FATCA Explained

Unless you are a tax lawyer or involved in the expat community, there is little reason for you to have heard of FATCA. Yet.

FATCA, at its heart, is a law designed to make people obey a law that is already in place. In my view, a reasonable response to this situation would be to concentrate on finding the offenders and prosecuting them.

Instead, the US Government decided to hunt chipmunks with a howitzer.

FATCA is so monumentally ill-conceived that it is difficult to pick just one of its potentially horrific consequences. What bothers me most about the law, however, is how it is making my country appear to the rest of the world. This is not exactly a hearts and minds initiative.

Consequently, I am offering my take on FATCA; I want to get it out before someone else thinks of it:

Paying a Visit

A sovereign nation sits at his desk looking over the latest reports. He is cautiously optimistic. An economic upturn appears to be imminent, one that could improve the lives of his people, but it is too early to tell. Still, if nothing goes wrong…

There is a knock at the door.

Sovereign Nation: Come in.

The door opens and the USA walks in, wearing a trench coat, fedora and leather gloves. Two others, similarly dressed, enter as well. Their eyes are narrow. They do not smile.

Sovereign Nation: Greetings. To what do I owe this honor?

USA: Well, me and my boys here—IRS and Treasury Department—thought we’d stop by to give you a heads up about a law we just passed.

Sovereign Nation: That’s very nice or you, but I don’t see what it has to do with…

USA: This law, you see, it says that you have to hand over all the financial information from all your financial institutions for everyone in your country. To us. Now.

Sovereign Nation: That’s preposterous! How can YOUR law tell US what to do?

USA: Yeah, I hear you; it’s a real bitch, isn’t it? But, hey, the law’s the law. Now hand over the data.

Sovereign Nation: No, absolutely not! It would not only violate our own laws on depositor confidentiality, but also—and I cannot stress this enough—we don’t want to. That data is none of your business!

USA: Look, let me lay it on the line for you. We’re tired of our citizens moving to your country, earning money here and not paying any taxes to us.

Sovereign Nation: But…but they’re working in our businesses, earning our money, shopping in our stores, contributing to our economy, not yours. Why should they pay taxes to you?

USA: Hey! You handle your citizens your way; we’ll handle ours our way! Capish?

Relax! We're from the Government; we're here to help.

Sovereign Nation: Well, then why don’t you just pass a law saying they have to pay taxes to you on any money they earn abroad.

USA: We already have that law. See, the thing is, we don’t trust our citizens. We figure they’re fiddling the books, so, what we’re asking for is your help in assisting our citizens to comply with the law.

Sovereign Nation: Then why not just take the data for US citizens?

USA: We thought about that, but it turns out we don’t trust you either. You might let a few fish slip through the net. Not on purpose, mind, but we think we’re better equipped to find what we’re looking for than you are.

Sovereign Nation: Well, that’s totally unacceptable. We will not comply.

USA: Hey, your choice. We’re not here to force you into anything.

The USA clasps his hands behind his back and begins to wander around the office, whistling to himself, looking casually here and there.

USA: Nice economy you have here.

Sovereign Nation: Thanks, we’re rather pleased…

USA: Be a shame if something happened to it.

Sovereign Nation: (Nervously) Like what?

The US as Enforcer.

USA: Like, say, a 30 percent withholding tax on every transaction that travels through a US bank.

Sovereign Nation: That would ruin us! Our economy would crumble. There’d be widespread unemployment, riots in the streets, people would die! How can you…

USA: What? You’re thinking of blaming this on us? All we’re asking you to do is obey the law. You do, and your economy bumps along unhindered and everybody wins.

Sovereign Nation: And what do we get out of this?

USA: You get to keep your economy from going into the toilet.

Sovereign Nation: But we have that now.

USA: Look, I’m not asking again. I’m making you an offer you can’t refuse. You play ball with us, nothing unpleasant happens. You don’t, and, well, as I said, the law’s the law. It’s out of my hands. Really, I’m just trying to help you here.

Sovereign Nation: (Sighs) Well, since you’ve got us against a wall, okay, we’ll do it.

USA: Now you’re being smart. I like it when you’re smart. Stay smart and nothing bad will happen. So, we’ll have that data now and be on our way.

Formerly Sovereign Nation: Now? It’s going to take months to collect and collate and…

USA: Okay, okay. I’ll give you an extension. Four o’clock. Data on my desk, or my boys come pay you a visit. Capish?

Formerly Sovereign Nation: Capish.

For more FATCA:

Satire: FATCA Explained in 4 Minutes 

Forbes: America’s Manifest Destiny Law 

America the Beautiful

America is such a vast place that, on any given day of the year, it is a good bet that you can find a world-class beauty spot somewhere. During the early weeks of October, however, that spot is definitely New England, and I would be remiss in not exclaiming (again) just how beautiful it is.

Purdy, innit?

Our trip this year was fabulous and, despite my annual carping about the border crossings, fairly relaxing. The weather—traditionally agreeable in early autumn—was especially stunning, with sunny days, clear nights, crystal blue skies and temperatures that occasionally reached into the low 80s.

I was surprised, but pleased, to note that you Americans are not wasting your time braiding rubber bands as so many of the young people here are.

Thankfully, this fad is on the wane.

On the other hand, you are too busy panicking about the Ebola virus to have time for much else. (Seriously, relax—only a few people have it, it’s not exactly an epidemic; wash your hands, don’t kiss strangers on the mouth, you’ll be fine.)

What surprised me most, however, was how foreign I felt in my own country. As if I needed that nugget of unwanted truth underscored, I set out four times to visit friends or family and, four times, I got lost. And each time I was reminded that I had turned down the offer of a Sat-Nav with a contemptuous, “I grew up here; I know my way around.” (Also, they were going to charge me an extra $15 for the privilege. I think next time I’ll swallow my pride and pony up the extra cash; it will save a lot of aggravation in the long run.)

The rental car was another joy. The lights came on automatically, whether I wanted them to or not. And when I did want them on but they didn’t automatically light up, I had no idea where the switch was. It took me nearly a week to figure out how to turn on my headlights. Also, when I ran into a spot of rain, I put the wipers on and the rear window wiper came on with them. When I turned the wipers off, the back wiper kept going. I never did figure out how to turn that off and I spent the entire two weeks with a very clean back window.

Otherwise, it was a lovely time, with ample opportunities to play with the G-boys, test out navigation skills in the corn mazes and tour pumpkin patches with them (they were mad about pumpkins—good thing, too, because they were everywhere).

Pumpkins here...

...pumpkins there...

...pumpkins everywhere.
Somehow, they both managed to find a pumpkin.

While we’re on the subject of pumpkins, is there anything you won’t put pumpkin flavoring in? I realize you had a lot of them, but pumpkin coffee, pumpkin yogurt, pumpkin ice cream? What happened to a good old pumpkin donut and a cup of hot cider?

Our visit to one farm was quite an eye-opener. Some farmers these days, in order to make ends meet, are turning their farms into family adventure parks. This is a bold move, as farms are insanely dangerous places. I have to say they do a good job sanitizing them, but sometimes I think they go too far.

For all you kids under the age of 20, this is what a real cow looks like.

I was shocked to see that an onerous task we were forced to perform as kids is now something children flock to willingly—and pay for the privilege!

I wish these kids were around when I was forced to pump water.

During our stay, we visited a posh gallery and checked out the gift shop.
We just browsed; we didn't buy anything.

Apparently, this is a gate for really stupid people.

We left America just as the weather was turning, and arrived in Britain in time to enjoy another week of surprisingly mild days before autumn’s grip took hold. Strangely, I find—after the spectacular weather in the US and the mild days here in Blighty—that I am glad for the cooler temps. I has stopped me thinking that spring is just around the corner and has put me in the mood for turkey dinners, home-made bread and snuggling on the sofa with a hot toddy.

Winter’s coming; we might as well enjoy it.

America the Border-full

Date: 22 Oct 2014

Location: 36000 feet, somewhere over the Irish Sea

I apologize for the tortured pun in the title, but it's been a long flight and I'm a bit muzzy-headed.

Our trip to America was very nice. The biggest problem with it—and the reason I dread going every year—is that it is book-ended with the need to cross the US border. In years past, this has caused no end of aggravation and angst.

My feelings about this can be summed up by something I wrote on the outbound trip:

As far as air travel goes; it’s no wonder people find it stressful. Think about it:

You start off facing a barricade of people who—simply because you want to fly on an airplane—assume you are a criminal and treat you accordingly. It’s their job to try to stop you from getting on the plane by finding any excuse they can dream up to detain you long enough to miss your flight. If they can, they will detain you long enough for you to miss Christmas with your family, as well.

If you do make it through that gauntlet, and if you are travelling to the USA, your next stop is a man whose job it is to keep you out of the country by whatever means possible, even if you hold a valid US passport. This man would also like nothing better than to see you detained in a place where you look forward to Christmas because that’s the day they don’t do the waterboarding.

Meanwhile, your luggage has gone on its own odyssey. First, it has been scrutinized by dual sets of inspectors—one to stop you from taking any forbidden items out of the country you are departing from, and another to stop you from bringing any into the country you are travelling to. The list of Forbidden Items is made up randomly every morning and changed throughout the day depending upon the inspector’s mood and violations can, you guessed it…

After that, your luggage is handed over to actual thugs who are legally allowed to break into it, trash your belongings and steal any valuables they wish. Don’t try to stop them, or even lodge a complaint—they are only doing what the law allows them to do. Non-compliance—or even simply being noticed by one of them while he or she is in a whimsical mood—can mean the difference between your continuing to think of The Midnight Express as entertainment instead of a documentary. Best to keep your eyes averted and let them get on with it and, if they question you, just answer them with a subdued, “yes sir,”

Then, if you manage to make it through all of this, and some jerkwad with a jihad fixation doesn’t take your plane down, You are passed on to the last hurdle where, whatever has not already been confiscated or stolen from you, is assessed so they can charge you to bring it into the country.

But after that, you are allowed to walk through the security doors, enter the arrivals chute and find yourself vomited out into the airport lobby.

Welcome to America, land of the free, home of the brave.

I am pleased to report that, while much of the above has happened on earlier trips, none if it happened on this one. I think, after having released all that bile, I was at last prepared to simply take things as they came.

The US Customs and Immigration guards were still grim-faced and intimidating and the thugs in the TSA uniforms still wandered about eyeing random people suspiciously, but I shrugged it off and went on my way and before I knew it we were being served by Carmen, the friendly and efficient rental car lady.

And we didn’t even get lost driving out of the airport, which is the traditional way we begin our USA Tour.

So, yeah, it was a great trip: we visited friends, played with the G-boys and did our bit to stimulate the US economy (the technical term for the amount of money we spent over the past fortnight is, I believe, a “Pile”).

We’re getting into landing mode now—trays stowed, seat upright, electronic devices off—so I’ll sign off and pick this up again later.

America the Bountiful

LOCATION: 38,000 feet; east bound, somewhere over the North Atlantic

Yup, another US holiday under my belt—literally.

This visit was something of a revelation: apparently, what has been missing from my life is people telling me I’m fat. If just one more person references my girth it will have been the perfect vacation…oh, wait…the winged waitress just told me to fasten my seatbelt so my fat stomach doesn’t jiggle all over the people sitting next to me. Okay, she didn’t actually say it, but I could tell that’s what she was thinking.

None of this, by the way, was my fault.

We’re not new to America; we know what we’re up against, which is why, throughout the fortnight before every visit, we eat light breakfasts, have a carrot stick for lunch and dine on thin soup for dinner. The idea is to acquire as much of a buffer as possible before heading off to the land of plenty. My wife did all right, and I was doing well, too, until that unfortunate incident with the sausage roll vendor.

With five days to go, feeling fit (and slender) I took a stroll through the town market, as I am wont to do, and came upon a new stall selling sausage rolls. They were large—not the bit-sized variety you find in Waitrose—and boasted fresh, locally sourced ingredients. They did look good, and I proposed to buy one someday. Not that day, of course.

Then I noticed that they sold a variety made with blood pudding and, curious, asked about it. The lady told me they didn’t have any left (which was fine; I only wanted some information) so I thanked her and left.

From there, I wandered into the mall, did some window shopping, and then went into W. H. Smiths to see if I could find a good book for the flight. As I was perusing the best seller titles, someone standing behind me kept saying, “Sir! Sir!” I never think that anyone would call me that, but as there was no one else in the aisle, I turned around.

It was the Sausage Roll Lady, holding a sausage roll.

“I found one,” she said, her cheeks rosy with exertion and glee.

I was incredulous, dumbfounded and more than a little bit chagrined that she had chased me all that way just to sell me a sausage roll I hadn’t actually intended to buy. I was also left with no choice but to accompany her back to her stall and buy it. When we got there, I was still feeling that she had gone through a lot of effort for a small sale, so I bought five (on special for a tenner) and, yeah, that bit was kinda my fault.

So instead of a light and healthy lunch, I had a large sausage roll for my noon meal, on that day and every day from then on until we left. The result was, instead of boarding the plane with a buffer zone, I was carrying a handicap.

And then we arrived in America, with its buttery biscuits, Reuben sandwiches, clam chowder, proper bacon, tall stacks of pancakes, chicken fried chicken, Brueggers’ chili, corned beef hash, Goldfish (don’t get excited; it’s a cracker) and extra-large bags of Chex Mix and, well, apparently (if my critics are to be believed) what I need now is a tee-shirt with “Goodyear” emblazoned across it.

So now I’m wondering what is worse: the thought that I have left my American friends with the impression that I am letting myself go, or all the carrot sticks and bowls of soup awaiting me upon my return home.

On the other hand, those sausage rolls were really good; maybe I’ll visit that stall again, and then see if there’s a place in town that makes novelty tee-shirts.

Feeling Foreign in America

I love America; land of my birth, cradle of my childhood, my protector and provider for many comfortable and profitable years. Visits to the Motherland always filled me with a sense of belonging and the assurance that it was, and would always remain, my true home. This year, however, America seemed just a tad alien. More than on any other visit I found myself pausing to ponder over simple tasks or social customs. Where once I felt completely in step, I now found myself wrong-footed and occasionally lost. America, it seems, has moved on without me.

Television, for instance: while I have always found it more dire and insipid than British TV, this year it was nearly incomprehensible. The shows, the news, the commercials (many, many, many commercials) were filled with apparently popular celebrities—both local and national—who were complete strangers to me. And the screen flickered with pop-ups and scrolling messages while parts of it remained obscured by semi-transparent corporate logos. It was like trying to watch the telly on Facebook and, like Facebook, it left me baffled and slightly nauseated.

Okay, it's not quite as bad as this, but it's close.

And the grocery stores, always too large, were now intimidating massive and caused more than a few culture clashes. While the shelves still held many of my old favorites, there were just as many products that were unknown to me. Then, at the check-out, we encountered The Packer.

Being conscientious shoppers, we arrived at the check-out with our own bags and proceeded to pack our purchases ourselves. This really seemed to put a knot in The Packer’s knickers, and she remained determined to do the job even though we clearly didn’t want her to. She even tried to grab items out of my hand as I picked them up so she could deposit them in the bag she was holding ready.

“We have our own bags,” I kept telling her.

“It’s New York State Law!” she would reply, as we wrestled for the next item.

It was all very unsettling.

All we wanted was a pint of milk and a box of chocolate chip cookies.

Then I tried pumping gas.

The mechanism was familiar enough but I stood waiting for the pump to turn on for some time before realizing I needed to go in and pay first. The next time, I used my credit card at the pump, but I found I needed to key in my zip code in order for it to work. And, of course, it wasn’t about to accept my post code. The next time, I used my American credit card and had the requisite zip code at the ready. But that pump didn’t ask for my zip code and instead told me to “Press to Start Pumping.” I think this incident says less about culture differences and hints more at the idea that US gas pumps operate in random and esoteric manners because, as I fruitlessly poked at various locations on the pump face, my American friend got out of the car to help and then both of us poked fruitlessly at the pump face until he saw a sign—written in huge, red letters—reading “Press to Start Pumping.”

Things went a little more smoothly after that.

While driving, I had to puzzle over new road arrangements and also encountered a number of rotaries or traffic circles, which are the US equivalent of round-abouts, only used by people who have no idea how to drive on a round-about. And the Americans, bless them, have a knack for taking something that is relatively straight-forward and enhancing it into something dangerously confusing. Add to this my ingrained habit of looking right and turning left into the round-about and you will understand why we approached every traffic circle with a sense of dread.

Just a random photo to remind you that America was closed when we got there.
We thought they might suggest we go to Canada instead, but they let us in. Eventually.

But the main thing that made me despair of ever understanding America again was the phone. During my last visit, I bought a disposable phone and put a hundred minutes on it. It was a god-send, so I took it back to Britain with me and brought it along on this trip.

I knew that, unlike my British disposable phone where the minutes remain valid indefinitely, the leftover minutes on my US phone would dissipate after 90 days, so when I turned the phone on I was not surprised when it didn’t work.

I was, however, surprised that the new bundle of minutes I bought wouldn’t load onto the phone, so I called their customer service and they informed me that, when the time limit on the minutes is up, the phone becomes useless; the only thing you can do with it is throw it away and buy a new one or request a new SIM card (if you happen to have a US address, which I do not). I realize these are disposable phones but surely that is taking it to its illogical conclusion.

Tracfone: a useless piece of plastic.

And so, on my first day back in America, I threw a perfectly good phone I had been hanging onto for the past year into the garbage and bought a new one that I will, likely, have to throw away next year, and I wondered just what sort of country I had landed in.

America, we need to talk; we seem to be drifting apart.

Finding America

I’m back from the States again, and with—I hope—a few good stories to post. But before we get into that, I thought I’d share my impression of America:

Being an expat can be a lonely business, especially if you have no close family to tie you to your home counties. I have family, but until recently I had no compelling reason to see them more often than once every other year, and even then it was always in conjunction with a larger vacation. My wife and I might spend a week in Halifax (lovely place, by the way) and then swoop into the Albany, New York area for a few days of “Hi how are you good seeing you great to be here good-bye now” before breezing off to another location.

After a few years of that, a strange thing began to happen: I lost track of America.

For the better part of a decade, news from home came primarily from media reports, Twitter tweets and Facebook postings that, over time, went from puzzling to startling to alarming. The media I could rationalize: they weren’t reporting dreadful news about America because America is dreadful, they were reporting dreadful news about America because reporting dreadful news is what the media does. “Local Scout Troop Fundraises to Save Home for Orphaned Kittens” always takes a back seat to “Religious Nut-Jobs Massacre 50 at Gay Wedding Reception Before Setting Themselves Alight.”

In a country the size of America (or even Andorra – look it up) there is always something bad to report if you look hard enough, but that doesn’t mean only bad things happen there. Still, month after month after month it sort of wears on you, and you begin to wonder. And then you look at Facebook.

The reason for being there: Mitchell Paul (top) and Charles Michael (bottom)

An agenda-driven media is one thing, but seeing opinions posted for the world to see by real people, some of whom I have been at least peripherally acquainted with, posting declarations that, in the best of light, push the boundaries of “Lunatic Fringe” can be quit disconcerting. (No, I’m not talking about you, of course: JFK’s assassination was definitely a mafia hit that was covered up by the CIA.) Dire predictions concerning the imminent collapse of democracy, the rise of a fascist totalitarian state and myriad methods of a coming apocalypse made me pause, and wonder: “Has everyone gone batshit over there?”

Well, I was pleased to find out they have not.

Provided with the opportunity to live for a full month (albeit interspersed with a few weeks in the UK) back in my hometown, not as a tourist but as a normal person doing normal type things and interacting with other, normal people while I did so, I found America to be pretty much how I left it.

America is still filled with friendly, mostly happy, contented people who bitch about paying too many taxes, think the liberals (or the conservatives) have it wrong and worry about rising prices and what future they are preparing for their children, but who—when pressed even a little bit—admit that, yeah, they have a pretty good life. It was pleasant beyond words to reacquaint myself with home, to live among people with whom I share a common background and to sit, luxuriating in the summer sun, listening to the land that, as my friend noted, is in my DNA.

Lyon's Lake, a place of many fond memories

I felt, not home, but at home, comfortable among the people and familiar places, and I left refreshed in many way. Sussex is now my home but America will always be my base, where I am from, what defines me.

So thank you, fellow Americans, for not being as batshit as you seem from a distance. And I promise to not pay too much attention to the media or to the nutburgers who espouse views that are probably as radical to you as they are to me.

And I really, really need to stay away from Facebook.