Morrison?

Yesterday I went with Rachel to set up a bank account. We went to the same bank she uses; it is close to the apartment where I will be living. She said it is also a great bank because everyone there speaks English. When we went in the afternoon there was a very long line. We decided to come back later when the line would be shorter (Rachel said there was hardly ever a long line.). We headed back to the bank about an hour before it closes. Rachel said it would be a quick, easy process; they asked her for her address in the states, her cell phone number, and to see her passport. Unfortunately, the line was long again. Since we had plans later in the evening, Rachel went to get us a snack and I waited in line. I waited in line for twenty or thirty minutes before it was my finally my turn. Or so I thought. This older woman who had been sitting there since I first walked in the door suddenly jumped up to be next. I had thought she was waiting for a relative or friend since she had let the previous six people in front of me go before her. So, the next bank employee was mine. As fate would have it, she did not speak English. Even though everyone Rachel has ever encountered at this bank in her two years of living here has spoken English. She went to get someone else to help me. The second woman spoke English and understood me (as long as I talked very slowly), but was unable to open an account for me. She did not have the proper authority. She then moved me to a comfy, plush chair to sit and wait for the appropriate personnel to assist me. Ten minutes later a tall, blond approached me and told me to follow her. I then followed her through a password encrypted door to a hallway/stairway. Judging by the foreboding lighting, I knew I did not want to go downstairs. Luckily, we went through yet another password encrypted door. I then proceeded to open a bank account. If only the excitement stopped there. This process took at least twenty minutes; most of this time I was left alone at her desk while she ran around asking people to translate words for her, finding the proper documents, and making copies of all the official documents. Unlike Rachel's experience two years ago, I was required to give my U.S. address, my Belgrade address, my U.S. telephone number, and my Belgrade cell phone number. She also asked for my father's name. I asked her twice if she wanted the first name to which she responded yes. She had me write it down for her. So for a reason I do not understand, my bank account is listed under the name Katie Elizabeth (Morrison) Mahuron. I was given an identification card to bring to the bank each time I came to make a withdrawal, asked to sign several documents (all in Serbian), and given a printout with the needed information for BVS to wire my monthly stipend to me. Of course, the name on my bank identification card is my name with my father's first name in parentheses. When I asked her if she understood that this was my father's first name that was listed in parentheses on my bank identification card, she then proceeded to tell me, "Yes, your name is here. Your bank account number, here." Helpful? No, I think not.