by I went to the mall today to get my licence converted, and to my surprise all my paperwork was in order. (There’s usually some unforeseen problem.) Everything got rubber-stamped and I just had to pay 89 lei. Out came my wallet. “You can’t pay here. You’ll have to pay at the post office. Go to the end of the corridor and turn right.” Fine. But the post office was in the process of being moved next door, and nothing was set up for anyone to pay or do anything. I was told to pay using the machine outside – the roboțel, they called it – but it wasn’t working. So I trudged back to the licence office to tell them what had happened. The large uniform-clad woman in the back started laying into me. How do you expect us to issue you a licence if you don’t pay?! “Look, I tried. This isn’t my fault.” Of course it’s your fault. How can it not be your fault?! Just pay, for god’s sake. “I’m a human being, not an animal.” She, or was it the other less awful woman, said that there were other roboțele around the mall, but I couldn’t see them, and they probably wouldn’t have worked even if I had. The only solution I could find was to visit a normal post office away from the hideous bright lights and muzak of the mall. I might have to queue up, but it least that should work. Half an hour later I was back with proof of payment, the awful woman was gone, and I had a piece of paper authorising me to drive (in Romania only) until my real licence arrived. Great.
So today I had yet another experience of a person in uniform who had no idea how to deal with human beings. Maybe she’s got kids and when she takes off her power costume she turns into a delightful mother.
Tomorrow I’m going to look at a Dacia on Calea Șagului. It currently has red number plates, which apparently mean that it isn’t properly registered or certified or whatever yet. That, and the whole idea of driving again after all these years, is filling me with apprehension.
It’s my first anniversary of moving into this flat.
