Garlic and Olive Oil

The tale of the fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo with the identity crisis continues.

It's 1982, and I'm alone in the house after the two Guardia Civil men leave. They have just told me that I won't have to pay the fine if I appeal it. Yeah!

Sounds good to me. I write this long epistle explaining how the Customs in Tarragona have told me all I need to do is to take the Alfa Romeo, purchased in Germany, out of Spain every six months, That is exactly and precisely what I have done.  I feel like writing the words in capital letters. Confident that my appeal will  be accepted I expect to receive word shortly that all is well and that I can drive my car again.

Wrong! My appeal is denied!? How could that be? So much for the Guardia Civil telling me all I had to do was to appeal. Okay. Now it's time to take this to another level. I go to a Gestoria and pay a gestor to file my appeal. Maybe then it will get more attention. Gestors are who you turn to when dealing with any legal documents. At least, that's my understanding.

Hmm. Well, guess what happens? This appeal is also denied!

By then the date for paying the fine passes. I'm too nervous about driving the car lest the powers -that- be find out. And find out they would. It's a small community and foreigners stand out. They could throw me out of Spain, or worse. Images of underground prisons speed through my mind as I recall stories just ten years ago about atrocities performed by the secret police. Were they all true?

Golleee. Time to come up with a plan of action.  What to do?   TO BE CONTINUED