American Red Tape

If you seriously think that the US is still a country where you can do anything, go from rags to riches and easily fulfill your dreams, I’ve got news for you. You’re wrong. Jay Gatsby-like rise from zero to hero might have been viable in the 1920s, but nowadays you would face hundreds of obstacles successfully deterring you from doing what you’ve planned. And if you are a tourist mercifully wanting to support the tottering American economy, don’t expect you’ll be welcome with open arms just because you have disposable money in your pocket. There is one item, though, which every retailer will be more than pleased to accept. A tiny piece of plastic with embossed digits, owing to which thousands of Americans face dire financial straits or even foreclosure. On the radio, you can frequently hear ads encouraging those who have fallen into a debt trap to call a special infoline and obtain help. Still, credit card is at times the only means of getting things done. Without it, I wouldn’t have been able to rent a car. Even though I was ready to pay a cash deposit and flashed the money before the car rental worker’s eyes, he seemed somewhat scared to see real banknotes. Apparently, the only payment method he has experienced in life is virtual money, whereas coins and banknotes look as obsolete as teenage virgins. In order to have the car, I also needed to log onto my bank account and check a couple of details. Since there was no WI-FI at the rental spot, it was necessary to take a shuffle bus back to BWI and get connected there. But I was faced with another surprise. There was neither free WI-FI, nor any terminal enabling you to insert a few coins and browse the web. The only option was to purchase a monthly subscription. Needless to say, I wouldn’t have done that, either if it hadn’t been for a credit card. In Poland, consumers sometimes say: ‘I pay, I demand,’ to which a car rental employee could potentially respond ‘No demands. You don’t own a credit card. You are a C-class citizen (worse than B-class horrors), the type our reputable company wishes to avoid. ‘

All our problems appear to be vehicle-related. Another emerged while trying to purchase a motorcycle. Of course, every seller is willing to deal with you as long as you have sufficient funds. However, certain institutions may turn out to be far more reserved. There’s a lot of talk about racial and gender discrimination in this country. In case of insurance companies, another category, that of age, comes to play. It would be perfect for these firms if you were an octogenarian, yet one who still boasts enviable mental and physical capabilities. If you are a young rider, getting an insurance policy, even a temporary one, will be both problematic and devastating to your bank account. Add to that being a foreigner and the situation can hardly get any worse. When we eventually managed to find a company from Arizona, which didn’t mind insuring non-Americans, it seemed that we were on the right track. That luck couldn’t last long, though. The first visit to the Department of Transportation put an end to any hopes we might have had earlier. Not only was it mandatory to have a permanent residence in the state where we wanted to register the vehicle but also the insurance company had to own at least one subsidiary in that given state. The first issue was resolved much easier than anyone could expect. American institutions require you to provide loads of info and dozens of numbers (perhaps in the future they will put barcodes on all the denizens’ asses and ask for them whenever some issue needs to be settled) but providing is not tantamount to proving. As regards the second matter, it turns out yet again that locals always know better and they should be your primary source of information. Google wasn’t much helpful when it comes to locating an insurance company in Maryland, which would welcome holidaymakers from abroad and insure them. What the search engine failed to do was quickly arranged by Dave, an easy-going smooth-talker who sold us the bike. Dave has a nice girlfriend and a thing for old vehicles. And by ‘old,’ I mean dating back several decades, not years. He drives a 61-year old Studebaker which must make a great impression on everyone whenever it goes along the roads. Unfortunately, I didn’t take a picture. Anyways, Dave went with us the firm which has been insuring him throughout his adult life. It took just a couple of minutes and a few relatively natural American-style smiles to get the paperwork completed. Still, I have to admit we were pretty lucky. By all accounts, Maryland is the only eastern state to register drivers who don’t possess a local driving license.

BTW If I were just slightly younger, I would have to pay $25 for each day of the car rental period. Stop giving me this racial and gender discrimination bullcrap. Start talking about age discrimination.

UPDATE: Obviously, I wasn't serious about lack of racial discrimination. A more serious post on ethnic (in)equality and relations between various groups coming soon.