Post-modern labyrinth

We have finally had our first run-in with Argentinean bureaucracy.

I mean, sure, we've been to the panaderias where you buy first, wait for them to heat up your treats (if they're empanadas), then go over to the grouchy bored man in the corner to pay. Don't pay the pastry ladies. Even if you like them better than the grumpy guy.

And we've been to the heladerias where after you elbow your way up through the scrum you're informed you have to go to the register first and pay and then come back even though maybe you don't quite know what you want yet. Just assume you want a big cone and decide how to fill it later. Now you want sprinkles? Too bad. Next time plan ahead.

But that's all pretty small scale. It took a visit to the post office to get the full-value experience.

A week or two ago, Marty's mom kindly sent us a box of things we'd packed in the winter for a long-term Buenos Aires stay. (Thank you, Mary!) It arrived surprisingly rapidly. But then things got a little complicated.

The postman does not bring the package; he brings a notice about where you have to pick it up. I can understand this; he travels by foot and I don't think he could carry our box for blocks, much less anyone else's packages.

But later the same day, we got another notice. The two notices had the same tracking number but two entirely different addresses.

There were varying opinions on how to deal with this. People seemed to think we'd have to go to both, until we pointed out it was all one package, so it must be at one place. Seems logical, no? So we decided to go to the address on the notice that arrived later. It was also closer -- more or less walking distance. ¡Que buena! We left three hours before our Spanish class, so it seemed safe.

We entered the big Correo building and dutifully took a number. But no, said the woman at the entrance, we had to go to the other address. No, wait, we said, same tracking number! Ah, I see, she said. OK, go around the corner. Window 18.

We left and went around the corner. Nothing corresponded to the address on the notice. We walked a couple of blocks, then retraced our steps. We entered the only post-office-like place on the block -- which did not have the address identified on the notice -- and sure enough, that was it! Window 18? Step right over there. (There were no Ventanillas 1-17, but who are we to quibble? Ventanilla 18 was clearly labeled.)

This was all proceeding swimmingly. There wasn't even a line at the window! But then the friendly guy at Window 18 told us that no, after all, we had to go to the other address. "But same tracking number, and this notice came later!" This time, my magic incantation did not work. Sorry, he shrugged, it's over there. And, um, be prepared for it to take a while.

Hm. Well, fortunately, we had brought our trusty Guia (whose rather Byzantine method of bus-route-mapping, and the whole system of the buses, are probably worth their own post). So after much peering at the guide and flipping back and forth between pages and checking for correct change, we determined which bus to catch, crossed the 10 or so lanes of traffic, caught a bus to the Retiro bus station and found the large yellow edifice we'd been told to look for.

As we approached, we saw that a lot of people were loitering around the stairs. Well, maybe they're smoking. And some waiting is surely in order. Then we saw that inside, people were more or less smashed up against the glass doors like they were on the rush-hour Subte.

Marty took a deep breath, dived in, grabbed a number, and we retreated outside to the stairs. We went back to check what number they were on. 71. OK. We had 33. Oof. So we waited.

Sooner than I'd expected, the numbers passed 0 and started inching up toward ours. I went in and did my best intrepid-traveler-jostling-for-the-front-of-the-line impression. Because it seemed that even when people went up with the correct number, lots of other people went up to the counter and called things out and gesticulated and needed to be taken care of too.

So with my Vietnam-honed skills, I was right in the perfect position when 33 was called. I stepped up, brandished my number and notice, and my passport too (I'd been warned we'd need that). I was prepared.

The woman started to take my papers and read my notice, but a small man zoomed in at my left. Oddly, he too was brandishing number 33. I laughed at the typo. "C," he said, puzzingly. And then the woman was pushing back my papers. Sure, he could go first; I was prepared to be magnanimous. "Then I go, after him?" No, they said. This is the thing. He had number 33C. I had number 33D.

"You have to wait for 100 more numbers," they told me together.

Whoa. I retreated, shoulders slumped, and explained it to Marty. We went back outside and waited for another half-hour, then thought to ask someone how long the second stage would take. Because yes, after this wait, there was another, in another room, with another number, and what Marty called a loudspeaker announcer "speaking Burger King" that I suspect even for fluent Spanish speakers is tough to understand.

When the guy told us it would take half again as long in the other room, we left. We just barely made it back in time for our lesson. No box for us. I had to content myself with being pleased with our relatively successful use of the bus guide.

Marty, pobrecito, went back the next day, as I had to go to the yoga studio. He will have to continue the tale.

***
Day 2 -- The Rematch

We think Borges wrote about labyrinths because Buenos Aires is a labyrinth. I returned to Retiro via Subte, navigating a number of train transfers -- some planned, others not -- and once again hurried to wait.

The first hour went well enough and eventually I made it to the front of my line, signed a paper, and watched as my paper was literally pulled through a hole in the ceiling via dumbwaiter. It's one of the marvels of the digital age that one can talk over Skype with someone in Moscow for free or download copies of the Koran to your cell-phone and yet still have shipping managed in the fashion of the 19th century.

Then I went to the other room, where I sat another two hours trying to make sense of the utterances (not to be confused with real words) emanating from the speaker cone at the center of the room. Most of the time it sounded like a cross between a loud, dangerous sporting event and a construction site. (Einstürzende Neubauten playing the running of the bulls at Pamploma might be a stretch, but maybe you get the picture.)

In time I gave up trying to parse six separate Spanish numerals and simply focused on the final two. If I could hear anything remotely like "cuarento y dos" I'd be in luck. An eternity later I heard what could pass as "something-something-something-something-something-OH,"(sure, that might be it, they do drop the "s" sound a lot). So I made my way behind a secret blue door with a re-purposed subway turnstile and stood in another line.

Ticket in hand, I presented myself to the nearest postal operative and to my surprise, received a familiar brown box, the same box we'd packed four months back in Southern Caifornia. The woman behind the counter sliced through the label reading, "Possessions of Americans living in Buenos Aires," took a cursory look at the contents -- mostly shoes were visible from the top -- looked at me rather oddly, and sent me on my way.

Seven hours (spread over two days) and several kilometers of bus and train travel later I'm relaxing comfortably in a fresh pair of jeans and a shirt that doesn't look like a fuzzy dish towel. Still a little bemused, but grateful. Phew.