La Negrita Goes to Europe

                              La Negrita Goes to Europe (2006-8)

I wish this could have been completely a saga of steel, speed, and high adventure, but it turns out to be mostly about Orwellian bureaucracy. But that’s life: there´s the great, the bad, and the downright boring.

The protagonist of my tale is a 2006 Harley Sportster 1200 Roadster, lovingly known as “La Negrita.”[1] (Blanca was always called “Blanquita”---the “little white one”--- as a child, so we decided to continue the conceit.)[2]

I bought the bike in the spring of 2006.[3] After an initial “disagreement” with Blanca—turf issues--about how I’d behaved in unilaterally acquiring the thing, we had a wonderful summer riding (Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, and Cape Cod).[4] It was clear that I´d bring the bike back to Spain. Now, the fun begins. How to proceed?

The first step was to locate an agent to take care of the transport. After contacting Harley-Davidson and learning of their outrageous prices, I got on the Internet and finally located Warren Goodman, a retired biker who´d been transporting bikes all of his life. Although he lives in Florida, he was able to set things up with Lufthansa in New York. They would ship the bike by plane to Frankfurt. I would ride it to J.F.K. in New York and collect it three days later in Germany.

I delivered the necessary data to Warren and paid him $1100. He turned out to be very efficient, and responded to my increasingly anguished e-mails with promptness and grace. After much back-and-forth, he finally got me a definite date and a bill-of-lading number.

Monday, September 25, 2006, was the day I´d take the bike to New York. I got on the road early and arrived ---after roaming around the vast cargo area---about midday at the Lufthansa Terminal. The place had a rather forbidding look to it: lots of huge trucks idling outside. When I finally found the proper office, I entered and got in line with a number of track drivers who were delivering their cargo for international shipment.

When it was my turn, they first said they’d never heard of me, of Warren, or had any of the necessary paperwork. After being passed off several times from one agent to another, I finally ended up with the right person. More waiting. More lines.

I was called to bring the bike into the warehouse. But before I could get in, someone informed me that I’d have to empty my gas tank almost completely. How to do it? Well, they said, take the bike out of the terminal and go to the airport gas station. Maybe they could empty the tank there.

So, off I go. After getting suitably lost in the labyrinth of J.F.K., I at last arrived at the gas station. There were a number of Puerto Ricans working on a car, and they all came over when I pulled in. I explained what I needed, and one older fellow grabbed what looked like a pair of forceps and approached La Negrita, apparently with the intention of cutting the fuel line. I protested, and they at last agreed with me that a siphon would do the trick. Rubber tube into the gas tank, suck, gas out. I gave the old guy a $20 bill and headed back to the Lufthansa warehouse. More waiting. At last, I drove the bike in. The scene didn’t inspire confidence. There were a bunch of young kids, who looked like they were on speed, racing around with various types of forklift, trucks idling, people running back and forth with sheaves of documents. Nobody seemed to be in charge of the chaos. I waited.

Finally, someone approached me and took me to a scale, where they weighed me in. Questions. Papers. I had to sign off that there were no scratches on the bike. I signed off that I’d put my helmet and equipment on the bike. I requested that they not move the bike without having two people present. Finally, they’re done. They will now wait for the customs people to clear the bike through and then ship it out on the next flight to Frankfurt.

I leave the terminal emotionally exhausted, with a mixture of frustration, fear, and relief. I find the bustop that takes me to the subway, which then takes me into New York City.

I stay three days with Tziporah (Monday, 25 September to Wednesday). We had a fine time visiting Teddy Roosevelt’s house and the Tenement Museum, a very interesting site that chronicles the waves of immigration to New York. It’s always fun to spend time with Tziporah and her husband John.

Thursday, 28 Sept. I go out on the subway to Kennedy and get my Lufthansa flight for Frankfurt (17:00).

I arrive in Frankfurt at 6:10 A.M... I take the bus into town and spend a pleasant day roaming around Goethe’s city (Goethehaus, Romer, Sachsenhausen). I schlep out to the Harley dealer, but it was closed. I spend the night in the Hotel Ambassador (50€).

I was told before I left the States that my bike would be at the Lufthansa Cargo terminal Sunday morning, so I take the bus out to the airport. Then another internal bus to the entrance of the cargo area, where I have to leave my passport at a check point. Once inside the secure area, I catch yet another bus to the Lufthansa Cargo depot. Guess what? The bike hasn’t yet cleared customs. Come back later that afternoon.

So, I retrace my steps and eventually get back to downtown Frankfurt, where I kill time walking around.

Back out to the airport and through security again. It made me very nervous leaving my passport at the guard post, and I had a hard time getting through the computer-controlled entrance. (I kept pressing the wrong buttons.)

When I appear at the cargo terminal, I’m greeted with a friendly smile by the young man who’d talked with me early. He remembered my name and that I was there to pick up my bike. I feel some relief. Germans are efficient, right?

The guy takes my papers and has me wait. After what seemed like an eternity, he summons me through a maze of corridors into the cargo warehouse, a buzzing hive of activity that immediately makes me nervous. But I see the Negrita parked off to one side, and I’m relieved. They have me wheel her outside, give me the papers, and I’m apparently good to go. I turn the key to start her up. Nothing.

An employee in Lufthansa uniform comes over and looks me up and down. He hears the fruitless attempt to fire up the engine. “No gas,” he says; “the Customs people in the United States sometimes drain the tank completely before clearing the bike. It´s a pity. We’ve had this problem, and the company knows about it, but so far they haven’t done anything to solve it.” “There’s no gas here at all?” I blubber. “Nope.”

I’m in a major pickle. There I am with an empty tank, no container, and, even if I’d had one, there’s no way they would have let someone without proper identification back into the secure area carrying a bottle of gasoline!

I sit there for a while, contemplating my situation. Various employees pass by. I have no idea what I’m to do. At last, the original chap comes over, and we start to talk. I explain to him that I am taking the bike to Spain, where I live. He responds, “Hey, there’s a Spanish guy who works here. I’ll go get him.” Minutes later, a man shows up and addresses me in Spanish. I felt like I just met Tiresias, only the guy’s name was Jesus. Anyway, he turned out to be one hell of a nice guy. After bringing me into his office and offering to let me send an e-mail to Blanca, he empties a two litre soda bottle and says: “I’ll take this outside of the secure area. I’ve got a car and an official pass. I’ll buy some gas and come right back.” After 15 minutes, he comes back with the gas and we put it in the bike’s empty tank. She fires up immediately. Jesus hands me a bottle of orange juice, and I’m out of there. It’s amazing how sometimes complete strangers go so far out of their way to help a hapless fellow mammal.

Once I clear the airport, I drive the short way to Heidelberg, where I’ve decided to spend the night. I’ve discovered, via the Internet, Stefan Knopf, owner of Knopf Motorreisen (Burgerstrasse 21), who runs a “motorcycle motel” (45€) and has a business organizing motorcycle tours and transport. (The guy does everything. It was from him that I had originally bought my “green card” insurance, which was a requisite for entering the EU. He sent it to the U.S., so that I had it with me when I got to Germany.)

His “motel” is a B&B. There were several other bikers there, and we chatted briefly before I hit the hay.

The next morning I was up early (9:00) and eager to get on the road The trip (1600 kms) would take me through a bit of southern Germany (Stuttgart), France (Mulhouse, Lyon, Vienne, Valence, Orange, Nimes, Monteplier, Perpignan, and into Spain at La Jonquera. From there it’s a straight shot south, past Barcelona, Terragona, Castellon, and Valencia city.

The autobahn was an exciting experience. The Germans drive very fast, but they understand—unlike, e.g., the Spanish—the concept of a passing lane. There’s no speed limit, and I took advantage of the opportunity to do my first “ton” on a motorcycle (=100 mph).

On the downside, it rained almost all the way through southern Germany and France. The rain came down in sheets, and I could hardly see anything. My boots were filled with water, and my jeans were totally soaked, despite my leather chaps.

Almost through France, I decided to take a break, and I pulled off the highway and found a “Formula 1” hotel, one of those new “ecologically correct” places, where everything is small, recycled, and cheap. I got into my room about 8:00, but I couldn’t sleep, and after several hours thrashing around, I put my soaking wet clothes back on and went down to the lobby to check out. “But monsieur, is something wrong?” says the clerk. (At that moment, several people were just checking in.)

Back on the bike into the rain. In the middle of the night the riding was, in fact, quite pleasant, as I had the road mostly to myself. The “peanut” tank of the Sportster (only 3 gallons) forced frequent gasoline stops, but I made good steady progress.

When I arrived in Alcantera, I must have looked a sight. Manoli, from Bar Kukis next door, met me with great enthusiasm, and I went right off to the neighboring village of Castellón to surprise Blanca as she came out of school for her lunch break.

During the next months, we enjoyed the bike, getting a taste of what would be in store for us riding in Spain.

We made a trip to Morella, in the northern part of the province of Castellon. It’s a beautifully preserved medieval mountain-top city, surrounded by ancient walls. The hotel was first rate, and they even had a place to put the Negrita for the night.

We went several times to Cabo de Gata, in Almería. This is a wild mountainous coast, with stark brown landscape; there are numerous coves and inlets, and the water is aquamarine. We found a delightful hotel with ocean views. The tourist blight is rapidly getting there, but there’s still some open space, and during the off season the hordes from Liverpool are not in evidence.

This was just a taste. Spain promises numerous destinations, to say nothing of the possibilities in the rest of Europe. This would be great riding.[5]

But time was passing, and I had to do something about getting the bike legal. I´d been dreading the start of this process, but I could afford to dither no longer. Theoretically, I had 6 months to drive as a “tourist” with my American plates. But after that, I had to do something. At first it looked like a game of chess, where I seemed to be constantly check mated.

I can’t get insurance until the bike is registered in Spain. I can’t get the bike registered in Spain if I’m not a Spanish resident. I can’t sell the thing unless it’s registered. If I were to put it in Blanca´s name, we’d have to pay a huge luxury tax (which we ended up having to pay anyway).

After numerous consultations with various “authoritative” sources, I decide that I’ll try to get Spanish “Residency” and register the bike with Spanish plates. And so began the first stage of a beauracratic saga that was right out of Buñuel.

Back in the U.S., I go on the internet and do some reading. It appears that I have to go to the Spanish Consulate in Boston and give them a whole bunch of documents along with my application for part-time (6 months during the year) residency. They want, among other things: proof of income, proof of medical insurance, passport, certificate from a doctor certifying that I am neither mentally insane nor a drug addict nor a carrier of infectious diseases, a letter from the local Chief of Police certifying that I am not a criminal and that I am the kind of person that the Spaniards might want to have living with them. (Getting this last document turned out to be a pleasure, since it gave me the opportunity to meet Gary Souza, the Fairhaven Chief of Police and an avid Harley rider.)

Then, after considerable difficulty, I make an appointment at the Spanish Consulate. I arrive early, with all my documents in triplicate, ordered, and polished. (I include a personal letter to the Consul—in the most flowery and effusive tone I could muster and vetted by Blanca-- explaining my bona fides and requesting kind treatment.)

The experience at the Consulate was a flashback to the days of Franco´s dictatorship. It seemed as if the employees in Boston were refugees of the “ancient regime” and hadn’t yet heard that “El Generalissimo” was no longer calling the shots. They treated me as if I were some foul smelling refugee seeking asylum on totally insufficient grounds. The first words I heard from the woman who dealt with me were: “These pictures aren’t the regulation size. You’ll have to come back another day.” I explained, in the most courteous and servile manner I could manage, that I’ll travelled two hours by bus in order to get there and I’d really be eternally indebted to her is she’d try to fit the pictures as they were into her computer. She huffed: “Maybe, but I can’t promise anything.” And so it went. In sum, they would let me know, within three months, if my application had been approved, at which point I’d have to come back in person—they couldn’t send anything to Spain—in order to pick up the visa.

During the next several months I tried, unsuccessfully, to contact the employee that had dealt with me in order to ascertain the status of my application. She answered neither e-mails nor phone calls.

Once back in Spain, I had a big stroke of luck. Manoli introduced us to Fernando Gallego, then head of the Guardia Civil (=the really serious police who used to wear the shiny black tricorn hats) in the village. He turned out to be a delightful fellow, and he promised to help me.

Fernando first collected all my papers and studied the details of my case. After I tried, unsuccessfully, to get a temporary case-file number from the Consulate, he called them himself. After “This is Sergeant X from the Guardia Civil, Buenos días,” open sesame! They explained to him what I needed to do and how to do it.

Back in the U.S., I show up at the Consulate. After an “Alfonse and Gaston” session with Maria, they give me a visa. I have to show up on Spanish territory within three months, or I must start the process over from scratch. (I make my plane reservations accordingly.)

On November 8, I arrive at Valencia airport. (My visa expires November 9.) There is no one guarding the frontier. (I’d entered the EU in Paris.) After half an hour of searching, I finally get to an office where the police stamp my passport and give me a letter certifying that I’m on Spanish soil.

Here I am, then. I must present myself to the police in 30 days in order to request my Residency, which, in theory, has been approved already by the Government. Fernando to the rescue. He finds out where I have to go. It’s a police office on the outskirts of Valencia City that is famous for the mile-long lines of immigrants who queue every day in order to process their papers.

Early one morning, Fernando picks us up and first takes us to a small commissary in Valencia. There a friend makes the appropriate call. We proceed to the main police station, where we are ushered to the front of a line in order to deliver the residence application. Everything O.K. Come back in a month to collect the official card.

The day fell on my birthday. We retraced our steps to the police station, entered a deserted office, and . . . there was my I.d. card! I kissed it and rushed back to the village to show everyone in the bar that I was now a person “with papers.”

I forget who it was—ah, yes. Shylock—who demands his pound of flesh, and the Spanish Customs (la Aduana) sure wanted theirs. No clearance from the Aduana, no registration. No argument. That was the next step. Imported Harleys are luxuries, to the tune of 17%. Blanca transfers €2000 to the customs agent’s account. Fernando has been overseeing the whole process, and during my absence, he’s been back and forth with Blanca, asking for various documents. At one point I had to fax him stuff from the U.S. He finally gets the required clearance and sends it to Blanca. On to the next phase: The Department of Motor Vehicles (a.k.a. “Tráfico.”)

Tuesday, March 4.

We went to Ontinyent (40 kms away), where Fernando has set up a meeting at José González Solano´s new bike shop (Custom Ontinyent, http://www.custom-ontinyent.com/). There we meet the engineer, who was to prepare the technical document describing La Negrita. (This document was necessary in order to show that the bike met European standards.)

Great piece of luck: in the store we are introduced to Javier, a professional “gestor,” (“maven”)—currently helping José with the importation of Harleys from the U.S.-- who proved to be just the man we needed. He said he’d take over the process of registering the bike from there. (Imagine Uncle Irving: “The Bar-Mitzvah suit? Not to worry. Tomorrow I’ll take him to Barney myself and everything will be perfect! Just leave it all to me!”)

Wednesday, March 5.

Javier calls early. We need to get right over to Hacienda (Internal Revenue) in Xátiva (15 kms away) so they can tell their computer that I don’t owe them any money.

Back to Alcantera to wait for the call from Javier. It comes about 4:00. We are to get back pronto to Ontinyent, where he´s set up a slot for the Official Inspection (ITV).

We find the I.T.V. in an industrial park; Javier is there already waiting for us. They motion me into a cavernous warehouse and proceed to check my lights, my breaks, my horn, etc. The inspector whips out a tape measure and starts calculating centimetres. With each step, my heart jumps into my throat. I know he´ll find something that will stop the process in its tracks. But no. Javier has already greased the skids and things go off smoothly. He says that, with luck, the certificate will be ready tomorrow. I jump on my back and race back to Beneixida, where I am to attend my first class in preparation for the certification in Valenciano. (At this point, my brain is fried, and I have little enthusiasm for hashing out details of Valencian philology.)

Thursday, March 6.

Javier calls about 12:00. We need to pick up the document that he has secured from ITV from him in Ontinyent. Then we race back to Xátiva in order to get to Hacienda—they close, and I mean close—by 2:00—in order to get their imprimatur.

At 4:00, we go back to Ontonyient to deliver the Hacienda-approved paper to Javier. We locate his office and hand in everything. He charges us €560. (This covers the engineer’s fee as well as the local tax that I have to pay to Alcantera. Earlier that day I had to go to the town hall and then to the bank to get the proper number so that the money could be deposited in the requisite account. Javier said that we also needed two copies of my certificate of residence (“empadramiento”) in town. The mayor was not there—she was on vacation--so they couldn´t give me a signed, i.e. official, copy. They gave me a stamped copy, and I considered forging the mayor’s name on it. Luckily, Javier said that the stamped copy would be sufficient.)

Javier says that he hopes to have everything finished by Monday. We race back to Alcantera, where Blanca must attend a meeting about the upcoming election. (Her name has been drawn out of a hat, and she is legally obligated to be an alternate poll monitor. If she doesn’t show up, it’s the pokey for her.) Once home, I uncork a bottle of wine and wait for Dario´s show to come on. (It doesn’t; the internet connection is down.)

On Monday, we call Javier, and he assures us that everything is under control; he gives us the number of the license plate. Now, I think, it´s really gonna happen! All that´s left to do is call Pilar, Blanca´s insurance agent, and get insurance.

Blanca calls Pilar and gives her the data. I’m feeling relieved that I´ll finally be able to ride around with real insurance rather than the ersatz “greencard” that I’ve been renewing monthly from Stefan, my German friend.

Pilar calls back. Zurich, the company she deals with, won’t insure the bike because I don’t have a Spanish motorcycle license! My heart sinks; images of violent post-office massacres briefly enter my mind. Blanca protests that I have a valid Massachusetts motorcycle designation as well as an international license. Pilar says she’ll try and see if she can find another company. For the rest of the day, calls go back and forth; I scan various documents and send them to Pilar via e-mail. At the end of the workday, she says she´ll have to wait until the next day in order to proceed, but she thinks she’s found a company that will insure me (no theft, fire, etc.) for €300.

Wednesday, March 12. Blanca wakes up early and runs to the bank to transfer funds. Pilar calls. Everything is O.K. An official confirmation of insurance coverage reassuringly slides out of the printer. Another hurdle overcome.

Wednesday, afternoon. I’m in José’s motorcycle shop. He´s just changed my small, elegant, Massachusetts licence plate for a big ugly, square Spanish one, which alters the aesthetics of the bike. He’s had to drill holes for the screws, since the Spanish don’t put them in. (I’m sure that if any of my bros in the U.S. were to see me, they’d revoke my H.O.G. membership.)

I´m emotionally exhausted, almost too tired to feel elated. But it´s done: she´s here; she´s legal; and she´s mine.

Notes:

[1] Vital stats: color, black pearl; saddle height, 28.1 inches; weight, 577 lbs/262 kgs.

[2] I subsequently bought a 2007 Dyna Superglide, in “Pacific Blue.” She´s called “La Blavita.” (“Blava” is Valenciano for “blue.”). My present conundrum is that I now have on order a 2008 Road King Classic, also in “Pacific Blue.” What to call her? Suggestions welcome. Winner to receive an all-expense weekend to Disneyland.

[3] Anyone who doesn’t grasp the significance of the purchase of a first Harley will most likely not be satisfied with any sort of explanation that I might be able to provide. So I call on my more articulate pals for help, e.g., Bernard Rollin, et al., Harley Davidson and Philosophy: Full Throttle Aristotle (Open Court, 2006), Richard La Plante, Hog Fever. Or, just watch “Easy Rider” again!

[4] One of the main issues to resolve was “el culo.” Blanca found the stock saddle very unacceptably uncomfy. Once I changed it for a custom model, life became all sunshine.

[5] My good friend Paco Paz presented me with a copy of España en Moto (2006), which suggests a whole range of exciting trips.