Slightly nervous, Barbara and I headed for the lawyer’s yesterday. In theory the vendor could have decided he didn’t fancy the deal and pulled out. Having shaken hands on it, this was highly unlikely. But you never know. Of course, we could do the same as well. We joked that we should turn up an hour late for the meeting, just to worry them.
We couldn’t do it, though. And as we were just about to go into the lawyer’s office we spotted the vendor dawdling slowly along the street, looking in every shop window. He was in danger of being on time. When he spotted us it was all smiles, a firm handshake for me and a kiss on both cheeks for Barbara. Up the steep stairs in the lawyer’s office we had to wait a few minutes which was slightly more awkward because we simply don’t speak enough Spanish to make small talk.
After a few minutes we were called through. The reason for the delay was that our negotiator was meeting the lawyer about another deal she’s involved in, a slightly bigger one than ours, involving millions of euros. We went into the boardroom and sat in exactly the same places as before, Barbara and I next to each other facing the negotiator and vendor with the lawyer in between. There was the usual long process of photocopying documents and the lawyer taking details of things such as the number of the certified cheque for the deposit. (This counts as part of the declared price, so it didn’t need to be cash.) Meanwhile the seller was asking the negotiator about the coloured bands on her wrist and she was explaining how they represented feelings including “serenity”, which was the last word anybody would use to describe her frantic lifestyle. Then he pointed to the ordinary elastic band on his wrist which he said he wore for luck. It had been wrapped round a bundle of notes from the bank. Then he proudly showed us pictures of his young boy on his mobile phone.
We carried on signing and countersigning documents. Then the vendor gave us details of who to contact for pool maintenance and so on. Other details were exchanged until Barbara asked the question which completely stopped everybody dead in their tracks. “What’s the address?” she said. The vendor looked at the contract, then at the lawyer. The negotiator looked at the lawyer who eventually said: “It is not unusual for a house in Ibiza not to have an address. There is no postal service for this area.” It’s still hard to imagine that happening in the UK.
Eventually we went with our negotiator for a triumphant bottle of Cava in a square we always bump into friends, well nearly always, because this time there was nobody to share the moment with us. That was a shame because a big disappointment was on the way.
Although we’d discussed renting the house furnished and when we’d visited it on Monday there had been some furniture, we’d never formally agreed anything. So, although we knew it might happen, we couldn’t quite believe it when we opened the door and found there was nothing left at all. Even the curtain rails had gone. We phoned our negotiator and she said she would come up to the house the following day to help sort things out. That turned out to be the only time she forgot to meet us.
So there we were sitting on the window sill of our new house on a Friday lunchtime with no beds, bedding, chairs, tables or anything useful. Even our mobile phones wouldn’t work because of the hills around us. We did, however, have one piece of luck. In the process of moving our stuff into the warehouse for storage I’d dropped our phone and it was still under the seat in the car. And it worked.
It’s at times like these, as they say, that you find out who your friends are. A couple of calls and people rallied round. One, who was on his way back from Barcelona, offered us a bed if we could find a way to transport it, not an easy task as it’s a king-size four poster. Fortunately another friend Steve has an ex-army Land Rover and trailer so helped with that, along with providing us with an awful lot of stuff he had in storage. He and his wife Diana are, in some ways, in the opposite position to us having a rented a furnished house and having to find storage space for much of their own stuff.
By ten that evening we at least had a bed to sleep in and chairs to sit on, but we needed to eat. Zombie-like we drove to the local town and sat outside a bar eating cheese sandwiches wondering if we were completely mad. It was a question we asked ourselves repeatedly as we rushed, or attempted to rush, round shops trying to buy essentials. I always hated Ikea, but I was beginning to see the advantage of having everything in one place. In Ibiza there’s a different shop for everything, none open on a Sunday and many shut on Saturday afternoon.
There are some good things about an enforced break from shopping. Sunday was Barbara’s birthday and in the UK we’d have spent in B&Q. Instead, friends had booked a table at a restaurant by the beach for a late lunch. Eating paella and drinking Cava on a balmy afternoon began to revive our faith in our new home. Then we moved on to another beach and a club called “Bora Bora”. A few hours dancing in the open air restored our endorphins to face a week of trying to make the house habitable.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Crunch time on the property ladder
Last night we had the crunch meeting in our quest to buy a house in Ibiza. As ever, nothing had gone smoothly in the run up.
We arrived back on the island at about 3am on Sunday morning. The flight was on time. But there were annoyances along the way, as there always will be, as long we divide our lives between Ibiza and Edinburgh. There are, for instance, direct flights in the summer between the two places, but you can only make the return trip if you start in Scotland, not Spain. So every trip requires hours of internet searching for the best deal. This time it was to Gatwick with First Choice Airways. (Basically it’s a way for the holiday company to flog unused package seats.) The rest of the journey was with BA which beat easyJet on both price and timing between Edinburgh and Gatwick.
The trouble, however, with using two airlines is you have to allow several hours to make the connection or risk the cost of missing the second flight. Gatwick though has an enormous shopping centre and there were a couple of tax-free things I intended to buy as presents for friends in Ibiza. Unfortunately, the terminal was eerily empty and and just about everything was shut when we arrived on Saturday evening. (If anybody’s planning a late flight on a Saturday from Gatwick, get your shopping done before 7pm.)
This will not be a problem on our next trip back to Edinburgh in June. We’ll be flying into the exciting new Robin Hood International Airport near Doncaster. Looking at its website there’s all sorts of “proposed” developments, but current facilities seem to consist of a coffee bar and a Spar. (That’s not a misspelling. I do mean the convenience store rather than a place filled with Jacuzzis, steam and relaxation treatments.)
Anyway, less of the future and back to the recent past. After arriving at the hotel at 4.30am on Sunday, knackered, it seemed only minutes before we had to drag ourselves up to see the house. We’d only spent half an hour there in total, and always accompanied by the tenants who were under the impression we were going to be renting the place when they left. Hopefully they would have gone as I’d also arranged for a friend who’s an engineer to come round with me to see if he could spot any real nasties in the construction. (There’s no such thing as surveying as a profession in Spain.)
Then my mobile rang. We couldn’t get access that day as the vendor wouldn’t answer his phone because it was Sunday (none of that American 24/7 service here) and the tenant had taken the other set of keys back to England. So we arranged another appointment the for yesterday lunchtime. That fell through too. My mate the engineer was almost as delighted as me.
That meant when we had the meeting at the lawyer’s office Barbara and I still hadn’t had chance for a proper look round the house. And while we’d been in Scotland for two weeks the vendor had been busy rearranging the goalposts. This time he wanted to double the amount of the deposit to pay an urgent bill.
As it happens, this was something of a fortuitous problem. While in Edinburgh I’d had a call from a credit card company asking if I wanted to transfer any outstanding balances from other cards. I don’t have any debts from plastic as I feel this is a very expensive way to borrow money. Telling the operator this, I was immediately offered a loan which would be interest free for the first six months. Obviously the company hopes you won’t be able to pay the cash back at the end of that period, but I will and I had a feeling that extra cash could prove useful. Of course, I didn’t tell the vendor any of this and instead explained to him that getting the extra money was expensive and difficult.
This all took place at the meeting which was scheduled for 5pm, not an unusual time in the land of the siesta. Barbara and I, however, arrived five minutes early which amused our lawyer who felt it showed how foreign we still are. A few minutes later our negotiator arrived and, some time after that, the vendor. But the wait at least gave the lawyer chance to explain the intricacies of the proposed sale contract. It was just as well because we weren’t going to be involved in any of the actual negotiations.
All along our negotiator’s main words to me were: “Don’t worry darling. It’ll be fine.” I never believed it. And, as the negotiations went on, I believed it even less. Barbara and I could make out much of the Spanish, but not quite enough to take part. The vendor was still avoiding eye contact and we knew enough to understand he was trying to change the rules yet again. Our lawyer would make one point, the negotiator would back it up in slightly pidgin Spanish and the deal seemed to be crumbling before our eyes. Then our negotiator started to speak very firmly to the vendor. Suddenly it was all sorted. We shook hands. There were lots of smiles and we agreed to go through the formalities of paying the deposit and signing on Thursday evening. But before that, we actually got to see the house again. It would have been a bit of a shame if we’d hated it on second appearances.
I must admit to feeling more dazed than exhilarated as we left the lawyer’s office with our negotiator. It was also now clear that she was rather less certain the deal would come off than she made out. As we’d guessed, the pivotal moment came as she became stern with the vendor. She was playing the maternal card. She told us she’d learned at least some of her negotiating skills while married to an Italian, the boss of a Sicilian construction company even. (Use your imagination.) She believes Mediterranean machismo is basically matriarchal, so she treated the vendor as a mother would a misbehaving child. But she admitted it didn’t always work and the vendor had threatened to pull out when she tried it before.
As we drove to the house we still couldn’t believe we’d bought it. In fact we couldn’t even find it to begin with, overshooting the narrow road leading up to it twice. On arrival we could see why the vendor was reluctant to show us the place. A few weeks in the care of an alcoholic had left the place looking rather sad and, in the kitchen, distinctly smelly. Still, we’re promised that by Friday it will be spotless thanks to the efforts of a team of cleaners, gardeners and pool maintenance people.
But underneath the grime the house looks as fabulous as we’d remembered. And we managed to drag along my friend who’s a qualified engineer and a builder. He couldn’t see any problems apart from a couple of minor damp patches. This is one of those things that’s both more prevalent and less problematic than in the UK. It’s certainly nothing to worry about.
So, Thursday afternoon we hand over a certified cheque and sign the initial papers. There’s the standard Spanish agreement that if we renege on the deal we lose the deposit. If the vendor backs out he pays us twice the deposit. Friday should be our first night there, not that we have any furniture. But that’s for the next episode of the blog.
We arrived back on the island at about 3am on Sunday morning. The flight was on time. But there were annoyances along the way, as there always will be, as long we divide our lives between Ibiza and Edinburgh. There are, for instance, direct flights in the summer between the two places, but you can only make the return trip if you start in Scotland, not Spain. So every trip requires hours of internet searching for the best deal. This time it was to Gatwick with First Choice Airways. (Basically it’s a way for the holiday company to flog unused package seats.) The rest of the journey was with BA which beat easyJet on both price and timing between Edinburgh and Gatwick.
The trouble, however, with using two airlines is you have to allow several hours to make the connection or risk the cost of missing the second flight. Gatwick though has an enormous shopping centre and there were a couple of tax-free things I intended to buy as presents for friends in Ibiza. Unfortunately, the terminal was eerily empty and and just about everything was shut when we arrived on Saturday evening. (If anybody’s planning a late flight on a Saturday from Gatwick, get your shopping done before 7pm.)
This will not be a problem on our next trip back to Edinburgh in June. We’ll be flying into the exciting new Robin Hood International Airport near Doncaster. Looking at its website there’s all sorts of “proposed” developments, but current facilities seem to consist of a coffee bar and a Spar. (That’s not a misspelling. I do mean the convenience store rather than a place filled with Jacuzzis, steam and relaxation treatments.)
Anyway, less of the future and back to the recent past. After arriving at the hotel at 4.30am on Sunday, knackered, it seemed only minutes before we had to drag ourselves up to see the house. We’d only spent half an hour there in total, and always accompanied by the tenants who were under the impression we were going to be renting the place when they left. Hopefully they would have gone as I’d also arranged for a friend who’s an engineer to come round with me to see if he could spot any real nasties in the construction. (There’s no such thing as surveying as a profession in Spain.)
Then my mobile rang. We couldn’t get access that day as the vendor wouldn’t answer his phone because it was Sunday (none of that American 24/7 service here) and the tenant had taken the other set of keys back to England. So we arranged another appointment the for yesterday lunchtime. That fell through too. My mate the engineer was almost as delighted as me.
That meant when we had the meeting at the lawyer’s office Barbara and I still hadn’t had chance for a proper look round the house. And while we’d been in Scotland for two weeks the vendor had been busy rearranging the goalposts. This time he wanted to double the amount of the deposit to pay an urgent bill.
As it happens, this was something of a fortuitous problem. While in Edinburgh I’d had a call from a credit card company asking if I wanted to transfer any outstanding balances from other cards. I don’t have any debts from plastic as I feel this is a very expensive way to borrow money. Telling the operator this, I was immediately offered a loan which would be interest free for the first six months. Obviously the company hopes you won’t be able to pay the cash back at the end of that period, but I will and I had a feeling that extra cash could prove useful. Of course, I didn’t tell the vendor any of this and instead explained to him that getting the extra money was expensive and difficult.
This all took place at the meeting which was scheduled for 5pm, not an unusual time in the land of the siesta. Barbara and I, however, arrived five minutes early which amused our lawyer who felt it showed how foreign we still are. A few minutes later our negotiator arrived and, some time after that, the vendor. But the wait at least gave the lawyer chance to explain the intricacies of the proposed sale contract. It was just as well because we weren’t going to be involved in any of the actual negotiations.
All along our negotiator’s main words to me were: “Don’t worry darling. It’ll be fine.” I never believed it. And, as the negotiations went on, I believed it even less. Barbara and I could make out much of the Spanish, but not quite enough to take part. The vendor was still avoiding eye contact and we knew enough to understand he was trying to change the rules yet again. Our lawyer would make one point, the negotiator would back it up in slightly pidgin Spanish and the deal seemed to be crumbling before our eyes. Then our negotiator started to speak very firmly to the vendor. Suddenly it was all sorted. We shook hands. There were lots of smiles and we agreed to go through the formalities of paying the deposit and signing on Thursday evening. But before that, we actually got to see the house again. It would have been a bit of a shame if we’d hated it on second appearances.
I must admit to feeling more dazed than exhilarated as we left the lawyer’s office with our negotiator. It was also now clear that she was rather less certain the deal would come off than she made out. As we’d guessed, the pivotal moment came as she became stern with the vendor. She was playing the maternal card. She told us she’d learned at least some of her negotiating skills while married to an Italian, the boss of a Sicilian construction company even. (Use your imagination.) She believes Mediterranean machismo is basically matriarchal, so she treated the vendor as a mother would a misbehaving child. But she admitted it didn’t always work and the vendor had threatened to pull out when she tried it before.
As we drove to the house we still couldn’t believe we’d bought it. In fact we couldn’t even find it to begin with, overshooting the narrow road leading up to it twice. On arrival we could see why the vendor was reluctant to show us the place. A few weeks in the care of an alcoholic had left the place looking rather sad and, in the kitchen, distinctly smelly. Still, we’re promised that by Friday it will be spotless thanks to the efforts of a team of cleaners, gardeners and pool maintenance people.
But underneath the grime the house looks as fabulous as we’d remembered. And we managed to drag along my friend who’s a qualified engineer and a builder. He couldn’t see any problems apart from a couple of minor damp patches. This is one of those things that’s both more prevalent and less problematic than in the UK. It’s certainly nothing to worry about.
So, Thursday afternoon we hand over a certified cheque and sign the initial papers. There’s the standard Spanish agreement that if we renege on the deal we lose the deposit. If the vendor backs out he pays us twice the deposit. Friday should be our first night there, not that we have any furniture. But that’s for the next episode of the blog.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Fast movers
This time I’ve a few good excuses for being late with my blogging. As of last Thursday we’d decided that there was no way we were going to get into our new home before a trip to Scotland which we’d already booked for first thing on Sunday morning. Nothing had been resolved on the split between “black money” and the declared price for the house.
So, Thursday evening we were deciding what we’d need to take with us back to Scotland while leaving sufficient room for the new clothes we planned to buy. (Ibiza’s a great place for wealthy stick insects to get their gear or little old ladies to buy sensible clobber, but there’s not a lot in between.) In the midst of this first Barbara’s aunt phoned and, almost simultaneously, my mobile went.
Barbara saw me turn white. It was our English landlord. We were supposed to ring him the night before, but as we were no further forward with finding somewhere new to stay, I hadn’t got round to it. He’d seemed quite relaxed last time we’d spoken and I assumed he’d let us know if they were coming over. But, no. His flights were booked for a week on Saturday. We had two days to empty and clean the apartment and nowhere to put our stuff, let alone a place for us to sleep.
Fortunately our erstwhile negotiator was planning on opening a second-hand furniture shop and so had an empty warehouse. So, all we had to do was put our lives into boxes and one problem would be solved. It is, however, rather harder to pack everything than it is to spend a few days slinging stuff such as clothes in the back of the car and hanging them straight up in a new home.
But, that new home was not going to be available immediately even if we could come to an agreement on rental or purchase terms. The problem was the tenant. Yes, the one with a penchant for bad business deals and unfortunate friendships. Apparently, after his last disagreement he hadn’t stopped drinking. His wife phoned our agent saying: “Help. You’ve got to rescue me.” So they slipped a few valium into his drink and ,while he was asleep, got the wife packed and onto a plane. They also took his car keys for his own protection. Unfortunately he didn’t see things in quite that way. After countless phone calls our negotiator gave in. She does have several businesses to run along with single-handedly bringing up two primary-school-aged children. It kind of goes without saying that as soon as he got the keys back he wrote off the car.
We heard all this on Saturday when in the midst of packing we got a call from our negotiator who’d spent the morning with the seller. He wasn’t going to budge on the amount of money to be declared as the official selling price.
So, Thursday evening we were deciding what we’d need to take with us back to Scotland while leaving sufficient room for the new clothes we planned to buy. (Ibiza’s a great place for wealthy stick insects to get their gear or little old ladies to buy sensible clobber, but there’s not a lot in between.) In the midst of this first Barbara’s aunt phoned and, almost simultaneously, my mobile went.
Barbara saw me turn white. It was our English landlord. We were supposed to ring him the night before, but as we were no further forward with finding somewhere new to stay, I hadn’t got round to it. He’d seemed quite relaxed last time we’d spoken and I assumed he’d let us know if they were coming over. But, no. His flights were booked for a week on Saturday. We had two days to empty and clean the apartment and nowhere to put our stuff, let alone a place for us to sleep.
Fortunately our erstwhile negotiator was planning on opening a second-hand furniture shop and so had an empty warehouse. So, all we had to do was put our lives into boxes and one problem would be solved. It is, however, rather harder to pack everything than it is to spend a few days slinging stuff such as clothes in the back of the car and hanging them straight up in a new home.
But, that new home was not going to be available immediately even if we could come to an agreement on rental or purchase terms. The problem was the tenant. Yes, the one with a penchant for bad business deals and unfortunate friendships. Apparently, after his last disagreement he hadn’t stopped drinking. His wife phoned our agent saying: “Help. You’ve got to rescue me.” So they slipped a few valium into his drink and ,while he was asleep, got the wife packed and onto a plane. They also took his car keys for his own protection. Unfortunately he didn’t see things in quite that way. After countless phone calls our negotiator gave in. She does have several businesses to run along with single-handedly bringing up two primary-school-aged children. It kind of goes without saying that as soon as he got the keys back he wrote off the car.
We heard all this on Saturday when in the midst of packing we got a call from our negotiator who’d spent the morning with the seller. He wasn’t going to budge on the amount of money to be declared as the official selling price.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Getting closer? Maybe
In common with just about every diarist and letter writer I start with an apology for the tardiness of my latest missive. The reason this time is that although most of Barbara and my thoughts are focused on getting the house, we can’t admit it. We have to maintain this pose that says we’re not thinking about the house so we won’t be disappointed if it doesn’t happen.
Actually, the fact that we now probably have a fallback position means we won’t be horribly disappointed if it all does fall apart this evening. We’ll just stay on where we are which, if nothing else, will be much easier than having to scrabble around for money, chase mortgages and so on. If we don’t get the house, the difficulties will arise later.
We’d already decided that we wouldn’t look for anything over the summer. People are too busy and there are people visiting the island who may be persuaded to part with silly money when in holiday mood. But in the autumn our sights will be set much higher and we’ll be disappointed by places that don’t match up to the house we’re after now.
The other reason we’ve been trying to talk as little as possible about our potential home is that the decision’s largely out of our hands. That does not, however, mean there are no silly nagging doubts. For instance, what do we wear for this evening’s meeting? In Scotland it would be easy for me. Lawyer equals suit. Here, not only do I not possess a suit, but wearing one could be counter-productive. The seller could try to push the price up on the basis that we look as if we could afford it. On the other hand, we don’t want to seem disrespectful. Barbara will tell me that these are problems women have to face all the time.
Anyway, in three hours we should know the worst, or best…
It’s good to see the world’s two biggest car-hire companies Avis and Hertz involved in a marketing competition which I hope will spread. In the United States in particular both are promoting their ability to provide cars with adaptations so that anybody can drive.
Of course, the Americans with Disabilities Act provides a strong stick to hit organisations with that discriminate against people by not making their services accessible. But there’s an equally powerful carrot in the form of the spending power of people with impairments. As the population ages this is represents a fast-growing market.
The services now offered free by Avis include:
Obviously you should make requests for these services and adaptations as far in advance as possible. Avis and Hertz both have websites with full contact details.
Today I should have definite news about where we’re going to be living at the end of this month, but I don’t. Yesterday’s meeting with the lawyer was neither good nor bad, but it certainly didn’t go according to plan. Actually, if events so far have often made us feel as if we were living a reality television programme, yesterday was closer to a soap opera. You know the sort of thing, people turn up conveniently and unexpectedly in order for the plot to unfold.
The latest episode began at 6pm. Unusually for me, I was actually ready in time to get to the lawyers early. So after a quick once round the block, looking in estate agents’ windows to assure ourselves we were getting a bargain, we walked up the steep stairs to the lawyer’s office.
Our first surprise was to see the woman who had negotiated the property deal for us sitting in the waiting area. We hadn’t asked her to come, but assumed she’d turned up to help the deal go through. But no, she was there to see her lawyer before appearing in court the following day. She’d had a car accident last year and, she told us, assumed her ex-husband had insurance.
Her presence was pure coincidence. But she did have some gossip for us. The guy who is currently living in our intended house was involved in a deal to buy a hotel which apparently went disastrously wrong. After he’d had a few drinks, she told us, he had visited the hotel and started shouting the odds in the reception. Later that evening he had been badly beaten up. Fortunately, that had nothing to do with our house, although one could only feel sorry for the guy. It’s a full story which I probably don’t want to know.
Eventually our lawyer called us into the boardroom. There was no sign of the seller, which gave us a few minutes to ask questions and get answers in ponderous legalese. Sometimes I get the feeling that what defines a “professional” is the ability to respond to any question without giving a definitive reply. After a few of these carefully hedged answers he went to see if maybe the seller had got lost. Certainly, all I’d been able to see through a crack in the door was a youngish guy in a tee shirt going into the reception area, no old “Ibicencan” as the seller had been described.
A few minutes later we found out that the “old” guy was no more than 35. He was the chubby guy I’d seen outside wearing a “Dissident” tee shirt. (No I don’t think that had any significance.) From the moment he came into the boardroom the seller studiously avoided looking either Barbara or I in the eye, talking only to our lawyer in Spanish. Although this made it hard for us to follow it was obvious that he was unhappy with the amount of tax he would have to pay on the deal. As I’ve said in previous blogs, this was largely a problem of his own making. The tax authorities would almost certainly smell a rat if the amount he was declaring he had sold the property for was considerably less than the mortgage.
During this discussion our negotiator put her head in to see if things were going okay. She came in. Fortunately, she was able to explain the taxation problems more simply to the seller. (We learned from her later that although he had developed a number of properties, this was his first sale.) He seemed surprised that the detail of his mortgage was on display to us the public and, of course, the tax authorities. It also transpired that his plan to conclude the sale next year was pointless because he’d already sold the property to a company he’d set up for the purpose. This is a common technique in Spain to reduce liabilities, but obviously needs to be done with professional advice.
The lesson in taxation for our seller lasted about an hour while our lawyer explained the problem in detail and the negotiator simplified it. All we could do was watch. There simply wasn’t room to negotiate and anyway this wasn’t supposed to be a negotiating meeting. Everything was supposed to be agreed. Now we could see the deal ebbing away. I wasn’t totally despondent, however, because the seller had brought some of the missing papers which our lawyer had requested and he was happy to have them taken away and copied.
After the seller had left our negotiator stayed to discuss possible outcomes. She comforted us by saying that buying property is always like this in Ibiza. Our lawyer didn’t seem convinced.
But, once again, all we can do is wait.
Actually, the fact that we now probably have a fallback position means we won’t be horribly disappointed if it all does fall apart this evening. We’ll just stay on where we are which, if nothing else, will be much easier than having to scrabble around for money, chase mortgages and so on. If we don’t get the house, the difficulties will arise later.
We’d already decided that we wouldn’t look for anything over the summer. People are too busy and there are people visiting the island who may be persuaded to part with silly money when in holiday mood. But in the autumn our sights will be set much higher and we’ll be disappointed by places that don’t match up to the house we’re after now.
The other reason we’ve been trying to talk as little as possible about our potential home is that the decision’s largely out of our hands. That does not, however, mean there are no silly nagging doubts. For instance, what do we wear for this evening’s meeting? In Scotland it would be easy for me. Lawyer equals suit. Here, not only do I not possess a suit, but wearing one could be counter-productive. The seller could try to push the price up on the basis that we look as if we could afford it. On the other hand, we don’t want to seem disrespectful. Barbara will tell me that these are problems women have to face all the time.
Anyway, in three hours we should know the worst, or best…
It’s good to see the world’s two biggest car-hire companies Avis and Hertz involved in a marketing competition which I hope will spread. In the United States in particular both are promoting their ability to provide cars with adaptations so that anybody can drive.
Of course, the Americans with Disabilities Act provides a strong stick to hit organisations with that discriminate against people by not making their services accessible. But there’s an equally powerful carrot in the form of the spending power of people with impairments. As the population ages this is represents a fast-growing market.
The services now offered free by Avis include:
- Transfer Board: Eases the driver or passenger from their wheelchairs into the car seat.
- Swivel Seat: Allows the driver or passenger to turn their bodies in the car seat with limited effort. The seat can easily be removed from underneath the person.
- Spinner Knob: Enables a full turning radius of the steering wheel while using only one hand.
- Panoramic Mirror: Provides a much larger field of view for any driver, and is a legal requirement in the USA for hearing-impaired drivers.
- Accessible Bus Service: Offers an electrically operated ramp or lift, two ADA compliant wheelchair positions, special aisles and low luggage racks.
- Additional Driver Fee Waiver: Customers with visual impairment can rent an Avis car without incurring any additional driver fees for their designated driver (All drivers must meet Avis' standard licensed driver requirements).
Obviously you should make requests for these services and adaptations as far in advance as possible. Avis and Hertz both have websites with full contact details.
Today I should have definite news about where we’re going to be living at the end of this month, but I don’t. Yesterday’s meeting with the lawyer was neither good nor bad, but it certainly didn’t go according to plan. Actually, if events so far have often made us feel as if we were living a reality television programme, yesterday was closer to a soap opera. You know the sort of thing, people turn up conveniently and unexpectedly in order for the plot to unfold.
The latest episode began at 6pm. Unusually for me, I was actually ready in time to get to the lawyers early. So after a quick once round the block, looking in estate agents’ windows to assure ourselves we were getting a bargain, we walked up the steep stairs to the lawyer’s office.
Our first surprise was to see the woman who had negotiated the property deal for us sitting in the waiting area. We hadn’t asked her to come, but assumed she’d turned up to help the deal go through. But no, she was there to see her lawyer before appearing in court the following day. She’d had a car accident last year and, she told us, assumed her ex-husband had insurance.
Her presence was pure coincidence. But she did have some gossip for us. The guy who is currently living in our intended house was involved in a deal to buy a hotel which apparently went disastrously wrong. After he’d had a few drinks, she told us, he had visited the hotel and started shouting the odds in the reception. Later that evening he had been badly beaten up. Fortunately, that had nothing to do with our house, although one could only feel sorry for the guy. It’s a full story which I probably don’t want to know.
Eventually our lawyer called us into the boardroom. There was no sign of the seller, which gave us a few minutes to ask questions and get answers in ponderous legalese. Sometimes I get the feeling that what defines a “professional” is the ability to respond to any question without giving a definitive reply. After a few of these carefully hedged answers he went to see if maybe the seller had got lost. Certainly, all I’d been able to see through a crack in the door was a youngish guy in a tee shirt going into the reception area, no old “Ibicencan” as the seller had been described.
A few minutes later we found out that the “old” guy was no more than 35. He was the chubby guy I’d seen outside wearing a “Dissident” tee shirt. (No I don’t think that had any significance.) From the moment he came into the boardroom the seller studiously avoided looking either Barbara or I in the eye, talking only to our lawyer in Spanish. Although this made it hard for us to follow it was obvious that he was unhappy with the amount of tax he would have to pay on the deal. As I’ve said in previous blogs, this was largely a problem of his own making. The tax authorities would almost certainly smell a rat if the amount he was declaring he had sold the property for was considerably less than the mortgage.
During this discussion our negotiator put her head in to see if things were going okay. She came in. Fortunately, she was able to explain the taxation problems more simply to the seller. (We learned from her later that although he had developed a number of properties, this was his first sale.) He seemed surprised that the detail of his mortgage was on display to us the public and, of course, the tax authorities. It also transpired that his plan to conclude the sale next year was pointless because he’d already sold the property to a company he’d set up for the purpose. This is a common technique in Spain to reduce liabilities, but obviously needs to be done with professional advice.
The lesson in taxation for our seller lasted about an hour while our lawyer explained the problem in detail and the negotiator simplified it. All we could do was watch. There simply wasn’t room to negotiate and anyway this wasn’t supposed to be a negotiating meeting. Everything was supposed to be agreed. Now we could see the deal ebbing away. I wasn’t totally despondent, however, because the seller had brought some of the missing papers which our lawyer had requested and he was happy to have them taken away and copied.
After the seller had left our negotiator stayed to discuss possible outcomes. She comforted us by saying that buying property is always like this in Ibiza. Our lawyer didn’t seem convinced.
But, once again, all we can do is wait.
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