I'm Two for Zero

I can now say that I have been to more police stations abroad than I have been in the United States. Last summer I went to my mother with to the Swiss police station when her purse was stolen; last night I went to a Spanish police station to file a report for my own stolen wallet.

What is up with people stealing things Can’t we all respect each other’s property? Meh, I was being stupid and had been lulled into a false sense of security because I’d had no problems thus far. (And I have less than a week to go!) My own fault, I suppose, for not being vigilant.

I had a microscopic glimpse at the bureaucracy rife within Spain last night. The Metro agent at Sainz de Baranda, where my wallet was stolen, said that I needed to go to Nuevos Ministerios to file a report there. Lucky me, Nuevos Ministerios is only five or so stops from Sainz de Baranda. I got off, looked around for a security agent who told me that the Comisaria was just around the corner, and then knocked on the door of the office. There was one officer left who said that they couldn’t file the report there, and that I had to go to Sol. Great. I had to switch trains, but it wasn’t going to be the end of the world to get there from Nuevos Ministerios.

At Sol, I looked around for the Comisaria, and lucky me, it was closed. I asked the guard if he knew where I could file a report for a stolen wallet in the Metro, and he said Calle Leganitos, which you can get to from Plaza de España. So I went on my disgruntled way to the Plaza.

Note that I had come back from a day of hiking and swimming in a river. I still had my bathing suit and swim shorts on, and I was oily with sunscreen. And my water bottle was low. And I was wearing my ugly orange – but comfortable – Keens. Everything from my orange-clad toes to my sun-burned skin and my pulled-back hair screamed that I wasn’t from around here.

I have some good news – my Spanish was good enough to speak with the security personnel at all of the places I stopped. The hardest was first explaining that “alguien robio mi carjeta” at the beginning, because I knew neither the word “robar” nor “carjeta”. Yes, yes, I am stupid. At the front of the Comisaria there was a guard who told me that I could go to the waiting room and they would send someone out who would speak English with me. 


The overall process wasn't too bad, and it involved me getting to speak to my mother for free about canceling our credit cards (thank you, government of Spain), and about an hour after arriving at the police station, I was walking out and going home and counting down the minutes until I could take a shower.