Velvety Red Tape

Call it Sod’s Law, Murphy’s Law, the Umbrella Paradox or whatever, it always ends up the opposite of what you planned. I’m talking, of course, about the infamous Portuguese bureaucracy.

I had to go into our municipal town to renew an official document recently (there’s always one just about to expire, isn’t there?). We enjoy going into town (if a settlement of around 2500 souls really qualifies as a town) as it’s got a pleasant, relaxed feel about it and a burgeoning civic pride means it is well kept and friendly. However, my business was in the Tribunal Judicial, a rather austere building with echoey halls and rooms, where the backless wooden benches where you wait your turn are so broad that a family of four could have a picnic in the middle of one. Naturally I expected to take most of the morning with my simple request, so we arrived early and prepared to wait our turn while bureaucracy slowly ground its squeaky wheels.

It was something of a shock, therefore, to push through the heavy Salazar era doors and find that no one else was waiting. Well, there were people waiting but they were the staff, waiting to diligently serve members of the public. Blimey. That was me, then. A smiling face shone in our direction and I took a seat and explained what I wanted. The smile grew broader. That will be easy, oh so easy, she said. I glanced back at the missus for reassurance. She was sitting on the wide picnic bench behind me. I suspected a trap.

It’s moments like that when my suspicious mind remembers all those earlier entanglements with the long red tape of the state and I braced myself for hidden snares, blind exits and bear pits. In the forefront of my mind was a memory of the humongous paper trail required when we got married. In particular, I can still see the face of the gentleman (for want of a better word) who asked me for some obscure documentation which would have to be retrieved from the UK, translated and then authenticated by a lawyer (or sanctified by a bishop, I forget which). It would need to be presented to him within 30 days or else the other documents which I had already gathered into a gigantic file would become date expired. I can’t now remember what it was that needed to be so urgently gathered and translated – probably my 14 yards swimming certificate from when I was at primary school, or else my grandmother’s recipe for Christmas pudding. Regardless of what it was I scurried about in those pre-digital days (the scurrying also involved a flight to London) and collected a file of paper. It was duly translated and authorised (or blessed) and presented at the same office within the time limit. The officious gentleman of before was not present and I was seen by a very gruff looking woman. She looked over the top of her glasses at the papers I had proudly presented and quite literally threw them onto the desk in front of me. We don’t need these, she said, and accused me of wasting her time. It’s not the sort of thing you forget easily.

So, I tried to see through the smile of the woman now facing me at the Tribunal Judicial and braced myself for the ‘but’ or the ‘what we’ll need is . . .’. I was wrong. The smile persisted. She bustled. She clickety clacked on her keyboard. She exuded professionalism. She showed me to the monster machine that takes photographs and collects your finger prints and your signature and then she took some money off me. Fifteen minutes after entering the building I was out on the street again, blinking into the sunlight and wondering how to fill the morning before the lunch we’d promised ourselves at a favourite restaurant; time had suddenly become unaccountably available.

A week or so later I was back to pick up the finished document. Obviously, I assumed the ease with which I’d sailed through the process the week previously would be compensated for in some grisly fashion this time. Again, there was no waiting on the picnic benches and the same woman greeted me with the same friendly smile and when I enquired if the document was ready she enthusiastically affirmed that it was. Why on earth wouldn’t it be? She danced over to the filing cabinet where it was stored and flicked through the pages as she walked back to the desk. You look just as miserable in this photo as you did when I took the picture, she said, handing it over. That’s it? No more? No traps, snags or tripwires waiting?

Once again, we were outside before I’d had time to gather my wits (though, admittedly, that does take longer than it used to). Time to wander across the road and look in that little shop next to the cafe. It often has some interesting things for sale. The shop was open but there was a sign on the door. Volta já. Back soon. No staff in the shop but open to the public. Public trust on display. It’s one of the reasons why we like our little town.