THE BEST LAID PLANS…
January 6th, 2005 by boomclick
The next installment in a series of diary missives from Mel Morris, who is going ahead with her dream of building a new life in Spain with her boyfriend
If you haven’t done so, you might want to catch with the story so far first.
Ten days to go before signing for the finca and the money was all there in our bank account, the tent was packed and the flights booked. I called the agent to see how they would want payment for the property. ‘In cash’ they said. Now the thought of carrying many thousands of euros through two international airports did not fill me with delight so I contacted the bank to see how best to go about it. ‘No Problem,’ they said ‘we make out a draft to a bank of your choosing and you cash it when you get there. We’d suggest faxing them a copy of the draft so they know to expect it, especially if it’s a rural branch.’. Easy.
Three days before the signing was due to take place I got an email from the bank in Gandesa, the closest town to the fince, to whom I’d faxed a copy of the draft. They could not cash it. We were not customers and in any case the draft had been made out incorrectly. Jamie, my partner in this and many other adventures, made a call to our bank to get the draft stopped and see how to transfer the money to Spain as soon as possible. ‘Its going to take some time’ they said ‘Why?’ he said ‘We don’t know where your money is.’ they said. This resulted in an afternoon of pleading, tears, accusations, counter-accusations, solutions and almost defeat. In the branch at lunchtime I was escorted to a private area as I collapsed in sobs at the counter at the thought of our careful plans crumbling to nothing before our eyes. I wasn’t sure how the vendor of the property would react to me having to stall the agreed sale because the bank had lost our money. We stood to lose it all and no-one in the bank seemed to care.
Eventually they agreed to bend the rules and retrieve and send our money to our bank account in Barcelona without going via the international holding bank. We’d have to make a 2 hour excursion to Barcelona to collect the money but at least we could sign as agreed.
Enjoying a well deserved bath that evening I was confident that nothing else could happen when Jamie poked his head round the door. ‘I have some exciting news about the finca’ he said and disappeared. Typical, give me part of the story and then vanish! ‘Oy, you can’t do that!’ I yelled. It turned out that we weren’t buying one finca but two, the agent would tell us more when we go there!
At 10am two days later we were sat in the hire car at Reus airport and phoned our Spanish bank. The calm voiced Matthew answered. ‘I’m sorry, the money is not in your account’. Our hearts sank again. But he promised to check with the finance department and call back in ten minutes. He called in 5 and this time it was good news, the money was there and he would email Barcelona and tell them to expect us.
They weren’t expecting us but it was no problem. The lady in the Barcelona branch asked us to count out our life savings and put it in an envelope. As we walked back out onto the Passeig de Garcia Barcelona’s reputation for pick pockets was at forefront of our minds but thankfully fate was now smiling at us and we were on the train back to Taragonna within 10 minutes still with the cash.
At the agent’s office later that day the whole story of the fincas became clear. It had originally been one property but the man who owned it had died in the civil war leaving part of the property to be shared between his wife (Dona Theresa) and his (then) baby daughter and the other solely to the daughter (Dona Mariana). The wife was now 94 and, it transpired, could not manage the stairs to the notary’s office to sign the necessary papers, the signing would take place in the hallway of the offices.
Jamie then went with the agent to count out the money. He came back a very peculiar colour after giving away so much hard earned money for a field, two crumbling buildings and a great view.
In the notary’s hallway we stood around waiting for the notary to finish with an earlier appointment. It was then that the Dona Mariana thought to tell us that not only could her mother not manage the stairs she also could not read or write. It was explained to us that a fingerprint would be acceptable to sign her agreement to sell but that another person not connected with the sale would be required to witness the print. The agent’s son’s girlfriend agreed to step into the breach and together we all waited for the notary. The light in the hallway was on a timer so as we waited one of us had to stand holding down a button or else we would be plunged into darkness. Occasionally people would wander in, look bemused at this international delegation and then continue on their way. This did not feel the most auspicious circumstances to be purchasing our dream home.
Then the notary arrived. A tall and imposing lady, she quickly set about ensuring that the two Donas were willing to sell and that we were willing to buy. This proved difficult when it came to Dona Theresa.
‘I’m the notaria’ the notary yelled
‘You are Rosalia?’ Dona Theresa asked
‘No, I’m the notaria’
‘Rosalia’
‘Notaria’
‘Oh’
The notary then read the deeds aloud. She returned to Dona Theresa.
‘Hello pretty’ the Dona smiled toothlessly
The notary blushed and there were some titters but she carried on professionally.
‘Do you agree to sell the finca as described here near Pinell?’
‘What finca?’
‘The finca on Ria Caneletta’
‘What finca?’
At this point Dona Mariana covered her face with her hands and I started to wonder if the old lady could also add Alzheimer’s to her list of complaints. In which case the notary would surely stop the sale. Dona Mariana stepped forward.
‘She wants to know if you agree to sell the allotment, Mother’ Dona Mariana shouted
‘Oh yes, she can sell that’ said the old lady waving her hand. Phew!
A few more moments and the papers were handed round for everyone to sign. The ink pad was produced and Dona Theresa made her mark. That was it, the finca was ours.
We drove though the windy roads to our tent, pitched on our land in one of the most beautiful parts of the world. It had been a stressful journey we agreed as we popped a bottle of cava, but worth it. We watched shooting stars and toasted all those who had helped make this possible, including the impeccably calm Matthew, as we looked forward to welcoming our first guest the next day. But that, as they say, is another story.
mel morris
The next installment in Me’ls adventure is here.
