No one looks forward to going to the tax office, especially
in Greece. Especially now in Greece.
Every year I file taxes electronically, thus avoiding the tax office entirely –
no need to stand in line all day to submit forms, waiting for sullen employees
to bang their rubber stamps on your documents… So for years submitting
electronically seemed too good to be true. All you needed was a “code” or
password to file electronically. Up until now, every year this code would be sent
to you via email. Simple. Well, it was
too good to be true. Now, according to new rules, in order to file electronically
you have to appear at your local tax office in person, wait in line, show your
ID and the employee will hand you a printout with your coveted code, necessary
for your online submission.
So, one day I headed to the tax office to face the crowds,
the long lines, the apathetic employees. I trudged up to the third floor
because the only elevator was taking too long and was too small anyway, only
accommodating about four people at a time. Upon locating and entering the right
office, a look of bewilderment came over my face. On the left there was a long
counter with a glass wall above, separating the waiting area from the office
area. Behind the glass there were four desks and two employees. There was a
door next to the counter and a long line in front of the door. It snaked along
the length of the counter, making its way back around and down again, and the
“end” of the line was basically a crowd of people, vying for a spot at the end
of the “real” line. I reluctantly joined the back of the crowd, pushing my way
through the line trying to find the end. “Who’s the last person?” newcomers
would grumble and someone would sigh, “I am. And he’s before me, and she’s
before him” and so on. There was a small table in the corner with no chairs,
only a few cracked pens hanging from string which was taped to the table. Near
the entrance to the room was a small row of airport-like seating. But most of
the plastic seats were broken and instead of a seat there were round poles sticking
out of the metal base.
A heavy-set woman sat on one of the few available chairs,
arms crossed over her large stomach, surveying the scene. The office closes at
2pm every day and it was already 12:30. I doubted that I would make it to the
front of the line in time. A wiry old man with long straggly white hair stepped
out of line and looked through the glass partition, glancing at his watch and
scowling at the people being served by the two employees inside the office.
“That guy’s been in there for 15 minutes already! What’s he doing??!” I could
hear everyone making mental calculations, counting the people in front of them,
trying to figure out how long it would be before their turn came. The wiry old
man became agitated, inhaling and exhaling loudly, flapping his arms, glaring,
pacing, as his stringy white hair blew in the wind generated by his
arm-flapping fury. “Hey you in there! You’re time is up!! Get out! There are
others here too and we need our turn! I’ve been waiting for an hour already!!”
he said, knocking on the glass. This got no response. He banged his fists on
the counter and shouted “Hey in there! I’m gonna smash this place to pieces!!”
Still no response. He stuck his head in the doorway and this time, aimed his
comments directly at the employee, “Madame!!! This cannot go on, it’s not fair
for this person to monopolize all of your time on his case when we are all
waiting outside like idiots!!” The woman glanced up, shot him a deadly look and
stated in a strong, stern voice “I will spend as much time as it takes to
finish each person’s paperwork!”
The heavy-set woman piped up and added “Humph! In France all
you do is punch your ID number into a machine, press a button and out comes any
document you want. Yeees, that’s right. No standin’ in line! No, sir! In
France, they ain’t waitin’ around for hours like us!”
A short middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap looked up and
smirked. “Yeah, but half the people in France are gay,” he retorted - which got a roaring laugh from the crowd of haggard
tax-payers.
“Go ahead and laugh” she snapped, “but we’re still stuck
here waitin’ like morons” as she pulled a sandwich from her huge black bag,
unwrapped it and started chomping on one end. Her son, who was waiting in line,
figured it’s no use, he’ll never make it by 2pm and wanted to leave. “I ain’t
leavin’ son. You hand me those papers and I’ll wait here. I'm gittin’ served
today, no matter what. And that’s that. Yes, sir. Gittin’ served today.”
At 1:55 I finally got to the front of the line and
eventually got what I came for. I was too tired to notice what happened with
the wiry old man or if the side-lining heckler eventually did get served. All I
kept thinking was that there certainly is an easier way to do all this, and I
left feeling saddened by the fact that in the Greece of 2012 standing in line
for hours on end for a simple transaction is still a part of “normal” life.
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