A bank in Poland

In America, when a person wishes to withdraw money from a bank, the process is fairly quick and simple.

In Poland, nothing is allowed to be quick or very simple.

In America, upon arrival at the bank, the customer will be greeted by someone standing near the entrance door. This person will be dressed in a suit and smell of cologne, and he will be smiling, smiling always, and he will say, “Hello! What can we do for you today?”

In Poland, a uniformed security guard may be slumped on a chair near the entrance to the bank, or roaming about slowly, deep in thought. He may or may not look up when the customer enters, and if he does he will seem bothered by having his thoughts interrupted.

In America, once the customer has told the smiling greeter that he’d like to withdraw some money, the greeter will say “Great!” and point him to a small table where he is to take a slip of paper and write down the amount he wishes to receive, and from which account. If he doesn’t know his account number, that’s no problem, someone else will find and write it for him. “And can we get you anything while you wait?” the greeter will ask. “Maybe a bottled water or a cup of coffee?” Yes, sometimes there is coffee. Or even pastries. And some candy for the children.

In America there are columns of velvet rope set up to then show the customer where he is to enter into a line, an organized line leading to several bank tellers all smiling behind a common counter. In Poland there is no line and no common counter, just individual people behind separated desks, and it can be difficult to tell which person behind which desk is taking on customers and which person isn’t, and no one is smiling. Some chairs may be present in the middle of the room for waiting customers, and usually there are several of these customers sitting but mostly they will be standing in a clumsy clump, and everyone is sighing. The newest customer will then have to ask this group, “Who is last?” and someone will raise his or her hand and say, “Me. I am last.” This person is seemingly always an old man holding a mound of half-opened envelopes and paperwork that looks like trouble. He may also add that the person before him is the lady who just went outside for a smoke.

There is no coffee.

In America, once the customer has shuffled his way along the velvet ropes to the front of the line, he will present himself to the next available teller, who is still smiling of course, and now saying, “Hello! How can I help you today?” These tellers of an American bank are always standing, never sitting, and the customers remain standing also because this next part of the process will be quick. The customer slips his paper with the amount of money he wishes to receive across the counter, and is then asked to put his bank card into an electronic reader just beside him for identity verification. Once he’s done this and entered in his four-digit pin code, then the teller on the other side of the counter will have the customer’s name and account information there on his computer screen, and he will say “Great, thank you so much Mr.—”. And at this point he may thank Mr.— for being a valued customer since 2007, and will take a pen and fill in for Mr.— whatever information he didn’t previously provide on that slip of paper, such as his account number. As the teller is doing this he will ask, “So Mr.—, how is your day going so far?” Or, “Is it still raining out there?”

In Poland, once that old man with the mound of troublesome paperwork has completed his complicated business, the bank teller will wait awhile before finally saying zapraszam to call for the next customer, and zapraszam technically means “I invite you” in Polish, though a Pole never says this invitingly. Then the new customer will present himself before the teller, who will be a lady behind a desk and will still be looking into her computer, and typing, and not looking up. Finally, she will look up, and the customer will tell her he’s there to make a withdrawal, and the teller will ask for his identifying document. In this example, his passport. And the teller will take the passport and open to the photo page, will stare at the photo in silence, and then up at the customer, then at the photo again, the customer, and at this point the the customer will feel ashamed.

In America the teller will be asking the customer by now, “And what kind of bills would you like today?” And the customer can specify large bills, small bills, any combination of bills or even coins. Everything is possible.

In Poland the teller, once finally satisfied with the passport photo, will say, “So how much do you want?” And the customer will say one thousand zloty, which is equivalent to a few hundred dollars, and the teller will say, “Hmm.” And she will begin typing furiously at her keyboard, for what seems to be an unusually long period of time. It seems as if she is typing this:

laksjfa;kjfa;kjdfpoam;ieucponaipweoipoaweiurpoaifuopisfopaijfoipajfoisjfopsijfoisjfiosjflsjfl;asjflsjflsdjf;lskjfl;ksj fljfaj;lskdfja;skdjfa;lskjdfl;aksdfjl;askdjfl;askjfl;sakjfl;skjdfl;skdjfl;skdjfl;sakjfs;dfkj.

And her fingers will stop, and she will sigh, and she will then call over to a colleague of hers nearby, asking him to come over to help her with something. This colleague’s name will be Bartek, and he will seem annoyed by this, will say, In a moment, I’m busy, but then finally he will come.

In America, the teller is now counting out crisp dollar bills with unbelievable hands, hands that contain the speed and dexterity of a magician or a blackjack dealer in Vegas. And he will do this two or three times in front of the customer for his assurance, and will ask if he’d like the money to be placed inside of an envelope. “And would you like for me to include your balance on your receipt?” This is optional, and the receipt will be a small slip of paper roughly the size of a credit card, which will appear out of a little machine within a few seconds.

In Poland, Bartek the colleague who’s come over to help will be asking the teller if she tried this, or maybe that, and she will say yes of course I’ve tried this, and also that, and he will say, “Mmm,” and then say, “May I?” And he will lean over and begin typing at her keyboard:

al;skdjfla;skdjf;aslkjf;slfja;osiljf;lk;vlkamnvljwelkslkdfdkl;alskdjf;kajf;lksdjf;ljdfl;ja ;lkj a;lfkja;lfjaslfjsdjfals…

Then Bartek will say, “Dziwne,” which means weird.

And he will try typing in something else:

;lajfl;kajdfl;kajsdf;laj;flkjsfl;akjsdf;lsdajf;aljdf;lajdf;alkjf;alksdjfa;ldsjfs;dlkjfl….

And this will work. The problem, fixed.

In America, the customer’s money and receipt is handed over and the teller will ask, “Is there anything else I can do for you today, Mr.—?” When he says no, the teller will say, “Alright. Well you have a lovely rest of your day, OK?” And his teeth will be remarkably white.

In Poland, now that the problem with the computer has been fixed, a large printer nearby will begin popping and screaming for several minutes, producing extremely large sheets of computer paper left over from 1998 — the kind of printer paper with holes along the edges that must be torn off, as well as each page needing to be manually ripped at the bottom from each other. Once done the customer will be presented with these papers and asked to look them over, to confirm everything there and sign them, and he will put his signature down and then the teller will observe this signature and compare it to the signature in the passport, and make a comment about how there is an issue, you see the G here is a little different than how it is in the passport, and also the i a little crooked, too. The teller will call Bartek over again. And together then they will observe and compare these Gs as well as the i. Bartek will agree that there is a problem, especially with the i, and then the teller will begin typing into the computer:

a;lskdjfal;sdjf;lasjdfl;asjf….

And the printer behind them will scream and spit again for several minutes, producing the same sheets of paper as before, and again they will need to be ripped at the sides and separated at their bottoms, and the customer will be asked to sign and date them again, but this time with the proper G and a better i, and the customer will do this nervously as both Bartek and the teller watch. Then they will all observe the new signature. And they will shrug. Fine. Could be better, but fine. Bartek will leave and the teller’s fingers will return to the keyboard:

l;asjdfl;aksdjf;laksjdfl;askdjfl;ajdf;lsjf;ilsdjfpoiajdfpoi;jfoisdjfosi;djfoai;jkdfa;isjdfa;sldjfldsjf…

Here the customer will ask if it’s possible for him to receive bills of a certain denomination, and the teller, still typing, will say, “Nie wiem. Zobaczymy,” which means, “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

At last some cash is produced from a drawer, perhaps in the requested denomination, perhaps not, and the teller will run it through an electronic counting machine to confirm the amount and hand it over, along with those several sheets of old computer paper with the rough edges. She will go back to the computer and the customer will not be sure if he can leave. He will ask, “Is that all?” And she will say yes, that is all.

And the customer will get up to leave, relieved and maybe sweating. And the teller will be still at the keyboard, and the next customer in the line which is not really a line will never know whether he should approach or not approach, until finally, at last, after several minutes of fingers typing …;lakdjfal;ksjfal;skjdfl;sdjfl;jfl;skdjfl;sfjs… the teller will say zapraszam without looking up, and that next victim will present himself, taking a seat.