Or, in English: Absolutely not! As in, the favored response to any inquiry made, by me, to any customer service clerk in Belgium. For example: Excuse me, may I try on this pair of purple sunglasses, with the glitter on the rims? Absolument pas! Or, another example: Pardon moi, madam, but might you have any meat in this grocery store that does not smell at least two months old, and, you know, isn’t green? Absolument pas, stupid Americane!
So, it was no surprise that when I attempted to open a savings account at the local Fortis bank, that I was told: impossible! Ok, let me back up a bit to explain the whole story.
It is essential in Belgium to have a bank account. Why? For the simple reason that all of one’s bills, such as cable, Internet, utilities, rent, etc. are taken directly from the account. Thus, when you finally find a place to live and get all of these nice things set up, the companies that you deal with generally like to be paid, and they always like to be paid directly from the bank.
Now, given my last experience at the bank, I have been slacking in terms of going to the bank and setting up an account from which I can satisfy my new Belgian overlords, ah, I mean, creditors. But, today I decided to go ahead and do the deed. So, I diddy bopped my way down to the local Fortis, came in and took my place in line and patiently waited for today’s assault on my patience and sanity to begin. Soon enough, it did.
I was lucky enough to be “served” by a gentleman who knew a bit of English. He asked what I wanted, and I explained, or tried to, that I needed to open up a bank account so as to pay my bills. I made the mistake of being specific about the type of account I wanted to open, a savings account. He looked me over and said: Absolument pas! And he threw in a gratuitous “Impossible!” on top of it. Now, nothing surprises me anymore. I mean nothing. Still, I was a bit taken aback by the vehemence in his voice, so I began to ask why such a thing would be impossible. Before I could speak, though, he asked: “Why would you want to open an account here?”, as if the very notion of such a thing were as ridiculous as wearing your underwear outside of your pants.
Granted, I know nothing about how banks work here, but, I dare say, if this man’s supervisor heard him actively attempting to dissuade me from opening an account, they might have words. The words might be: “Good job, Louis! Less work for us. Now, let us go get the coffee.”, but they would exchange words.
“Well”, says I, “This bank is awfully convenient, and I’ve heard good things about it, so, yes, I think that is why I want to open an account here.” This answer must have satisfied him, as he proceeded to tell me I would not need a savings account, but a different type of account altogether, and so I asked if I might do that instead of my really stupid idea to open a savings account.
This is when the fun really began. He insisted that he would need proof of my address before he could do so, so I pulled out my official looking lease, with my address on it in big, bold letters. He took if from me, studied it for a bit, then handed it back and said: No good! I pointed out that this was an official document, a binding contract and could be submitted in a court of law as such were I to choose to choke him to death by shoving it down his throat. Of course, I did not say that last part. It is often unwise to threaten a Belgian clerk, or show any emotion at all, lest they know that they are getting to you, which will only encourage more of the same.
Ah, but back to my story. Turns out a lease is not sufficient proof of one’s address. Nor is a utility bill. Nor any other of the hundred documents I had shoved into my briefcase to bring for just such an occasion. The only thing that would suffice was an official Belgian ID. To get one of these takes months. I am in the process of acquiring one, but, as I pointed out to the clerk, it would take at least 3 months. At which point he put up his closed sign and said: come back in 3 months.
Not so fast, Francois, I said (well, thought anyway): how will I pay my bills until then? A shrug, a smirk and then, voila, off for coffee. He did set up an appointment for me on Monday (a fact that I was later glad for, as I will relate a bit later), even though, as he said, it would not be a productive use of anyone’s time.
Well. I will only point out that when I was thinking about setting up the same type of account at ING, another Belgian bank, they never mentioned any of this. They only mentioned that I would need an appointment (earliest appointment: two weeks later). So, I left the bank, a bit frustrated, but also thinking that I would just head down to ING and do it there. Not as convenient, but maybe, also, not as frustrating.
The story does have a happy ending, though. My co-worker, while I was doing the daily Dance of Frustration and Pointlessness with another Belgian customer “service” representative, was out meeting another American in the smoking area. I walked out to find him, and, what do you know, he knows my pain. I relate the story to he and Keith, and he tells me, in a few concise statements, how to do an end around past the banking blockade and get my account on Monday. It will be with relish when, on Monday, I approach my banking friend and, before he can sneer and say: absolument pas!, I whip out the proper form and set it on his desk. Get to work, Francoise, I will say, and sit down, smiling contentedly, knowing that he will probably miss his coffee break as he fills out the required forms, all 100 of them, in triplicate.
