It has not been a good month here. I discovered – with the sort of creeping horror usually reserved for Halloween – that I’d forgotten to pay our Spanish car tax. Not just a little late, oh no. A full three months overdue. Yikes. We had never received the reminder. Did I think to chase it up? Of course not. Too busy sipping Albariño.
Now, being stopped by the Spanish police is unnerving at the best of times. They have an unnerving way of peering straight into your soul while tapping your documents that makes you want to confess to everything you’ve ever done wrong – and several things you haven’t. Add to that the prospect of being caught driving untaxed, and I found myself waking at 3 a.m., convinced I could hear sirens closing in. Enter Lord Muck, my hero, announcing, “He would sort it out.”
His first stop: the online payment portal. But…no reference number, no luck. So off he toddled to the local tax office, armed with ownership papers and a smile so forced it deserved its own BAFTA. At the counter, the unsmiling official asked for the payment reference. Lord Muck explained we didn’t have one, but he did have every document known to man proving the car was ours, plus last year’s car tax receipt from the bank. The official, unmoved, folded his arms and declared, “No reference. No Payment.” When Lord Muck pointed out that he was trying to give them money, the man responded with a sigh and suggested he try the bank. And so began the grand pilgrimage across Andalucía’s bureaucratic labyrinth.
At the bank, a polite señorita shook her head sympathetically, “No reference. No payment.” Perhaps try the tax office. When he explained, through gritted teeth, that the tax office had sent him to the bank, she suggested heading instead to the Ayuntamiento (council).
At the town hall, after an hour in the queue, a weary youth announced that this was indeed “quite the problem” and informed Lord Muck that only his boss, Lorenzo, could resolve it by reissuing the reference. Hope briefly rekindled… until said youth revealed that Lorenzo was actually on holiday. In Buenos Aires. For three weeks. Of course he was. “Surely,” Lord Muck pleaded, “someone else can do it?” But oh no, only Lorenzo possessed this mystical power. The youth shut the counter window firmly to make the point clear.
And so, for three long weeks, we lived like fugitives. Every short trip out felt like a high-stakes getaway. Every passing Guardia Civil car sent my heart galloping. Then, inevitably, it happened. Blue lights. A stern face at the window. Documents demanded. I explained – somewhat desperately – that yes, we hadn’t paid the tax, but only because Lorenzo was in Buenos Aires, and until Lorenzo returned, nothing could be done. The officer narrowed his eyes, tapped the papers thoughtfully, sighed… and then, miracle of miracles, broke into a smile. “Ah, Lorenzo,” he said warmly, as if discussing an old friend. “Why didn’t you say so? Nothing moves around here without Lorenzo.” And with that, he waved us on and even asked us to pass on his regards when Lorenzo finally returned.
And so, dear reader, I have learned the first rule of surviving Andalucía: bureaucracy isn’t really about paperwork at all. It’s about who you know. Or, more precisely, whether you know Lorenzo. Until then, you’ll find me cruising the pueblo – technically untaxed, but practically untouchable.
Postcards from Andalucía, Lady Muck Style
By Catherine Saunders / Read more at www.ladymuck.style
