Today I finally got my annual vehicle technical verification done for my sweet little Peugeot buggy. This verification is the equivalent to a smog check with many added bells and whistles. It should have taken one hour. It took me
almost all day. I started promptly at 9:30 AM going to the nearby verification place that was suggested, took a number and waited in line for maybe 15 minutes. The girl seated behind bullet-proof glass looked at the green card registration and told me that, yes, they could do a technical verification, but that, since the vehicle was registered in the Federal Capital… it might not be considered valid in the interior. She said, “Maybe if you seldom travel outside the Federal Capital you might get by.” In my imagination I could see some hungry country policeman catching this minor discrepancy and holding me for ransom for hours. So I told her I travel a lot in the interior and wanted it to be valid, genuine and properly authorized.
She kindly wrote down an address on a piece of paper where I could get it properly verified: “Avenida Constituyentes 6821” and even a telephone number. I thanked her and tried calling the number… over and over again and no one ever answered, so I headed down to Avenida Constituyentes, in stand-still traffic most of the time.
Now everybody, who is anybody, knows where Avenida Constituyentes is. But behold, Avenida Constituyentes’ numbers don’t go up to 6821. Avenida Constituyentes goes up to 6300, no more.
So I pulled over and parked on Avenida Constituyentes, jumped out and asked a policeman who was guarding a bank, I think. His uniform was well pressed and his badge shiny. He looked important. But as I expected, (Oh, me of little faith!) he knew nothing about it… and a bystander man who knew “everything” (full-bloom-Argentinean style) overheard the conversation and insisted that for cars registered in the Capital, verification was not required. “That’s just for the campesinos out there in the provinces.” He followed me back to my car assuring me that he was an authority in these things. I knew better than to listen to anyone that was that sure of himself, so I thanked him, crawled in my car and shut the door to think… and, yes, I confess, to pray.
I should have started praying about this two hours earlier, but I was so sure I could pull this one off by myself, I didn’t want to bother the Lord about such trivia. Before I could say, “Amen.” A police car pulled to the curb right in front of my car to talk with this well dressed and pressed policeman. So I leaped out of my car and interrupted their conversation. They were just doing small talk anyway, probably about a bank robbery or something. So I asked the two policemen inside the car about technical verification of cars registered in the Capital. They said it is indeed required. They even called on the phone and got me the address… Larrazabal 2047, Capital. In all that traffic noise, I made them repeat “Larrazabal” about 4 times while I tried to write it on a tiny scrap of waste paper.
Hurrah! Great! Except for one tiny detail. I had not yet activated my GPS for Argentina and I had left it back at the ranch… that is, the church apartment in Martinez. And I had no idea where Larrazabal street was. The policemen thought it was somewhere in Barrio Barracas… Buzzz! Wrong! So now there was no other choice but to head to Martinez to get my trusty GPS and set it up for the streets of Argentina.
Traffic was, as usual, backed up in total gridlock in all directions everywhere. All on-ramps and off-ramps were solid with standing traffic, but by 2 PM I arrived, now hungry for lunch and ready for a siesta, at Larrazabal 2047. (applause here) It is a huge building and there was not a single car there. At first I figured they were closed, but no… they were happy to take my $150 (pesos) $32.50 US dollars. They put my poor, little Peugeot through all the paces. They rumbled and grumbled it, did the taffy-pull forty ways to see if they could break it. They wiggled, jiggled and squiggled the steering from below and above. They braked the brakes and lit the lights. They checked to see if it is a smoker or non-smoker. They did all the same stuff they do in California and much more.
I was right proud when my little year 2000 Peugeot passed with “blue-ribbon honors” and I got the sticker in the window to prove it. I felt just like when I was 7 years old in the first grade (I started late) and the teacher would stamp a little smiley brownie on my paper for good work.
Makes you feel like telling every policeman on the corner, “Come see what I’ve got in my car window!” The bad news is it expires on March 30, 2013.
Ralph
