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| America In London |
According to Citibank, though, I died about three years ago and they reported as much to US credit agencies. Being a huge multi-national bank, of course, they couldn't be wrong. Could they?
I discovered my death when Rob and I tried to open a bank account back in the US after that horror of a bank, HSBC America, closed our account on a whim. We contacted the bank branch that my family has been with for the past 35 years. They were happy to do it all by email and we sent them the details. A return email stated that while they were happy to open an account for Rob, their credit agency, Experian, said I was dead. So, I could not be on the account. And, so the saga began.
The bank told me I had to straighten things out with Experian and also get a letter from the Social Security Administration saying that my Social Security number was not "deceased". A 35 year relationship obviously means nothing when the computer says, "No".
I began with Experian. Their website didn't make it easy to call them from London: 1) because there was only a US 1-800 number and 2) you needed a credit report from them which the system would not generate for me after several attempts. I guess it doesn't talk to dead people. Any how, I eventually found a number for their head office and called there to ask why I was dead. The woman kindly put me through to a call centre operator who she said would be able to help.
After about 20 minutes I got finally got that operator and after explaining the situation again and that I was calling from London, the conversation went like this:
"Let's start with your address," she said.
I gave her our address in London and she asked for the zip code.
"Sorry," I said, "Like I said, I'm calling from London - England. I gave you the postal code but we don't have zip codes over here."
"Oh, we can't help you by phone if you are calling from overseas," she said.
"Really? OK. Wait a minute. Sorry, maybe I got the address wrong. Yep, it seems I did. I'm so sorry," I said. In the blink of an eye, I moved from London to my brother's address in the US.
That worked a charm - have zip code, will travel - we were off. She looked up the report and told me that Citibank had reported my death. I assured her I wasn't dead, in fact I wasn't even feeling a tad under the weather. And, I asked what proof Citibank had provided.
She was not amused and I didn't get an answer to that question. Apparently, Citibank's word was good enough. My word, however, was not. I was going to have to prove that I was still alive. For starters, I had to send a fax with my name, birth date, Social Security Number, a current US drivers license, and something showing my current address, like a phone or utility bill. They would contact Citibank and take it from there.
The next day I did as requested. In the US like here in the UK, it's all about playing the system. Often they don't care about the truth as long as you fill in the blanks the way they want to see them, like telling the operator I was in the US after just telling her I was in London.
I put a letter together, including a request for what proof Citibank had provided of my death. I made the necessary copies - thank god, I renewed my US drivers license last December because that has my mother's address on it. I have nothing else with a US address. And, as an added bonus, I included a photo of myself holding my Social Security Card and a copy of that day's New York Times printed off the Internet. They hadn't asked for that, but if it is good enough for proving that Castro is alive, it should have been good enough in proving that I was.
Of course, a few weeks later, I learned that what works for Castro doesn't work for me. Experian sent a letter to my Mother's address - ahem, I mean my US address - telling me I needed to send a notarised letter stating my name, address, date of birth and Social Security number and affirming that I was not deceased. How crazy is that?
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| US Embassy Fortress in London |
The other day, I woke up and suddenly remembered I had an early morning appointment at the US Embassy. I got dressed, threw the necessary letter together. Grabbed my passport and Social Security Card and headed out to catch the bus.
I arrived about 20 minutes early and was lucky to have done so. I joined the queue standing in front of a middle aged British woman and her trolley cart about 10 yards from the entrance to the Embassy. They were both clearly branded as with the US Embassy.
My turn eventually came and she crossed off my name and asked if I had any electronic equipment. I said I had my cellphone - I mean, how the hell else was I going to find the place without the help my iPhone's little blue dot. She looked at me as if I were stupid and said I wasn't going to be able to take it in. The fucking system again!
I looked around at the park behind me and the Embassy in front and my first thought was, "Am I supposed to put it under a rock or what?" My second thought was that maybe it would just be easier to stay dead. But, before I could really offer a smart remark, she said the nearest storage facility was at the pharmacy down the road. I turned and headed off for the next part of the adventure. Thank you, Citibank.
The pharmacy was not far away. I walked into a crowd of people in the same predicament. There were five or six little tables set up with pictures of all the items that the US Embassy did not allow inside. There were about eight Pakistani or Indian staff members taking people's items and sealing them in plastic bags. I turned over the iPhone. I gave them my name, took it to the counter, paid my £3 and got my receipt. The US Embassy's over the top security measures were clearly keeping this pharmacy secure from Britain's double dip recession.
I returned to the Embassy and joined the queue waiting to be invited into the guard house to be searched and scanned. There were two women in front of me and as Americans do while standing in line, a conversation began. The first woman, a 40 something blonde had been to the Embassy numerous times. From her I learned that not everything on the prohibited electronics list is actually listed. They'd made her go back to the pharmacy last time she was there because they found a flashlight on her key ring. The second woman, a black woman in her early 30s was a first timer like me. She was getting papers notarised for the sale of her house in New Jersey.
Eventually, woman number one went through the door. Then, woman number two and I were allowed into the guard station. It was small and cramped and they were slow as checking people out. It was almost time for my appointment and I was beginning to worry. I mean, if I missed it was I going to have to stay dead for another six weeks to get a new appointment? The door opened again and a little old man was shuffled in by the guard outside.
Then two people who had been through the metal detector tried to get through the door into the Embassy grounds, but the door wouldn't open. A female guard, a Brit, started a conversation with the male guard, another Brit about how useless the guard outside, yet another Brit, was at making sure the door closed properly. It dawned on me that the door on the Embassy side won't open if the door to the outside is open.
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| Touching the Guard House Door Can Be Fatal |
So, my friends and I stood there looking at the door, opened just a crack, while she walked around and pulled it shut. This allowed the people stranded in never-never land to get through to their appointments.
My turn came and I went through the metal detector with no problems. I opened the second door and walked past the two British Police Officers with their automatic weapons and followed the signs for American Citizen Services. I walked up the six or so stairs and entered the building. I showed my appointment paper I'd printed out and the man behind the counter handed me a number on a bit of paper. I wasn't sure why I needed a number. I had an appointment after all, but decided not to ask for fear of being yelled at again.
The man directed me to the waiting room, which was up a few more stairs. I carried on as instructed and entered the waiting room to find about 100 people there, waiting. I realised that an appointment with the US Embassy is not really an appointment. The appointment I made six weeks ago was actually an appointment to get a number which then allowed me to wait in the waiting room.
I took my seat and figured with 100 people a head of me, I was in for a long wait. Or so, I thought. I was now kicking myself for not bringing a magazine or something, because Angry Birds on the iPhone wasn't going to happen with my cellphone being held hostage in the pharmacy. There would be no venting my growing frustration by killing little green pigs with the help of explosive little angry birds! I love the explosive ones.
Anyway, after the first few numbers were called I realised that the letter in front of the number was significant. I had an 'N' and while I'd heard P's and other letters called there had been no N's. So, I went for a wander and found another little waiting area around the corner where the notary window was. I joined the N group, which fortunately was a lot smaller in number, and took a seat next to a Jewish woman from Florida who had been living in London on and off for 30 years.
How did I know that, you ask? Because she told me. You see, I really was back in the US when I was in the Embassy. Americans were telling their life stories to total strangers as they do, which is something that the British do not do. Nor do New Zealanders for that matter. It still drives Rob up a wall when we are in the States and random people start telling him their life stories or worse yet ask him about his. It's just not done, don't you know.
I jumped right back into it though, talking about my family back home, where I went to school, how I came to be in London, what I'd had for breakfast, my last colonoscopy, etc etc. We had just finished discussing the woman from Florida's tax situation when woman number two from outside came over to me. She was the one selling her house in New Jersey and didn't realise she needed to bring a witness with her for some of the papers.
The woman behind the window had told her to pick someone from the waiting room that didn't appear to be totally crazy and they could be her witness. So, woman number two picked me - little does she know.
The notary process was a three part thing. There was a woman behind a window, another Brit, who looked over the papers you wanted notarised. She marked off things and gave you a bill. You took that over to another window to pay your US$50 per page and then eventually you were called to yet another window with privacy walls where you got to meet, for the first time, an American employee of the Embassy.
Woman number two had done steps A and B already. So, when she was called to the notary window, I followed her into the box. The man behind the window did his thing. I signed on the dotted line, was thanked for my services and went back to my seat to pick up where we'd left off with the life story of the woman from Florida.
My turn eventually came for steps A and B. Then after a short wait, I was called to the notary window. I handed the man my letter and passport and stuff through the window slot. He looked at the letter and shortly after, puzzlement followed. He'd clearly reached the part where I stated that I was not dead. He didn't have to ask. I explained.
He was highly amused, but didn't ask to take my pulse or anything like that. He did his thing and signed off on the pretty red embossed seal they had put on my letter. Then I asked whether he thought the Social Security Administration people at the Embassy could help with the letter I needed to open my bank account.
He told me to knock on the window next door and ask, which I did. The system got easier once you were on the inside. I didn't need a new appointment. Unfortunately, however, I was told that because I was born in the US, they could not write a letter for me. I had to go into an office in the US next time I was back. I decided that was too strange even for the US bureaucracy and decided not to even pursue the reason why. I did ask, though, if their records showed that I had died. I was told that according to their computer I had not been reported dead, which was reassuring.
Finally, it was over. The wait had only been about an hour and I was clued up on current tax law and the best places to retire to in Florida. Most importantly, though, I had the necessary proof of life - a letter with a red seal and a signature. I walked out past the automatic weapons and the guards and then headed down the street to retrieve my iPhone.
I mailed off the proof that reports of my death had been greatly exaggerated to Experian and a couple of weeks ago I got confirmation that I had been resurrected. They also sent a copy of my updated credit report, which interestingly enough, showed that I got my first credit card when I was 10 years old. Ah, the wonderful accuracy of the agencies that can destroy your life.
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