(Photo opposite: Lake Chapala, Mexico) When we lived in the United States, the mundane, banking process of deposits, withdrawals and reconciliation slipped easily into my duty roster. Streamlined procedures allowed me to flutter in and out of the bank like a mariposa. I easily changed account data with a phone call or online and the branch office even sent me birthday cards. Managing our money flow through the banking system proved effortless. One day that comfort level mysteriously disappeared. Ease turned into drudgery. Banking rose to the top of the “hateful tasks list,” and the mariposa, well she couldn’t even fly. What evil thing had shaken my world? Why could I no longer navigate through the financial waters as helmswoman? Then the fog lifted. I had unknowingly entered the “Titular” Zone.

After retiring to Chapala, Mexico, securing a checking account at a Mexican financial institution headed the to-do list. After a two hour process, at least 25 forms, scrutiny of our passports, countless trips to the copy machine and innumerable signatures, the manager exclaimed, “el fini.” I felt pangs of uneasiness. Surely, we had clearly requested an “either–or” account, with both names appearing on the checks. Despite this, the forms required my signature only once. My husband, strangely, developed finger cramps. Under each space for his signature, the word “titular” kept jumping off the page. A nervous nausea erupted in my stomach, but I struggled to disavow these negative sensations, determined to adjust to our self-imposed relocation.

We both assumed that I would continue playing the role of bank client. One challenging twist required all transactions to be conducted in Spanish. Strapped with an intermediate command of the language, I arrived at the bank one day to change our phone number in our account information. The eerie theme song from the Twilight Zone played in my head, as the female supervisor advised that only my husband, the titular, had authority to change account information. “No senorita, no me entiende. Quiero cambiar solomente nuestro numero de teléfono,” I said emphatically.

Seeing her furrowed brow and frowned expression, I knew there was no misunderstanding. I sensed that I was about to lose my job as household banker. She explained that in Mexico only the primary title holder of a bank account, the titular, can initiate such transactions; i.e. my husband! Feelings of sympathy erupted for this young, bank employee. She would soon discover that this particular titular growled when pushed. Along with his new title, came those mundane banking responsibilities he had so cleverly avoided for years. This archaic rule frustrated me; but for a man who rarely entered a bank, these administrative duties would prove tedious. Changing personal account information didn’t fit into his definition of financial management. As far as the bank was concerned, I didn’t exist. My husband suddenly envied my anonymity.

The titular condition has staged numerous appearances during our banking transactions. Invisible ink imprinted my name on our blank checks, i.e. it is totally missing. Only one name appears on the sole debit card and it isn’t mine. The one thing I am permitted to do, as a co-owner of the account, is absurd. I may sign checks, even though my name appears no where on the checks and my last name differs from that of my husband. In fact, they have now decided that they don’t like the looks of the titular´s signature and when he signs a check for us to cash, they refuse, saying it doesn’t match the signature card and I must write out another check and sign it. Imagine, the primary account holder is dismissed for the non-titular one. Logic escapes this system.

Since few businesses accept checks or credit cards, we usually cash one peso check per month to cover current expenses and house repairs or construction costs. Now here comes the real clincher. If you cash a check for 30,000 pesos, or around $3000, you must jump through hoops, show your passport, present your FM3 (permanent resident identification), and meet with the bank manager. If however, the amount is 29,999 pesos, and the check is made out to al portador ( translated, the bearer) it will be cashed without so much as the casher’s signature endorsement, no identification, no questions, nothing. They will give the money to whoever arrives at the teller window with that check, and it is a very scary thing to watch. They cannot track who cashes the check, but then, I guess that is the whole idea.

Finally, the real laugh comes when we cash a check at the bank for under 30,000 pesos. I usually hand the teller a slip of paper indicating how I would like the effectivo( cash) because not only does no one accept checks, no one has change either- anywhere and to avoid unnecessary hassles, I like to make sure I have change right from the bank. The teller looks at the list in amazement. The bank has no change either and the teller counts out the money in either 500 peso or 200 peso notes, thinking “when are these foreigners going to get it.”

* More Articles on Living in Mexico
* Real Estate in Mexico
* Banks in Mexico - Worldwide Banking Directory
* Universities in Mexico - Colleges & Universities listed by Country
* Embassies and Consulates of Mexico