OPINION: My surreal experience with a civil servant is normal in Spain

The Local Spain’s editor Alex Dunham shares one example of the state-funded impunity of many of the country’s civil servants, an experience that anyone who lives in Spain can relate to.

The gentleman that walks in just after me isn’t so lucky. He doesn’t have a cita and both gatekeepers are all too happy to point to a poster which states that a prior appointment is a must, and then escort him out.
“I’m on holiday for the next two weeks, so I’m sure I’ll be able to book my cita online and come back again,” the man replies in an accepting, almost subservient manner.
To be clear, this government building is empty. There are no queues of people, no clacking of keyboards, no loud phone conversations – it’s dead.
For the department dealing with standard bureaucratic tasks like mine, there are four desks with computers but only one funcionaria (civil servant) working. It’s 11am on a Thursday.
As I wait to be seen, I overhear a woman asking one of the gatekeepers if this is where a certain bureaucratic process can be done. The civil servant replies that she “doesn’t think so”, that she should try another government building, not this one, reiterating again that she “thinks” it’s the other place. Anywhere but here.
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I recall all the times where I’ve been directed back and forth between different public administrations on the opposite side of town, as on both sides gatekeepers tried to pass the buck.
After a 15-minute wait, it’s my turn. The civil servant walks up to me and asks “Hi, do you have a prior appointment?”. Once again, I nod.
As we both sit down, this particularly chatty funcionaria enquires how she can help while she clears notelets and papers lying on her desk, adding that “my life is so busy right now”.
“I need to renew my digital certificate, here is my TIE and my confirmation code,” I reply.
I’ve learnt from experience that it’s always good to double-check Spanish civil servants have got your foreign surname right, reiterate that your second name is not your first surname (as Spaniards have two surnames), and if necessary, slowly spell out your full name with the phonetic alphabet.
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Trust me, it’s probably worth it. For a few months, the Spanish government had my second name down as “Pauel” rather than Paul.
Then the civil servant looks at my address on her screen and exclaims: “Oh my! We used to be neighbours!”.
“Really? What a coincidence!”, I respond.
For the next 25 minutes, I learnt a lot about Mercedes.
She told me about her recent move to a nearby coastal village, she showed me photos of her new penthouse, I learnt that it had cost her a lot but that she’d had her mortgage approved because she was a civil servant, that she used to wear stilettos but now prefers flip-flops, that her daughter has allergy problems.
I nod and smile, but inside I’m flabbergasted.
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I think about how many people could have been seen while Mercedes tells me her life story, I recall how hard it would have been for me to secure a mortgage while I was self-employed and working non-stop, I wonder if the civil servants who have not yet recognised my wife’s foreign qualification after five years have the same work ethic as her.
READ MORE: How Spain is ruining the careers of thousands of qualified foreigners
Above all, I realise – as I have done over and over again – that Spain’s public administration and its army of minions are the worst thing about this amazing country.
Billions of euros have been handed to Spain by the EU for the country’s “digital transformation”. Have painstaking bureaucratic processes become easier as a result? Absolutely not.
At the start of year, the Spanish government proudly announced that it would scrap the compulsory prior appointment (cita previa obligatoria), implemented during the pandemic but kept in place for convenience ever since, even though it’s been deemed illegal by countless lawyers. Have they actually gotten rid of it? Un no rotundo as they say in Spanish, a resounding no.
Something is severely wrong with a state which allows its employees to have zero accountability when serving the public.
It is virtually impossible for funcionarios to be sacked. They are fully aware of that and do their jobs as they see fit, at their own leisurely pace and often without the necessary knowledge that their position requires.
Not only that, they are rewarded with more holidays and overall rights than private sector workers, and in the eyes of Spanish banks, their extremely safe nómina (salary) makes applying for loans and mortgages a piece of cake for them.
READ MORE: Why so many Spaniards ‘dream’ of becoming civil servants
‘If you can’t beat them, join them’ is the attitude of millions of Spaniards who hate how the public administration works, but end up becoming funcionarios themselves.
I’ve had far more unpleasant experiences with civil servants before, and on this occasion, rather than wanting to point out to Mercedes that she was taking an awfully long time to do a very simple task, I found myself actually thinking that maybe our new ‘friendship’ could help me cut corners in future.
In Spain, the “servant” in civil servant applies to the person on the other side of the desk.
It’s something that all of us living in Spain find out, usually sooner rather than later.
How about you? Have you had any surreal experiences with civil servants in Spain? Leave a comment below!

#Opinion and Analysis
#life in spain

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So I needed to renew my digital certificate, the electronic signature which (supposedly) allows you to complete many bureaucratic processes faster and online.
Ironically, this involves an in-person appointment.
If it were the first time I was applying for this certificado electrónico, proving that I’m a real person and not a bot duping the Spanish administration would be a justifiable step in the process. But a renewal?
READ ALSO: Why is it so hard to get an appointment at some of Spain’s foreigner offices?
In any case, after having lived in Spain most of my life, I know how things go here. But it never ceases to amaze me how the system works.
As I enter my local government department, I’m immediately greeted by a civil guard officer shouting “¡Espere! ¿Tiene cita previa?” (“Wait! Do you have a prior appointment?”).
I reply that I do, thinking to myself that there is not a chance in hell I’m going to waste my time rocking up without one.
A half-asleep civil servant manning the other side of the door echoes the guardia civil: “Do you have a cita previa?”
Again I confirm that I do. She then crosses out my name from a sheet of paper and asks me to remain seated and wait my turn.
The gentleman that walks in just after me isn’t so lucky. He doesn’t have a cita and both gatekeepers are all too happy to point to a poster which states that a prior appointment is a must, and then escort him out.
“I’m on holiday for the next two weeks, so I’m sure I’ll be able to book my cita online and come back again,” the man replies in an accepting, almost subservient manner.
To be clear, this government building is empty. There are no queues of people, no clacking of keyboards, no loud phone conversations – it’s dead.
For the department dealing with standard bureaucratic tasks like mine, there are four desks with computers but only one funcionaria (civil servant) working. It’s 11am on a Thursday.
As I wait to be seen, I overhear a woman asking one of the gatekeepers if this is where a certain bureaucratic process can be done. The civil servant replies that she “doesn’t think so”, that she should try another government building, not this one, reiterating again that she “thinks” it’s the other place. Anywhere but here.
I recall all the times where I’ve been directed back and forth between different public administrations on the opposite side of town, as on both sides gatekeepers tried to pass the buck.
After a 15-minute wait, it’s my turn. The civil servant walks up to me and asks “Hi, do you have a prior appointment?”. Once again, I nod.
As we both sit down, this particularly chatty funcionaria enquires how she can help while she clears notelets and papers lying on her desk, adding that “my life is so busy right now”.
“I need to renew my digital certificate, here is my TIE and my confirmation code,” I reply.
I’ve learnt from experience that it’s always good to double-check Spanish civil servants have got your foreign surname right, reiterate that your second name is not your first surname (as Spaniards have two surnames), and if necessary, slowly spell out your full name with the phonetic alphabet.
Trust me, it’s probably worth it. For a few months, the Spanish government had my second name down as “Pauel” rather than Paul.
Then the civil servant looks at my address on her screen and exclaims: “Oh my! We used to be neighbours!”.
“Really? What a coincidence!”, I respond.
For the next 25 minutes, I learnt a lot about Mercedes.
She told me about her recent move to a nearby coastal village, she showed me photos of her new penthouse, I learnt that it had cost her a lot but that she’d had her mortgage approved because she was a civil servant, that she used to wear stilettos but now prefers flip-flops, that her daughter has allergy problems.
I nod and smile, but inside I’m flabbergasted.
I think about how many people could have been seen while Mercedes tells me her life story, I recall how hard it would have been for me to secure a mortgage while I was self-employed and working non-stop, I wonder if the civil servants who have not yet recognised my wife’s foreign qualification after five years have the same work ethic as her.
READ MORE: How Spain is ruining the careers of thousands of qualified foreigners
Above all, I realise – as I have done over and over again – that Spain’s public administration and its army of minions are the worst thing about this amazing country.
Billions of euros have been handed to Spain by the EU for the country’s “digital transformation”. Have painstaking bureaucratic processes become easier as a result? Absolutely not.
At the start of year, the Spanish government proudly announced that it would scrap the compulsory prior appointment (cita previa obligatoria), implemented during the pandemic but kept in place for convenience ever since, even though it’s been deemed illegal by countless lawyers. Have they actually gotten rid of it? Un no rotundo as they say in Spanish, a resounding no.
Something is severely wrong with a state which allows its employees to have zero accountability when serving the public.
It is virtually impossible for funcionarios to be sacked. They are fully aware of that and do their jobs as they see fit, at their own leisurely pace and often without the necessary knowledge that their position requires.
Not only that, they are rewarded with more holidays and overall rights than private sector workers, and in the eyes of Spanish banks, their extremely safe nómina (salary) makes applying for loans and mortgages a piece of cake for them.
READ MORE: Why so many Spaniards ‘dream’ of becoming civil servants
‘If you can’t beat them, join them’ is the attitude of millions of Spaniards who hate how the public administration works, but end up becoming funcionarios themselves.
I’ve had far more unpleasant experiences with civil servants before, and on this occasion, rather than wanting to point out to Mercedes that she was taking an awfully long time to do a very simple task, I found myself actually thinking that maybe our new ‘friendship’ could help me cut corners in future.
In Spain, the “servant” in civil servant applies to the person on the other side of the desk.
It’s something that all of us living in Spain find out, usually sooner rather than later.
How about you? Have you had any surreal experiences with civil servants in Spain? Leave a comment below!

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