As I have previously mentioned, our kitchen is slowly starting to resemble a landfill because we are accumulating recyclables. We haven't been able to dispose of them for two reasons: You need to have a special recycling bag approved by the City Council; and if you try to throw out recycling with regular garbage and are caught, you are subject to massive fines. Finally, after much patient waiting and careful stacking of empty milk jugs, the first post-holiday business arrives. I headed to City Hall.
Seen here amid rare blue sky and sunshine, the Temple of Red Tape (City Hall). My quest for the elusive official bags started smoothly, there were no long lines that are usually found at government offices. I was first helped by a nice young lady with a tongue stud:
I attempted to subtly emphasize how small my request is with the greeting, "Hello, I just need some of the clear plastic recycling bags."
"What's the account number?" she replied.
"Um, I don't know. I can give you the address," I said, and did so.
"Do you know if it's a residential or commercial property?"
"I have no idea. I live there, so I assume residential."
(Tapping and clicking away on her computer) "Well it's not coming up as a residential listing. Hold on a minute." The young lady then proceeded to call two or three different extensions, trying to find out the property's 'classification.' You see (I was informed), the recycling bags are different for commercial and residential properties.
After a few minutes of phone play, she tracked down some information. "Your building is classified as commercial"––she writes down the account number on a Post-It––"Do you have your lease agreement on you?"
I was taken aback by this...in my naïveté, I didn't think such documentation would be necessary for picking up some plastic bags. I confessed, "No, I don't."
"Well just bring back your lease agreement and a form of identification, and we'll see if we can get you the recycling bags."
Fifteen minutes later, after running back to our apartment, I returned to City Hall with the requested documentation. To my dismay, there was no tongue-studded lady behind the counter; after glancing at my watch, I realized she must have gone to lunch. Now I have a bald-headed man to plead my case to.
"Hello, I just need some plastic recycling bags. I have the account number here," pointing to the Post-It, "the property is classified as commercial. I also have my lease and identification." I was confident at this point that I would make progress, that I would finally have the bags in my hand after thirty minutes.
The bald man scratched his head, and said, "Residential or commercial?"
Trying to remain calm, I replied, "Commerical."
He squints at the lease agreement, looking confused, then dials an extension. The same exact extension the tongue-studded lady had dialed. "Ah, you know what, the extension I need is busy, could you go sit over there and I will give you a shout when I get through."
A surreal feeling, the feeling that sometimes accompanies an encounter with incomprehensible bureaucracy, crept over me at this point. I just want some clear bags, man. But I remained quiet and had a seat. After a few minutes of dealing with the other people in the queue, the bald man was able to get through to the extension he needed. He waves me over.
"....yeah, I'm just trying to figure out if this property is residential or commercial and what we are supposed to do if it's commercial...." I'm sure my blood pressure was rising when I heard this. "...okay, well why don't you look into it and call me back, I have a queue forming here." He hangs up. "He's just going to call me back, you can have a seat again and I'll give you a shout soon." As this transpired, my eyes wandered to the wall behind my bald receptionist. There they were. In small cardboard box, only three feet behind him, the recycling bags. For the love of God, man, just hand me a couple bags. But I kept my mouth shut; obviously, what ails this whole process is bigger than any one city employee. At this juncture I was intrigued to see how far it would go.
A few more minutes passed, and finally the magic phone call came in. I didn't bother to get up, but I saw the bald-man shake his head, squint some more at the lease, then scribble something else down on the Post-It. After this he walked up to me with his explanation: "You see, the problem here is the property where you live is classified as 'commercial'"––I hear screaming in my head––"you need to call your landlord and have him call this number." He pointed to what he had written on the Post-It, "Your landlord has to call this to order commercial recycling bags, they cost €150 for fifty bags [emphasis mine]."
Somehow managing to initially ignore the price of the bags, I said, "Look, I don't know the landlord and I don't know how to get in contact with him. He lives in Dublin. The property is managed for him by a company in town."
"Oh, well walk over to them, they might be able to help." And with this I left City Hall empty-handed, after about an hour of wrangling.
A few minutes later I was in our realtor's office, talking to my agent. I gave her the same sob story about needing to get rid of recyclables. "Oh, I don't know how the recycling works for that property, I'll have to call the landlord," was her response. Sometimes I can be a little thick, because upon this I finally realized that no one is recycling. The tenants in our building are obviously not going through this on a regular basis, they are obviously not running around like fools every so often looking for recycling bags. They're just throwing out the recycling with the regular garbage and hoping to not get caught. Can I blame them?
After all of this, I still have the pile of milk jugs and tin cans in my corner. I guess that's our prize for trying to do things the right way.
I attempted to subtly emphasize how small my request is with the greeting, "Hello, I just need some of the clear plastic recycling bags."
"What's the account number?" she replied.
"Um, I don't know. I can give you the address," I said, and did so.
"Do you know if it's a residential or commercial property?"
"I have no idea. I live there, so I assume residential."
(Tapping and clicking away on her computer) "Well it's not coming up as a residential listing. Hold on a minute." The young lady then proceeded to call two or three different extensions, trying to find out the property's 'classification.' You see (I was informed), the recycling bags are different for commercial and residential properties.
After a few minutes of phone play, she tracked down some information. "Your building is classified as commercial"––she writes down the account number on a Post-It––"Do you have your lease agreement on you?"
I was taken aback by this...in my naïveté, I didn't think such documentation would be necessary for picking up some plastic bags. I confessed, "No, I don't."
"Well just bring back your lease agreement and a form of identification, and we'll see if we can get you the recycling bags."
Fifteen minutes later, after running back to our apartment, I returned to City Hall with the requested documentation. To my dismay, there was no tongue-studded lady behind the counter; after glancing at my watch, I realized she must have gone to lunch. Now I have a bald-headed man to plead my case to.
"Hello, I just need some plastic recycling bags. I have the account number here," pointing to the Post-It, "the property is classified as commercial. I also have my lease and identification." I was confident at this point that I would make progress, that I would finally have the bags in my hand after thirty minutes.
The bald man scratched his head, and said, "Residential or commercial?"
Trying to remain calm, I replied, "Commerical."
He squints at the lease agreement, looking confused, then dials an extension. The same exact extension the tongue-studded lady had dialed. "Ah, you know what, the extension I need is busy, could you go sit over there and I will give you a shout when I get through."
A surreal feeling, the feeling that sometimes accompanies an encounter with incomprehensible bureaucracy, crept over me at this point. I just want some clear bags, man. But I remained quiet and had a seat. After a few minutes of dealing with the other people in the queue, the bald man was able to get through to the extension he needed. He waves me over.
"....yeah, I'm just trying to figure out if this property is residential or commercial and what we are supposed to do if it's commercial...." I'm sure my blood pressure was rising when I heard this. "...okay, well why don't you look into it and call me back, I have a queue forming here." He hangs up. "He's just going to call me back, you can have a seat again and I'll give you a shout soon." As this transpired, my eyes wandered to the wall behind my bald receptionist. There they were. In small cardboard box, only three feet behind him, the recycling bags. For the love of God, man, just hand me a couple bags. But I kept my mouth shut; obviously, what ails this whole process is bigger than any one city employee. At this juncture I was intrigued to see how far it would go.
A few more minutes passed, and finally the magic phone call came in. I didn't bother to get up, but I saw the bald-man shake his head, squint some more at the lease, then scribble something else down on the Post-It. After this he walked up to me with his explanation: "You see, the problem here is the property where you live is classified as 'commercial'"––I hear screaming in my head––"you need to call your landlord and have him call this number." He pointed to what he had written on the Post-It, "Your landlord has to call this to order commercial recycling bags, they cost €150 for fifty bags [emphasis mine]."
Somehow managing to initially ignore the price of the bags, I said, "Look, I don't know the landlord and I don't know how to get in contact with him. He lives in Dublin. The property is managed for him by a company in town."
"Oh, well walk over to them, they might be able to help." And with this I left City Hall empty-handed, after about an hour of wrangling.
A few minutes later I was in our realtor's office, talking to my agent. I gave her the same sob story about needing to get rid of recyclables. "Oh, I don't know how the recycling works for that property, I'll have to call the landlord," was her response. Sometimes I can be a little thick, because upon this I finally realized that no one is recycling. The tenants in our building are obviously not going through this on a regular basis, they are obviously not running around like fools every so often looking for recycling bags. They're just throwing out the recycling with the regular garbage and hoping to not get caught. Can I blame them?
After all of this, I still have the pile of milk jugs and tin cans in my corner. I guess that's our prize for trying to do things the right way.
Post pictures of your recycling pile if it continues to grow!
ReplyDeleteRead more Kafka.
ReplyDeleteDoes my cynicism need any more encouragement? Though I guess Kafka would be helpful by making all of this seem less strange by comparison.
ReplyDelete