Our mission: to retrieve records of our closed Bancomer checking account. The only person who could process that request, the teller told us, was the branch manager, so we signed our names in the designated notebook and took seats in the waiting area.
The bank was crowded that morning, and despite a long line to see the manager, the atmosphere was friendly and convivial. Decorations for a special offer on checking accounts added a festive touch; balloon arches framed the doorways and giant bows festooned teller stations. Pre-school children were everywhere. They crawled on and under the chairs, wandered in and out of executive offices, and watched cartoons on the television suspended from the ceiling. A Mexican lady sat down next to me, explained her banking problem, and asked about my family. A Canadian man and I speculated about why the teller had refused to cash his traveler’s checks.
I had assumed customers would be taken in order, but that wasn’t the case. Except for my husband and me, hapless Americans not accustomed to Mexican banks, no one paid attention to whose name was next in the sign-in book. An hour passed. Lunch time came and went.
For awhile I diverted myself by studying the promotional materials for the checking account offer. Posters of a lady flipping pancakes with a spatula explained: Open a new account or increase your balance by $6500 pesos and you will receive a boxed set of stainless steel kitchen utensils--two cooking spoons, a spatula, a soup ladle, a masher and a stand for hanging them on. At least 20 people picked up utensil sets. We were still waiting.
When at last we were seated in the manager’s office, another customer walked in and began to explain her problem. Still typing our data into her computer, the manager responded in the manner of a kindly social worker. A half hour later the manager had processed our request, and, finally, we were done. But, she told us, we would need to return in a week to pick up our records.
Waiting for a delivery, a repair person, the house painter, the bank manager-- we spend a lot of time waiting in Mexico. I’m still not used to it, and it tries my patience. We have to see that bank manager again, and I’m not sure what I will do. Barge into her office, and risk being regarded as an arrogant American? Sit politely while other customers jump the line? I am still pondering.
The bank was crowded that morning, and despite a long line to see the manager, the atmosphere was friendly and convivial. Decorations for a special offer on checking accounts added a festive touch; balloon arches framed the doorways and giant bows festooned teller stations. Pre-school children were everywhere. They crawled on and under the chairs, wandered in and out of executive offices, and watched cartoons on the television suspended from the ceiling. A Mexican lady sat down next to me, explained her banking problem, and asked about my family. A Canadian man and I speculated about why the teller had refused to cash his traveler’s checks.
I had assumed customers would be taken in order, but that wasn’t the case. Except for my husband and me, hapless Americans not accustomed to Mexican banks, no one paid attention to whose name was next in the sign-in book. An hour passed. Lunch time came and went.
For awhile I diverted myself by studying the promotional materials for the checking account offer. Posters of a lady flipping pancakes with a spatula explained: Open a new account or increase your balance by $6500 pesos and you will receive a boxed set of stainless steel kitchen utensils--two cooking spoons, a spatula, a soup ladle, a masher and a stand for hanging them on. At least 20 people picked up utensil sets. We were still waiting.
When at last we were seated in the manager’s office, another customer walked in and began to explain her problem. Still typing our data into her computer, the manager responded in the manner of a kindly social worker. A half hour later the manager had processed our request, and, finally, we were done. But, she told us, we would need to return in a week to pick up our records.
Waiting for a delivery, a repair person, the house painter, the bank manager-- we spend a lot of time waiting in Mexico. I’m still not used to it, and it tries my patience. We have to see that bank manager again, and I’m not sure what I will do. Barge into her office, and risk being regarded as an arrogant American? Sit politely while other customers jump the line? I am still pondering.
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