Report from Guanajuato: What’s in a name?

I returned here for the express purpose of transferring the funds from the sale of my Guanajuato house last year from my Mexican bank account to my Canadian one. I had tried various ways of doing it remotely, but nothing would do but showing up in person. 

Of course, while I’m here, I’m enjoying the city and my friends who live here. In fact, I’m falling in love with the city all over again and I’m not sure what to do about that since it wasn’t my plan to continue a snow-bird existence. It still isn’t, really. Anyway, that’s a story for another day.

I came with all the information required to transfer the funds. I had somehow expected that, for an international transfer, I would be seated across the desk from a person in an office. Don’t ask why, it’s just how I pictured it. And in this picture I was slowly, but deliberately and accurately, communicating in Spanish. The transfer completed, the account closed, and my banking life in Mexico neatly ended, I would go on to enjoy the rest of my time here with that task behind me.

Here’s how it’s gone. 

Bank Visit One: 

I explain to the employee who greets customers and directs them to the appropriate location that I am here to make an international transfer. I am directed to wait my turn for a teller at a wicket—the “priority” wicket, so that’s something. The tellers are well protected from the public, with solid glass barriers separating them. They are also masked. Of course, there is the general din of activity you would expect in this setting, all of it, naturally, in Spanish. Everyone has to speak up because of the barriers. A person on my right is doing his normal banking with the next teller, and I can’t seem to ignore his voice. So much for deliberately and accurately communicating in Spanish. I am instantly in a state of bumbling, stressed confusion.

My priority teller is very patient. This is obviously not a transaction that she’s familiar with, but after presenting my passport, residency card, bank card, and the information provided for me by my Canadian bank, and filling out several forms, it finally looks like we’re in business. All my materials disappear into an office somewhere, and I am told to wait. Which I do. I hate losing sight of my passport.

When I am summoned, presumably to receive the authorization code confirming that the money is on its way home, an employee—not the teller but a man who is obviously a step up the ladder from the patient young woman—hands me a scrap of paper on which the names of two Canadian banks are written. 

Which of these, he asks, do I want to send my money to? Well, neither. I have already given them the name of my bank and all the transfer information I’m told is required. Nope. They can only transfer to these two banks in Canada. I try to argue, but there’s no point. For one thing, this man—unlike the teller—refuses to slow down so I can really understand him. But the message is clear enough. What can I do but shrug and leave? 

For a moment, I am ashamed to admit, I feel like an Ugly Canadian. What the hell is wrong with these people? I hush that voice and remind myself it is not my country. They have their rules. But really? This is one of Mexico’s largest banks. Mine is one of Canada’s. It’s 2022.

I call my bank at home. They are incredulous, but they say perhaps I should have specified a “wire transfer” instead of an “international transfer”. Slightly different animals, apparently. Ah. So that was the problem. But just to be sure I get it right this time, I ask a perfectly bilingual Mexican friend to come with me. 

Bank Visit Two: 

My friend takes the lead. “She is here to make a wire transfer to a Canadian bank. She may have asked for the wrong thing the first time.” The people at the bank remember me and remember the problem. We are quickly told that I did not ask for the wrong thing, and there is, indeed, no way to transfer directly to my bank. My friend has learned through long experience that there is no sense arguing. We agree to move on to Plan B, which is to get a cashier’s cheque. I will need three cashier’s cheques to cover the full amount, but I can probably get them all today. Good. The transfer fiasco is frustrating and makes no sense, but I will get the funds.

I proceed to fill out multiple forms, hand over the required identification, and wait. And wait. Eventually, an employee—we are now dealing entirely with men, so I think that means I’ve become a “complicated case”— and points out that the name on my current passport includes my middle name (Mae, for all you who are wondering), whereas the passport used to set up my bank account years ago did not. This is a BIG PROBLEM. But it can be resolved. The bank has a process for validating my passport. It will take two weeks. I will be here for three more. I reluctantly nod, but secretly suspect the two weeks will actually be four and I’ll miss that boat.

Off trots the man with my passport in hand. We wait a while longer. When he reappears, it is with a sad look on his face. The BIG PROBLEM has become even bigger. My residency card—required for non-citizen banking—also lacks my middle name. The bank can’t resolve this one. I must go to another city to an Immigration Office to have my card re-issued. This would take weeks, if not months. Maybe use Paypal? he suggests. He’s trying to be helpful. These are not his rules. A quick investigation rules out Paypal.

When I share this story with others here, everyone has their own to tell. One friend who has lived here for decades—the wife of the friend who helped at the bank—can’t get her citizenship because the name on her birth certificate has two L’s but all her life she has spelled it with one L. I heard second-hand about another case in which the original German spelling of a name didn’t match the English spelling on her passport. This was eventually resolved before a judge.

At this moment, I’m still not sure what I’m going to do. There’s a faint hope that I can do something via Internet banking. A friend is going to help me set that up. Failing that, my most likely solution is to come home empty-handed and apply for a new passport without my middle name. I am assured that would do the trick, and least I’d be dealing with bureaucracy in my own language. Of course, it involves another trip down here—but (see above) I’m thinking that will happen anyway.