I’VE said it before: life in Spain takes a bit of getting used to.
The rhythm, the mañana mindset, the endless forms and stamps – especially if you’re coming from an Anglo-Saxon world of efficiency and rigid timetables.
But after years of stressing myself out trying to bend the system to my will, I’ve finally learned to stop shouting into the bureaucratic void. In Spain, if la computadora dice no, it’s not the end of the road. It’s just a detour. You breathe, stay polite, and find another way. Think like a Spaniard.
At least, that’s the theory.
Then I heard about Michael.
You might have read his story in the last issue of the Olive Press
Michael Coy, a British expat, did his 15 years of hard graft here in Spain, expecting – rightly – to qualify for a pension. Only problem? One of his old bosses had decided to get creative with the books and listed him as a part-timer. Fewer hours, less contribution, no pension.
When he finally reached retirement age, Michael found he was short by 147 working days. Lawyers told him he could sue. Sure, it might take five years, cost around €3,000, and he still might lose.
So what did he do? Like a man with no other choice, he put his shoulder back to the wheel and took on a low-paid job to make up the shortfall. At nearly 70.
Now, I’m not sure if that counts as embracing the Spanish way or reverting to a very British instinct: if in doubt, knuckle down and keep going.
Either way, he got there in the end – and hats off to him. The pension is now sorted, and he can (finally) put his feet up.
But it got me thinking…
Say what you like about Spanish bureaucracy (and trust me, I often do), but one thing they don’t do is hand out cash to anyone who strolls in waving a foreign passport. Nor are hotel rooms and meal tickets handed out like sweeties at a village fiesta.
Michael had to earn his right to that pension – and he did
But I can’t help thinking that if the UK authorities had a bit more of a ‘¡Eso no está pasando, hombre!’ attitude perhaps the gangsters selling illegal and dangerous small-boat crossings of the English Channel would see a drop in demand!?
But no! The pantomime production that passes for a government in the UK nowadays has opted for a policy from the pages of festive-favourite, Dick Whittington and his Cat, promising ‘streets paved with gold’.
The only difference I can see here is on arrival young Dick was sadly disappointed, unlike the 30,000 asylum seekers currently living in hotels paid for by British taxpayers.
And people still ask me why I abandoned the UK for Spain!
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