Two Americans, not as young as they once were, move to Spain. Neither speaks Spanish. Why in the world would they do that? A very good question. But not the one we will be answering today.
Today we explain how they got to Spain.
An American’s move to Spain begins with an application (and supporting documents) submitted to one of the nine Spanish consulates. An Iowa farmer must use the Chicago consulate. A Wyoming cowboy goes to San Francisco. And a Colorado school teacher must file in Los Angeles.
There is no rational reason why the application process should be different for the Iowan and the Coloradan. You therefore presume Spain has a uniform set of rules applicable to all consulates.
Ha! You obviously know nothing about Spanish bureaucracy!
Let us take, as just one example, the requirement that applicants submit bank statements for the previous three months. Those statements must be certified and translated. The translator must have been approved by the Spanish government. The Colorado teacher has most of her money in a Fidelity account. Each of the Fidelity statements consist of ten to twelve pages. The first two pages reveal the account balance. The remaining pages, written in dense microscopic prose, contain really helpful information like,
“EAI for fixed income is calculated using the coupon rate. For all other securities, EAI is calculated using an indicated annual dividend (IAD). TheIAD is an estimate of a security's dividend payments for the next 12 months calculated based on prior and/or declared dividends for that security.“
Surely Spain does not need translations of disclaimers, legalese and banker gobbledegook. Our teacher asks the Spanish-government-approved translator. Good news! Only the first two pages must be translated!
Our cautious hero seeks confirmation from her Los Angeles immigration lawyer, Debora Eizips-Dreymann. Ms. Eizips-Dreymann explains that the translator would be correct if she was working for an Iowa farmer or a Wyoming cowboy. However, the Los Angeles consulate, alone among all the nine consulates, requires translations of each and every word. The added cost to the teacher – about $1,000.
Our teacher is disappointed but not discouraged. Thanks to Ms. Eizips-Dreymann her application is not rejected for want of English gobbledegook being translated into Spanish gobbledegook. She gets her visa! Yay! You are relieved that your hero, the Colorado school teacher, has at last completed her nightmare journey through the Spanish cinta roja.
Ha! You still know nothing about Spanish bureaucracy!
Once in Spain the teacher must report to the town hall governing the city where she lives. A clerk there will give her a padron, a document confirming that local officials know where she lives. She then must get an appointment with the provincial foreign office which, in her case, is in Alicante. She must take the padron and various other documents to the Alicante office and obtain a residencia, or residency permit. All this must be done within thirty days of the teacher’s arrival in Spain. If it is not completed within 30 days she will be ordered to leave the country. Forever.
The appointment must be made over the Internet. Our hero dutifully logs onto the web site dedicated to this purpose. She enters all the necessary information. The web site is functioning perfectly, just as Ms. Eizips-Dreymann said it would. She requests an appointment in Alicante. She hits Enter. She receives this message: “No Hay Sufficentes Citas Disponibles.” The message ends with, “Por favor, vuelva a acceder mas tarde.”
The message may be roughly translated as, “Ha! We will teach you about Spanish bureaucracy!”
Our hero is an optimist. Every day, several times a day, she logs onto the web site. She enters all the information asked of her. And every day, several times a day, the process ends with, “Por favor, vuelva a acceder mas tarde.”
Optimism is not rewarded. It drains from the teacher like oil from a 1963 AMC Rambler.
With only three weeks left she walks to a tram station and takes the train to Alicante. There she gets on the Number 24 bus which she rides to the fourth stop. She gets off and walks a half mile to the foreign office.
The foreign office is a small one story brick building. The entrance is guarded by a uniformed officer. She presents her padron and explains in very clear English the problem she is having. The officer explains, in very clear Spanish, that he does not care.
A second officer enters the building, speaking to the first officer as he does. Our hero hears the first officer say “Americano” as he tilts a head in her direction with a mile-wide smirk.
The first officer turns back to her. He gives her a paper that says the appointment must be made through the same web site that has failed her for the past week. He is teaching her Spanish for “Catch-22.”
He speaks rapidly. He knows she cannot understand him but he won’t shut up. He is torturing her. He is getting pleasure from her confusion and discomfort. She looks in her purse and removes a knitting needle. She jabs it into his eye.
No, she does not really do that. It is against Spanish law.
The teacher returns to her apartment and finds a notepad. On the pad she sees “Debbie” and a phone number. The teacher recalls meeting a nice Welsh couple in the town hall. The Welsh people said she should call Debbie, who speaks several languages fluently, if she needs help with the bureaucracy.
Our hero calls Debbie. Debbie says, “You are trying to get a residencia from Alicante? Well pardon my French (Debbie is actually from France), those people in the Alicante office are bastards.” Debbie really lays into that last word. She tells horror stories involving the family members of Spanish citizens being denied residencia for absolutely no reason other than the whims of a xenophobic clerk.
Our hero hires a local lawyer who is able to get appointments for the teacher and her husband. The teacher’s appointment will be the following Monday. The Alicante lawyer says she needs the padron and four passport photographs. She also needs a copy of the passport page bearing the stamp received upon entry into Spain.
“But,” the teacher says, “our passports were not stamped.” She explains. “We got off the plane and a man standing in a hallway looked at the tags on our bags and asked if we had anything to declare. We had nothing to declare and said so. He waived us through. The passports were not stamped in Spain.”
“You should have asked for a stamp,” the lawyer says helpfully.
The teacher looks in her bag for the knitting needle.
The lawyer, sensing danger, continues. “Show them copies of your boarding passes and hope for the best.”
The teacher and her husband appear at the foreign office 30 minutes before the appointed time. They are given a number. They sit on cheap plastic chairs. Their stomachs churn with worry. All the work, all the expense, it was for nothing, and all for lack of a passport stamp.
They discuss contingency plans. But all plans may fail without the sacred entry stamp.
Why, why, why did they not go back to the man at the airport and demand that he escort them to an office and stamp their passports? Despair and self-recrimination bond like cruel lovers.
The number is called fifteen minutes before the appointed time. They are ushered to a desk. Behind the desk is a woman. The woman waves for them to sit. In very good English she asks for the padron. She asks for passports. She asks for a photograph. She asks the couple to place index fingers on a scanner. As she does this the teacher chats with the clerk. The clerk, like the teacher, lives in El Campello. She, like the teacher, is a very nice person. They agree to meet for coffee.
The very nice clerk explains during the process that the only passport stamp required is one showing initial entry into the EU. Our hero had a layover in Frankfort and the passports were stamped there. No Spanish stamp required.
Two stomachs unchurn. The teacher and her husband become giddy with relief.
The Frankfort stamp was later explained to the Alicante lawyer. She defends herself, saying, “I did not know that you stopped in Germany.”
“You should have asked,” our teacher does not say. She is a nice person.
The story ends happily. The teacher and her husband get their residencia. They make a new friend. A rude police officer keeps both eyes.
Postscript: We were inundated with cards and letters insisting on a story about Spanish bureaucracy. We do not usually respond to such requests but the pressure of overwhelming demands for information about Spanish bureaucracy was more than we could withstand.
Our next installment will address the question,“What is it like in Spain?” The story will be filled with drama, suspense and romance. Movie studios will bid for rights to the story but we will not sell. You will have to read it here.
Funniest story I’ve ever read while at work.