. I jumped on and off we went.

"Where the hell were you?" I said,

"I went to the bathroom," she answered calmly.

"Where? I saw you leave the police station, so I figured they had no bath room."

"Well, the policemen said that their bathroom was not fit to be used by a lady so they told me to go to the convenience store. I did."

"But, but, I went there, and yelled and looked for you. How could you come back without me seeing you?"

"I don't know," she said. "Poor darling, they wanted to leave you but I stood firm and said no. Look I will treat you to lunch in San Miguel. I will pay for a nice drink too at Hank's."

The further 30 or so minutes it took to get to San Miguel passed without mishaps, and with the usual bevy of stops to pick up people.

Once in San Miguel, we took a taxi. It was now past 13:00 hours or 1:00 PM to you non military. The bank closes at 15:00 hours or 3:00 PM on Wednesdays so we had t hurry.

The taxi left us three blocks from the bank. "This is as far as I can take you," said the driver. "The streets around the plaza are closed today for a festival."

We hopped off and hurried along the uphill street. We got to the bank on time, I took out some money from the ATM and went to the first open window to pay my cards.

"Well," I said happy that in spite of all the troubles we had made it in time to the bank, "now let us repair to Hank's for a well deserved round of drinks and a hearty meal. It is 2:30 and I am starving. So, if you withdraw some money from the ATM, C, we will be on our way to that hospitable hostelry."

"Uh, I can't," said C.

"Pray tell, why not?"

"I forgot my credit card at home."

"You, YOU, YOUUU," my jugular vain was about to pop so I had to contain myself. "But, but, you went back home just for that purpose; you went back to check that you had forgotten nothing!"

"I thought I had it in my bag but I don't. I usually...."

"Never mind," I said. "Since I cannot withdraw money anymore, having reached the limit for the day, I will have to pay with my recently paid up credit card."

We had a great meal. Shrimp cocktails, trout in blackened butter, grilled fresh salmon, little crab cakes in lemon oil, and a bottle of chilled white wine from L. A. Cetto's cave.

As we exited Hank's C said, "Let's go to the library."

"The library?" quoth I. "I am ready for a spell in the arms of Morpheus."

"Oh, come on..." And off we went to that repository of culture.

The public library of San Miguel turned out to be a very pleasant place, with courtyards, individual conference rooms and book shelves all over. I found that it also had a very nice cafe where I parked myself in a comfortable chair to finish that dream about the blond.

Well, uneasy rests the head of a guy who hangs around with C because just as I was reaching for the blond, C woke me up.

"Come quick," she urged. "There is a conference on the history of San Miguel just about to start."

I stumbled over to the room where a skinny intellectual was holding forth in English. I went to the back of the room (just as I used to do in High School) so I could continue the chase of the blond nymph, but after about five minutes the skinny, bearded intellectual said,

"OK, so follow me," and exaunt all...except me. C said, "Aren't you coming?"

"You guessed right, I aren't coming," I said.

But she badgered me and I followed. After a couple of blocks, the skinny intellectual stopped and said, "Here's a nice photo op," and he pointed to a church.

"That's it for me," said I. "That damned skinny intellectual is really nothing but a glorified tourist guide. I am so out of here. See you at the cafe."

She went off with the herd.

I went back to the conference room cum library and slept midst the smell of books. They have always had that effect on me. When I woke, I went to the cafe and had a couple of cappuccinos. After a while, I saw the skinny intellectual coming back trailing the small herd he had trotted out with just a couple of hours before. But, Alas, C was not among the troop.

"Hmm," said I but was not disquieted. She has the knack of going off in different directions when one least expects it. When we are in a supermarket I have to keep a wary eye on her because as soon as I turn around, she disappears and it takes me half an hour to find her.

So, I sat there watching all the ex-pats from Canada and the US wander in and out of the cafe. About an hour later, C walked in.

"What happened," I queried. "Did you ditch the photo ops, too?"

"No!" she said. "I was following along and we went into a church and the guy was saying something about the history of the church and I went off to take a picture and when I came back, they were gone! I went outside to look for them and could not find them."

"And then you got lost."

"Yes, she confirmed. I had no idea where I was. I was lost."

"OK, C. Enough excitement for one day. Lets go buy our booze and go home."

Monday I travel to Monterrey to do battle with the pension people.

Before I publish the finale of my Adventures in Pension Land...

OK, folks, so Holy Week got in the way. I will write the Finale in a few days, after I collect my money.

A half-dozen or so of you might have seen some of these pictures which I posted on FB; but perhaps the other half-dozen did not, so here are the pictures from some of the goings-on during Holy Week.

First and foremost, the procession of the Virgin, the authentic one, not the ones whose pictures come later:

So, off went the Virgin of Dolores with the crowd following. Up ahead were the other "virgins", dancing their heart away in honor of the "real" Virgin.

That standard carrier was my choice to represent Mexico in New York Mayor Bloomberg's campaign against drinking too many sugary sodas. But, after she cleared the way, came the other dancers:

"Hmmm," I said, "are you sure you folks did not confuse the Virgin of Dolores procession with the Carnival in Rio de Janeiro?"

"No," I was told. "We, like Saint Francis Asisi, have taken a vow of poverty and have given our clothes to the poor."

Ah, well, that explains it

After the, uh, dancers, came the drum and bugle corps of the tough guy police force, as exemplified by Juan "Break Every Bone In Their Body" Garcia and his mentor, Pedro "Iron Hands" Rodriguez, who followed behind.

Where was I, you might ask?

Yeah, that's me at the head of the procession.

Here's a better look at me. No, I am not the guy with the candle on his face, I'm the buy with the blue sash on the right edge of the picture.

No, not really. I was walking backwards, in front of the procession, taking pictures, until I fell on my, uh, rear end. The festivities went on into the night.

The festivities ended with a spectacular boom, really. There were lots of fireworks.

The next day, Saturday of Glory, we were invited to go up and ring the bells for the noon mass. We were to ring ALL the bells. It is an unnerving experience. I couldn't hear well for the next two days!

There's Claudette with the only bell ringer who is her size.

You can see from this picture that this ain't no place for anyone with vertigo. Jimmy Steward would have vomited if he had come up here. Forget the bells at Capistrano!

 This is our friend. He is the owner of the newspaper/magazines/souvenir shop that's across from the plaza. He is also a volunteer bell ringer.

A real nice guy but not the sharpest knife in the drawer. When I first met him, I thought his name was "What?" because I asked him his name and he would answer, "What?" For a minute I though he was playing something like the old Abbot and Costello routine, "Who's on first?" but I realized he was sort of hearing impaired from all the bell ringing.

This thing weight 15 tons. Nobody knows how they got it up there or if they got it up there. That is, some bells were cast in situ, or so the legend  says. I think they used a helicopter although people assure me helicopters were not invented yet when it was put up there in 1759.

You can almost see the curvature of the world from up here.

Hulooo, you insects, you ants...Ahhh, ha, ha, ha...I'm on top of the world, Ma. Top of the world!

This is the official bell ringer for the church. He rings them bells from 5:30 AM to 9:30 PM, every hour on the hour, not only for the mass, but he also rings the Angelus and for special occasions like the procession. He says little and hears less.

Guess where the bell ringers go to pee when nature calls? Yup, behind the dome!

Exhausted from the fray, we took a deserved rest at the guest house where distinguished persons stay when visiting Dolores. We just sort of snuck in there.

Later, we repaired to the nearest hostelry for some delicious mole and chiles rellenos...well accompanied by some dark Negra Modelo beer.

Oh, yeah!

I will be taking pictures at my friends birthday party on the 13th of this month. It promises to be a real, authentic Mexican food fest. It will be held in a town that is at the foot of Popocatepetl, a still active volcano. I hope it stays quiet that day.

Adventures in Pension Land — Round 6

Walking into the office marked "Pensiones" was like walking into Neverland, Not Wonderland, Neverland, because the people working there seemed never to BE there.

Whereas the part of the Sub-Delegation where people go to get problems resolved (but they rarely do, get problems resolved, that is), is always jammed with persons queueing at the information desk, waiting for their number to come up so they can approach one of the fourteen or so desks, and so on, in the Pensions office, there was no one. That should tell you how "efficient" the IMSS is at NOT solving any problems would-be pensioners have. In other words, very few get through the sieve of problems and bureaucratic obstacles, and even fewer reach the Holy Grail of approval of a paid pension.

And the place was empty...

It was already nine o'clock in the morning and there were only two other persons in the place, an unusual occurrence in an official place since most are densely occupied by eight in the morning—even before the doors open.

I went and sat next to my companion survivors. There was a sepulchral silence in the room that was interrupted once in a while by laughter and whoops and shouts that seemed to come from an inner room.

Looking about the room, I spied two interesting things: one was a banner proclaiming that the persons who worked in this office, and indeed the entire IMSS organization, was there to be of service to us, the would-be pensioners and other IMSS users. Well, that WAS news to ME! The other interesting thing was a fellow, barely visible behind two stacks of folders, who from time to time peeked at us from behind the counter. Imagine a soldier in the trenches in World War One, who is afraid of being shot so he barely raises his head above the edge of the trench. That is what this fellow resembled.

He was hidden behind his desk...

"Who the hell is that?" I said to my fellow sufferers (who turned out to be a married couple. It was the man who was seeking his pension.)

"He is the fellow who gives out the numbers," offered the man.

There was not a sign or any other indication that you had to "take a number". Of course, why would they do that? That would put them dangerously close to being helpful.

So, I went up the the guy in hiding and said, "Hey, are you the guy who gives out the numbers?"

A muffled "Yes" came from behind the stack of folders.

"Well, come on! Give me one!"

A hand came out from between the stack of folders. It held a square of cardboard heavily wrapped in clear cellophane tape. On it I saw, written by hand, the number two!

Oh, joy! It meant that only the man with his wife were ahead of me. My agony would soon end. I was near the goal line, about to score!

Well, not quite.

A few stragglers, like shell-schocked soldiers, began to trudge in. Soon there were a dozen or so people waiting. I had to tell people to go get a number from the hidden fellow. They would walk up to the stack of folders, peek in, and ask the fellow for a number, and the hand would come out with a square of cardboard, wrapped in cellophane, with a hand-printed number on it. You'd think that the damned IMSS system, which has spend millions on the empty office space that surrounds the Pensions office, could come up with a few bucks to install a number issuing machine! No, of course not! That would make things easy for the user, and God knows that the IMSS does not want that sort of frivolity going on in their offices.

Well, the hands on the clock now showed ten o'clock and no one, save the fellow in hiding, had come out of the inner office to take care of business. But, the revelry seemed to go on back there, so I got up and went to the fellow in hiding.

...laughter and whoops came from the inner room.

"Hey, what's going on back there? Why are the people not here to take care of our business?"

"It's a birthday party," he mumbled.

"What?" I almost yelled.

"It's the birthday of one of the girls and their having cake and tamales."

If he had come out from behind the counter and kicked me in the...well, in the most noble of my male body parts...I could not have been more annoyed.

I slapped the desk and yelled, "Halooo!" After a couple of rounds of that, a fellow came out. He looked as if I had interrupted an emergency meeting of the President and his Cabinet.

"Yes?" he said frowning.

"If you care to look at the door over there," I said pointing at the glass door of the entrance, "it says that SERVICE is offered from nine in the morning until four o'clock in the afternoon. It is now ten in the morning and no one has offered the dozen people sitting here any sort of service."

The fellow did not say anything to me but rather looked over at the guy hiding behind the folders. He said to him, "Have you got anything?"

"Just three or four possibles," said the man in hiding.

"Ok, give them to me," he said and the man in hiding gave him some folders from one of the stacks. Then he turned to me and asked, "Are you presenting your Request for a Pension?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Please give it to me," he said.

"I will but I am number two," I said waving the cardboard square in his face, "that gentleman over there is number one. You should take care of his first."

He ignored my request and said, "All those with Requests for Pensions, please give them to me."

A few persons stood up and handed him the papers he requested. As this was happening, other men and women from the inner room started drifting out and occupying their posts under the various signs of "services": clarifications, request for pension cards, and so on. People started queuing before each one of the "service" stations.

Once the man had reviewed all the "Request for Pension" papers and asked us for individual identification, and copies of those, he announced, "I will check these with the system and I will be back shortly to give you your resolutions." And, off he went into the inner office.

I have a feeling that there is no "checking with the system". This going to "inner rooms" by service people seems rather shady to me. What do they do back there and why can't they do it in plain sight? I think they just go out for a smoke in the back garden and then after a while they come back and tell us whatever the Hell they want to tell us.

...tell them we are busy consulting the system.

After about an hour, the man came back with the papers. He started calling out names, stamping the paper, having the person called sign the paper, and then he would explain the "Resolution": Pension granted, go to your AFORE and they will start the payments in a week or two; pension denied, you don't have the proper blah, blah. This went on for fifteen minutes or so. I was the last one, of course.

He said, "Pension denied, you don't have the proper amount of weeks."

"What do you mean I don't have the proper amount of weeks?"

"You have not paid or your employers did not pay for more than 500 weeks. You only have 402 weeks paid."

"How can that be," I protested, "I have been working since 1967. Surely I have been in the system more than 400 weeks."

"Ah," he said, "the system only records weeks after 1982. Weeks that were worked before that are in paper and you have to request a recount so that someone in Mexico City goes to the paper files and extracts any weeks you might have worked from those files and makes an official report to that effect."

"Ok, where do I do to request a recount?"

"Oh, you can go to the Sub-Delegation. You can request it there but for all intents and purposes, your request for a pension is denied." He stamped my paper, signed it, gave it to me, and said, "Next."

...the damned guy was smiling when he gave me my denial.

I can't even being to describe how furious I felt. Had I had a flamethrower, I would have burned the place down. Like Al Pacino in "Scent of a Woman", I would have "burrrrnnned the place"!

But, I didn't. Off I went to the Sub-Delegation. I was not in the mood to take any guff from anyone so I went directly to the information desk without queuing and said, "I need a recount of my weeks. I don't have time to fool around with your number and crap so who do I talk to and where is he or she?"

The girl at the information desk gulped and said, "You should talk to Samuel. He is at desk number 13."

Off I went to desk 13. No one was there. A couple of guys were at a near-by desk behind the counter. I  gathered from their animated conversation that they were busy talking about where the best deal on new tires for their cars could be had.

"Excuse me," I said, "who is Samuel."

"I am," said one of the fellows.

"I need to talk to you about a recount of weeks," I said, and before he could protests, I added, "now!"

Samuel got up from his desk and sauntered over.

I put my Request for a Pension with the "denied" stamp on it before him. I said, "I have been denied a pension because I do not have 500 weeks of paid Social Security. They say I only have 402. So, I am here to request a recount. I have worked and paid SS or my employers have paid since 1967. I must have much more than 402 weeks."

He looked at my paper and said, "When was the last time you or your employer paid for your Social Security?"

"Oh, maybe 2002 or 2003."

"Ah," he said, "then you have been dropped from the system. If you fail to pay for Social Security for more than six years, you are dropped."

"And?"

"And if you want a recount, you have to be reinstated."

"How can I be reinstated?"

"You would have to work for a year, paying Social Security for that year...52 weeks, at least. Then you can come back and ask for a recount."

"Ok, what if I pay voluntary Social Security,"

"No, it has to be by a legal employer."

"I am 65 years old. Who in the Hell is going to employ me for a year and pay for my Social Security?"

He shrugged.

...I could have burned the place down!

"You mean," I said, "that just because I have been 'out of the system' for more than six years, the Social Security can ignore all of the work and all of the payments I have done, and what my employers have paid in my behalf? They can just keep the money and deny me everything?"

"Yes, that is what I am saying. You see, the Social Security system is not in the business of GRANTING pensions; it is in the business of DENYING pensions."

Again, I could have burned the place down.

And that, dear folks, was that. All that was left was for me to drown my sorrows.

In the last installment I will describe what I was able to rescue from the disaster that is our Social Security system.

Adventures in Pension Land — Round 5

If both of you readers remember, in my last blog, I had been told that I could not proceed with my "Request for a Pension" because I did not have a bank account into which my pension would be deposited, if approved , that is.

Having been told this by the girl in the little window, I had to wait until the next day to deal with the requested bank account.

So, I arrived in the Banamex office and went straight to the manager's desk. I was not in a mood to be trifled with. There were other people waiting patiently in a sofa for the manager to be done with the customer that was before her, but I ignored all of that and said to her,

"I need to open an account right away. I need it to request my damned pension and I am sick and tired of all the running around that your bank in cahoots with the Social Security system have had me do. So, sign me up, fill in whatever the damned forms have to be filled up and give me my damned bank account contract so I can get on with this!"

There was a silence in the bank as if I had said, "This is a hold up."

The manager blinked and said, "Please take a seat, sir. The executive that opens bank accounts for pensioners is at lunch."

"Don't your executives ever do anything else but go out to lunch?" I asked testily.

The manager looked up at the clock and said, "Oh, she will be here in five or ten minutes. Please take a seat over there by her desk."

I went off grumpily; I could hear the other customers mumble and some even breath a sigh of relief like when the dog catcher removes a rabid dog from the street.

Of course, the "executive" did not arrive in five or ten minutes. She sauntered in thirty minutes later. The manager called her over and whispered something. Probably warning her that she had a mad (as in crazy and irate) customer to deal with.

The "pensioner's bank account" executive came over, without a word to me she took of her coat, sat down, clicked and clacked at her computer's keyboard, and when she was done turned to me,

"I understand you need a bank account for your pension's deposit."

"You understand correctly, but it is for my POSSIBLE pension's deposit," I said and heads turned at the emphasis of the word.

"Your name and social security number," said the girl executive without being fazed at my exclamation.

I gave her the data she requested. After a moment, she left her desk and went into that mysterious back room that all of these bank's offices seem to have. She came back with a sheaf of papers. She stamped them, signed them, and got up again. This time she came back with an envelope.

As she opened it, I said, "And the winner of the Best Picture oscar goes to..."

She didn't think my remark was funny. In fact, she frowned and gave me a harsh look.

"This is your card," she said taking a debit card out of the envelope. "You will not be able to use it until the Social Security system deposits your first payment. At that time, you will activate it by putting it into an ATM machine and typing the generic code which is here on this printed letter. It will then ask you to type in another code which will be your secret code. Be sure to type in and confirm your new code. After that it will give you your current balance and you may withdraw money if you wish."

She shuffled the sheaf of papers and said, "Please sign these."

Again I asked, "Why?"

She was taking no guff from me and said, "This is your contract. If you don't sign it you will not be able to complete your pension request."

Well, that trumped me so I signed without further ado.

It was well past four o'clock when I left the bank with my card and my contract. There was nothing to do but go home and go back the next day to the girl in the little window.

The following day, bright and early, I called for yet another taxi and went to the Family clinic. As per her orders, I went directly to the little window without queuing. There was another person at the window but the girl recognized me, asked the person at the window to wait a minute, and said to me,

"Have you got the contract?"

"Yes, yes I have," I answered eagerly.

I gave it to her and she stapled it to the other papers that she had put aside on her "in" basket.  She then took a printed sheet which had a little paper stapled to it. She said,

"I will send your request for a pension to the Social Security Pensions office." She gave me the printed paper. "This explains what you have to do now."

"When do I go to the Pensions Office? Can I go now?"

"No," she said. "It will take five days for them to register your request. Take this paper with you. It is a copy of your request for a pension. And, take your voter's card with you and a copy of your card."

Five days! Five days it would take them to process my request. Damn! I sighed. There was nothing for it. I would have to go home, watch television for five days and then go to the Pensions Office, wherever that was.

For five days I watched television, answered email, went to have drinks with my friends, and generally wasted my time. On the fifth day of my revelry I called the magic "800" number and asked where the Pensions Office was. The boy who answered my call said that my "assigned" Pensions Office would be where my "assigned" sub-delegations was.

Well, I was Johnny-on-the-spot now. I knew where my assigned sub-delegation was; it was number four. I took a taxi and was there in a jiffy. Being "Social Security wise" I did not go to the information desk where the usual queue was formed. I asked the woman cop standing idly by the door where the fabled office was.

"Go down this alley," she said pointing to a gate next door, "and turn to the right when you get to the end of it. You will see and entrance that has a sign over it that says 'Pensions'."

Of course, it was just like the Social Security to hide its most important office in some obscure alleyway. But, undeterred, I went down the alley.

I came upon an open court. It was surrounded by empty office buildings which belonged to the Social Security. I wondered why they had spent so much money building all of this if it was not going to be used; or better yet, why not use it to alleviate the crowding in the sub-delegation or the fact that the girl in the little window needed more space and more people to help her or do the job she did. But, no, the only people in the entire space were two women who were selling pumpkin seeds and potato chips.

I turned to my right at the end of the court and there it was, the promised land. Over a glass door was a sign, "Pensiones".

Tomorrow, and I DO mean tomorrow. I will write the next part, the resolution of my "Request for a Pension". I promise, just as the Social Security promised me!

Adventures in Pension Land - Round 4

Here is where things stood on December 22, 2012:

Christmas was coming and I had promised I would spend it with my son the doctor (that sounds like something a Jewish mother would say) who is working on his specialization in Mexico City. He was recently married so his lovely wife (also a doctor) and he would be hosting our immediate family in their first ever apartment as a married couple.

On the other hand, the Social Security people had demanded an account statement of my retirement funds, and the bank which kept my retirement funds said they could not provide the statement until I was registered in their system, something that would take 8 working days.

So, for the next two days I did nothing but watch television and eat tamales.

Several kilos later, I flew to Mexico City for the above mentioned Christmas dinner. I knew that nothing would happen between Christmas and New Year's so I hung around Mexico City, spent New Year's Eve with friends getting properly blotto, and then flew back to Monterrey to continue my quest for a pension.

As soon as I was back in the "Sultan of the North", as they used to call Monterrey because of it prominent Lebanese/Arab population, I called the magic 800 number and--oh surprise!--I was registered in the Social Security/Banamex/Pension system.

Off I went in a little green taxi to the Banamex office to get my Account Statement!

Taxis are small in Monterrey!

When I got to the Banamex office, horror of horrors--it was far from being empty! I suppose that word had got out that the downtown office was always crowded and that this one was always empty, so it was empty no more.

With a heavy heart, I took a number--sigh!

Of course, the number on the counter was 20!

To make matters worse, I had assumed that the so-called executives would be there during lunch hour, as they had been the time before, but this day it was not the case. All but one had gone to lunch! And, the guy who was there had a customer/relative who took his visit to his relative/friend/executive as a time to catch up on all the news, gossip, personal stories, family history, and sundry subject matter of the last two or three years.

As they spoke of football, the customer's mother's ills, the executive's vacation, the customer's car trouble, something that made them both laugh heartily, and so on, they seemed oblivious to the fact that there were dozens of people waiting for service.

Blah...blah...football...blah...my mother... blah...my trip to Europe

I think that anyone who has read my blogs will have come to understand that I am not a man of infinite patience, and the I tend to be brash, impulsive, and outspoken when the little patience I do have is tried to the limit.

Mexicans, as a people, tend to be docile, and contain any anger they might feel when faced with an "authority" that might do them harm if said "authority" is rankled. I, on the other hand, might have inherited genes from rampaging vikings, hoodlum Spanish conquistadors, raiding Chichimecas, or charging hoards of Genghis Khan or all of the above, because I am not docile and do not contain my anger when said "authority" rankles ME!

I got up from my chair and went into the executive's office.

"Hey," I said, "you two guys might have a lot to talk about, what with this guy (I pointed to the customer) having gone to the Football World Cup and his mother being in a poor state of health, and you, Mr. Executive, having had lots of car trouble, but there are people waiting out here. So, how about if you continue your personal conversation on your own time?"

They looked at me as if I had just told them something ugly about their respective mothers, kicked their dog, and said their children were ugly. But, they said nothing. After a moment, the executive recovered and ignoring me said to the customer, "OK, so I will send you the papers tomorrow."

I went back to my seat and the customer left the office, head down, sheepishly avoiding looking at the persons he had kept waiting.

Well, my outburst did clear the log jam but it did me little good. I had number 85 this time and the counter showed number 20!

Fortunately, the other three executive soon came back from lunch (looking well-fed and in dire need of some Alka-Seltzers), so things started to move rather briskly. Within only two hours number 85 came up on the counter and I jauntily sauntered into one of the girl-executive's office.

I think word had got around that I was a "difficult" customer because she was very curt and lacking the faux smile proper of an account executive. Without looking away from her computer screen, she asked, "How can I help you, sir?"

"I was here about 10 days ago asking for an account statement which I will need to request a pension from the Social Security," I answered. "One of your colleges put my information into your system and registered me, so I am here to collect my statement."

"Your social security number," she said without looking at me. I gave it to her. She typed on her keyboard, hmmed, and hawed, and typed some more. Without a word, she got up and left the office. She came back a few minutes later with some printed sheets of paper. From such bizarre actions I deduced that these "executives" do not have individual printers but must go to the back office to get printouts. Real efficient.

"Please sign this," she said putting a pen next to the print out.

"Why?" I asked.

She blinked and stared at me with a puzzled and hurt look as if I had just said, "I am NOT the father of your baby!"

"Because, because it's the, I mean, this is your statement," she stammered.

"Ah, you had not said so. Can you please explain what is on the statement? I want to know what I am signing."

She sighed a sigh that said, "Why do I always get these lunatics?"  But, she gamely took the pen and started to point out and underline the figures on the first sheet.

"This is how much you have saved," she said circling a number, "this is what the Social Security has provided, this is what you have saved in the Infonavit system as a provision for you to use in buying a house, and this is the amount of interest that the money has accrued this year to date."

"OK, I get it; but why do I have to sign it?"

"Well, well, you must, because, it means you have received it."

"The money?" I said surprised.

"No, of course not. I mean the statement."

"Ah, OK. Than I'll sign." She breathed a sigh of relief as I signed all six copies of my statement. "OK, what's next?" I asked.

"Well, you will have to go back to "them" and present this so you can request your pension."

It was my turn to sigh. "Them" was the Social Security bureaucrats. It meant I had to go back to square one, that is, the little window in the Family Clinic. There was nothing for it. I took my statement, bid adieu to the girl and the other chumps waiting their turn to have an "executive" maltreat them, and left the bank's office. Outside, I waved down one of the innumerable taxis I was to use during my saga. Reflecting on how much I spent on public transport, I might was well have bought a car.

I arrived at the Family Clinic around 2:00 PM. I knew they closed shop at 4:00 PM so I figured I had time to get something done. I went straight to the little window. Of course, there was a queue. The usual men in walkers, ladies in crutches, sundry pensioners and would.be pensioners were sitting or standing, waiting for their turn at the little window.

To my surprise, things went quickly and just minutes before the closing bell rang (there is no bell, that is just a metaphor, folks), I got to the window. I gave the girl the papers she had clipped together along with my newly issued savings statement.

"Very good," she said and my heart sang. "Where is your bank contract," she added and my heart sank.

"Contract? What contract?" I asked panicking.

"You are supposed to have a bank contract with a bank account number where your pension will be deposited when and if it is approved," she said.

My mind raced back to the fat girl, the so-called executive who had not mentioned the damned bank account and contract. Agh! she had trounced me. I could imagine her laughing at my present trouble.

"You have to go to a bank of your choice," the girl in the little window said, "and open an account for this purpose. Tell them what it is for. They will know what to do. I will keep your papers until you bring me your bank account contract."

Now I felt as if the girl had said to me, "We did everything we could, sir, but your dog died on the operating table." I went away from the little window, slump-shouldered and feeling more dejected than ever.

Dejected and rejected, I left (notice the tamale paunch I had developed)

But, outside, the sun was shining, the air was cool, and there was yet another trip in a taxi to be taken, so, chin up, shoulders squared, I marched to a taxi and ordered, "Take me to the Banamex bank on Americas Avenue."

Next installment: Triumph over Adversity. I finally get my "Request for a Pension" done in "Adventures in Pension Land - Round 5. But, will that be the end of that? Tune in tomorrow when the caped avenger...no wait that's another story.

Adventures in Pension Land - Round 3

Another bit of history:

The AFORE (Administradora de Fondos para el Retiro; Manager of Retirement Funds) began operating in 1997 when the new Social Security Law took effect, replacing the 1973 Law. If you were paying attention (and I understand if you were not, because this stuff is boring) you will remember that the IMSS changed the amount of weeks one has to pay "contributions" to it, from 500 to 1295 in that same year.

These AFORE are supposed to invest a portion of your salary, which is matched by your employer, into an account in your name. The idea was that the meager amount of money the Social Security System pays a retired person would be supplemented by his or her savings plus the interest accumulated by the good investment policies of the bank which holds said savings.

If you think about it, it was a great deal for the banks and the SS system. The banks got a ton of money to invest and were allowed to charge investment commissions on it, the SS system got off the hook of having to be the only source of retirement money, and the government could claim it was doing a lot for retired workers.

Well that is the theory, the practice is another thing entirely.

Here is my story:

There is a 65 year old guy who has been working for 45 years. He has accumulated more than enough weeks to be eligible for either the '73 Law (500 weeks) or the '97 Law (1295) weeks. He goes to claim his pension and he is told that if he wants to apply for it, he must first deal with the bank who is managing his AFORE.

DEJECTED ME

 Sigh! Yet another hurdle to jump, another obstacle in the "parcours du combattant", as the French say, another queue to stand in, another bunch of papers to gather, and so on, and so on. OK, so there was nothing for it, but to jump through the hoop, fight the bear, tame the tiger, bite the proverbial bullet.

I went on the Internet and googled "AFORES". I got a million hits but most importantly an 800 number to call.

I grabbed the phone with unusual vigor and called the said number. Much to my surprise, I got a person on the line who was actually in Mexico. He asked me for my SS number and in two seconds told me that my AFORE was Banamex. This bit of intelligence came not only as a surprise but as a sense of wonder: how did that happen? When and who assigned my retirement savings to that bank? The young man on the phone told me I could consult my AFORE online. Banamex has a website for said purpose, he assured me. This was another surprise. They actually made things easier for a user.

After consulting online, I found out that these AFORE are like sharks. There is a feeding frenzy and the smaller ones are eaten up by the larger ones. In theory, any bank can bid for your money and offer you services and good rates of return on your dough, but in practice, only the large ones have the muscle to manage such large investment amounts for such a huge number of people. Looking at the ratings of the banks that are still in the game, I noticed that Banamex was up at the head of the table with more than 8% return on your investment. I was delighted by this bit of good news. The web site also tole me where I could go to get a statement of the amount I had saved over the years.

SIDEBAR: OK, I am a computer savy person; I have access to the Internet 24/7. So, I had the resources to dig into all of this and find the information I needed. But, what about Juan Pérez (this is our mythical John Doe) who lives in a small town, who has worked for some small company for 30 years and now is about to retire? How does he find out what he needs to know to get the SS system to give him his money? I pity the man.

Right! So, back to my story. Now I am armed with information that says I have to go to my bank's AFORE office and claim my statement of account. You, dear reader, are an intelligent person . Guess what I found when I got to my bank's AFORE office?

THE DREADED QUEUE!

ANOTHER SIDEBAR: It seems that the reasons unemployment is so low in Mexico (4.3%) is that millions of people are employed at information desks! In Mexico City, for example, no matter where you go, there is always someone at a desk (usually in a badly fitting uniform) who asks your business, demands an identity card from you before you can go in the building, asks you to sign a smudged log book, and directs you to where you already know you are going. Someday, someone will invent an "Information Desk Robot, Version 1.0" and make a fortune.

So, there I was, in the queue for the information desk. Again, the idea was to get a number so one of the FOUR "executives" could help me with my request for a statement showing my savings and affiliation to an AFORE.

From the looks of things, I was going to be there all day, maybe even a week: there were some 30 people waiting in chairs, and another thirty on the queue. I took the time a person was taking with the AFORE executive, and it was like 30 minutes. So, 30 + 30 X 30? I did the math and got the Hell out of there.

I had taken the precaution of jotting down the address of the TWO Banamex AFORE offices in Monterrey. Of course, a metropolitan area of nearly five million people need not have more then two offices with just four executives each. Banamex is taking good care of our money by not spending it on such frivolities as good service.

Off I went to the second office hoping that I would have good luck and that it would be less crowded than this one. It was, literally, on the other side of town. It took me a half hour to get there. And when I did, here is what I found:

No queue at the information desk! Nobody sitting the the chairs waiting their turn! And four idle executives each one in his or her office!

"What can we do for you?" asked the girl at the information desk.

"I need a copy of my statement of account," I replied.

"Please take a number and sit down," she said.

I was about the say to her that I didn't need a number since there was no one there, but I decided to humor the girl. After all, she was probably bored and I was the first distraction of the day for her. I took a number--it was 38--and I sat down.

I noticed that there was a big counter on the wall and that the number on it was 35. I wondered where she or he was, as well as numbers 36 and 37 because there was no one sitting on the chairs and there were no persons in the offices other than the executives themselves.

"Hmmm, this is curiouser and curiouser," I said remembering "Alice in Wonderland."

All four executives were oblivious of my presence; they were busily clicking and clacking at their computer keyboards. Once in a while, one of them would pick up a phone and call someone. At last, about 15 minutes after I had arrived, one of them, a young man, got up and put on his coat. My spirits lifted. Surely he would ask me into his office.

But, alas, no: my spirits were dashed when the said executive announced, "I'm going to lunch!"

"Damned! Of all the cheek," I thought. But, I kept my cool and waited some more.

Another 15 minutes passed and another executive--he too was a young man--came out of his office and looking around as if trying to find a lost person, he said, "Number 36! Number 36, please!"

I had had enough! I said, "There is no one here! There are no invisible persons, or customers hiding under the chairs, or people too small to be seen! There is NO ONE HERE BUT ME!"

He ignored me and went back into his office, sat down and started to click and clack at his computer. The number on the counter changed to number 37.

After a couple of minutes another executive, this time a young woman, came out of her office and said, "Number 37! Number 37, please!"

I couldn't believe it! I thought I had fallen into a scene of a Kafka novel or something.

"What the hell is this?" I asked. "Is this some sort of meeting for the Braille Bible Study Group? A resource for the blind office? I am the only person here. Can't you people see that?"

My ranting was to no avail. She went back into her office and sat down to fool around with her computer. But, the number did change and the third executive, a young man, came out of his office and was about to say something when I got up from my chair and said,

"Wait, wait, let me guess: is it, perchance, number 38's turn?"

He seemed startled and said, "Why, yes. Yes it is."

"Really?" I said and turned to the empty chairs and asked, "Number thirty eight? Yooohoo, number thirty eight!" I looked down at my paper, "Oh, its me!"

I followed the young man into his office. He kept looking back at me, perhaps wondering if I was not insane.

He sat down at his desk and I sat down as well.

"What can we do for you today?" he asked and I felt like saying something nasty but I did not.

"I need a statement of my account with the total of my saving to date," I said calmly, surprising myself at how calmly I had said it.

"OK," he said, but first we will check to see if you are in our system." Phrases like that always mean trouble and this time was no exception. "Please give me your Social Security number," he asked.

I gave him the SS pink sheet and he typed the number into his computer; he waited a few seconds and then announced with a smile, "Ah, you are not registered in our system."

"And, what can we do about that?" I asked through clenched teeth.

"We can register you right now," he said cheerfully.

He started the litany of request for papers: SS proof, birth certificate, Voter Credential, and so on. I had everything. Lastly, he asked for proof of my domicile. Although I no longer live in Monterrey, the electricity bill still arrives in my name, and I had borrowed that from my ex-wife. In Mexico, electricity, or gas, or other kinds of bills are always taken as proof of where you live.

He looked at that last piece of documentation and puzzled over it. Finally he said, "This is not valid. It has to be less than three month old."

"It is less than three months old," I said. "It was issued on the 2oth of October. We are the 22nd of December."

"Uh, uh," he uttered and puzzled over the date some more.

"Do the math," I said, "20th of October, and 30 days, brings you to the 20th of November. Thirty more days and it brings you to the 20th of December. That is only 60 days, so the electricity bill is valid as proof of my current address."

"Ah, no," he stammered but the rule says 60 days or less."

"No," I said, "the rule says 90 days or less." I was about to add "you dunderhead" but thought better of it.

He got up and went to the next office to consult with the girl executive. Since the walls of the all the offices are made of glass, I could see what was going on. He showed the girl the electricity bill. Gestured to me. The girl looked at the bill. She looked at me. Said something to the boy executive and then she went back to her clicking and clacking on her computer. The boy executive came back to his office.

"What's the verdict?" I asked feeling like the guy who is trying to pass a bad check.

"Oh, she said it was OK," he answered and cheerfully started to type on his keyboard. I wondered why I had not had the good luck to be in the girl's office instead of the math whiz'.

"So, we are going to be able to register me in your system?" I asked.

"Yes, yes, of course," he said cheerfully.

He typed and typed and typed. After a good 20 minutes he said, "There, you are in the system now."

"Good," I said. "Can I have my statement of account now?"

"No," he said.

"Why not?" I said whining like a child who has been denied a second helping of ice cream.

"It will take the system eight days to complete your registration," he replied.

"Jeez! These are computers, not some guy running with a piece of paper all the way the Mexico City or somewhere like that. Why does it take so long? Do you send it by Pony Express or by carrier pigeon? No wait, a pigeon would take less than eight days. Why so long?"

"Well, actually, it is not up to us. We send the information to the Social Security system and the Infonavit system (the system that allows workers to save up for a home), and a few other government agencies, and it is they who take a long time to confirm the registration."

"So, I have to wait eight days before I can go back to the Social Security people to claim my Request for a Pension Form?"

"Yup, that's it," he said smiling. "But first you will have to come back to us for your printed account statement."

I left the Banamex office and waved to a taxi. As I got on, the driver said, "It will take a while to where you are going. There's lot of construction and traffic."

I said. "Oh, I don't mind. I got eight days to waste anyway."

Next: Eureka! I am told I am registered and I go back into the breach, dear friends!

Adventures in Pension Land - Round 2

Both of you who have read my last blog entry will remember that I had been told to go to my "Family Clinic" to fill out a "Request for Pension Form". Why one has to go to a hospital to get the ball rolling, pension wise, is beyond me; it is one of those imponderables that bureaucrats come up with to befuddle lesser mortals.

So, early one morning, I took a folder full of papers and official forms, and jumped into a taxi.

"Clinica Dos (Clinic Number 2)," I said forcefully to the driver--as if I knew where the hell I was going.

The taxi driver sighed and said, "OK, but its going to take a while."

The man knew what he was about because Monterrey being in the middle of a metropolitan area of five million inhabitants and a hub of industry and commerce, there is always a lot of construction, bypass building, and what not going on. So, a trip that would usually take 15 minutes was a twisting, short-cut taking 35 minutes long.

Clinic Number 2 is one of the most important and busy clinics the Social Security system has in the Monterrey Metropolitan Area. Needless to say, it is a sprawling, busy place with a multi-story hospital and a labyrinth of offices and corridors. Lucky for me, it seems that any of the hundreds of people that stream in and out of the place all day long, know where things are because, again, there were no signs or indications to guide you to any of the services rendered there.

I stopped a woman who was dragging along three children.

"Señora, can you tell me where the pensions office is?" Of course, there is no such thing as a "pensions office", but I was so ignorant I didn't even know how to ask the right question.

"Ah, if you want to do something about your pension, or if you want to sign for your survival, turn right on the first corridor, and then left. The window is right there."

That last part of her comment "sign for your survival" was an intriguing comment but I had not time to ask what that was about and she looked as if she had no time for idle chatter having three children to contend with, so I thank her and followed her directions to the "Pensions" window.

Of course, the "Pensions" window had NO sign to indicate that it was the "Pensions" window. It was also, by far, the smallest window in the building. There were HUGE glass protected windows next to it behind which  there where were several girls doing nothing but chatting and filing their nails. Through the small slit that was the Pensions window, I could see a harried girl shifting papers.

There was a man at the window and across the corridor, there were chairs where people sat and, as I found out, were waiting their turn to conduct their business at the Pensions window. I asked a lady,

"Is this the Pensions window?"

"Yes," she answered.

"And, I imagine all of you are here to, uh..."

"Yes," she said understanding the drift of my question.

"So, I should go to the end of the line," I said.

"Are you here for a pension or for survival?" she asked.

"Survival?" She had used the word "sobrevivencia" to ask the question. "What is this "survival" that people keep mentioning?" I asked.

"Ah, once you get a pension, you have to come here every six months to sign and prove that you are alive, that's what!"

That explained why there were men in crutches in the waiting line and a lady in a wheel chair with a tank of oxygen and little white tubes in her nostrils. There was even a lady with four children who explained that she had to drag her kids to sign as beneficiaries of the pension she and the kids had received upon the death of her husband. Trust the damned bureaucrats to make things as hard as possible on people.

I wondered why, instead of cruelly making these poor people on crutches or on a wheel chair come and sign to prove they were still alive, the Social Security system did not send some of these fat-assed women who sat behind the windows doing nothing to the house of these persons and take the damned papers for them to sign.

Of course, that would be the decent thing to do and God knows the IMSS bureaucrats are not in the business of doing decent things for their constituents.

Upon reflection, I considered that this signing to prove you are alive every six months was going to be a bit of a crimp to my style, as it were, for it meant that if I got a pension I would have to come back to Mexico to sign for it every six months. Well, that was a problem to be solved when it presented itself because first of all, I had to get the damned pension.

Anyway, I was the last in line, and the last person to walk up to the little window. Since the bureaucrats work only until 4:00 PM, and it was nearly that hour when my turn came up, there was no one else in the queue.

I leaned down and peered through the little window:

"I have come about a Request for a Pension form and ..."

She cut me short without looking up, "Your Credential as a Voter," she said, "and a copy." Luckily I had it with me and a copy of it in paper. This is a credential that you get when you turn 18 years old and it serves as an identity card and as a registered voter card. It is indispensable if you want to conduct any sort of public or private business. It is the equivalent of national identity cards in France or Spain.

"Curp," she demanded and I gave her the original and copy of the document which the government gives you as your unique identifying number.

"Social Security affiliation proof," she said and I gave her the famous pink sheet and a copy which proves I was affiliated to the Social Security system.

"Birth certificate and copy," she said and I have her that as well.

Finally she said, "Afore  statement."

I said, "What?"

She finally looked up and said, "You have to get a statement from your Afore in which they tell you how much you have saved for your retirement."

I had no idea I had been saving for my retirement, least of all how one goes about getting a statement that shows how much I had saved.

"Where do I get that?" I asked.

"From your Afore," she replied handing me back all my papers--neatly clipped together, I might add.

"How do I find my, uh,  Afore?" I asked meekly.

Before she could answer, it came to me, "Call the 800 number, right?" She nodded. I left.

So, it was back to square one.

I had no problem getting a taxi. Outside the clinic there is a veritable market place and fair with food vendors, drink vendors, people who say they can help you with your paperwork and formalities. And, of course, a long line of taxis.

Once back home, I googled "Afore" and found out an interesting fact.

The saga continues with "Adventures in Pension Land - Part 3" in my next blog.