After a brief hiatus (2 years), I felt inclined to share a story of a particularly arduous experience involving Spanish bureaucracy–because, no, after 5 years in this great country, government and its immigration policies have shockingly not improved. Fortunately, this story has a happy ending or I would find this experience significantly less amusing. So, enjoy!

In order for me to re-enter Spain, I had to apply for a visa from the States. Since I’d never applied for this particular type of visa before, I paid a lawyer to do it for me. It’s notoriously difficult to find a lawyer in Spain who 1. Won’t charge you a disgustingly large sum of money, and 2. Actually knows the process for applying to the particular visa that you need. My lawyer seemed competent enough at first, he was doing the same visa for my coworker at the time, and he charged me a month’s rent instead of two. I was warned that he wasn’t very responsive but I didn’t have other options, and after all, how bad could it be?

Quite bad, as it turns out.

My lawyer submitted the visa application paperwork approximately 3 days before the deadline, after constant badgering on my part. In about two weeks, the paperwork was approved, and I miraculously snagged an appointment at the Spanish consulate: I failed to mention that just because the Spanish immigration authorities have approved my legality as a human being to enter their country, I still needed to bring another stack of papers to the consulate to apply for the physical visa–as in, this piece of paper they put into my Passport so I can enter the country. So, after getting the appointment that my lawyer was supposed to do (he somehow pulled through and did email me one document that I needed to present; he did not confirm that any of my other documents that I had doubts about were accurate or needed), I gathered my entire life’s documentation, and drove the 2+ hours to Boston for what would end up being a 15 minute appointment.

All I will say about the appointment is this: The consulate did not have the option to select my particular visa as the one that I was applying for in their system, so the employees were confused/doing guesswork, and I was crapping myself for the following weeks when, success! I was notified that I could drive the two hours back to Boston and pick up my Passport with the physical visa. I could now re-enter Spain.

So, I’m back in Spain, Madrid specifically, and the next step is to schedule an appointment at the National Police Immigration Office to get my fingerprints taken and request a foreigner’s identity card. This card is essential to have because, even though I have a visa, I need this card to travel around Europe and prove my residence and identity/legality to work and live in Spain. So, I make the appointment, I gather the documents, and I head to my least favorite place on earth, Aluche.

I present my documents to a surly, middle aged police officer. As most police officers go, he looked like he’d peaked in high-school, and had now been sentenced to forever processing poor immigrants’ requests to be issued identity cards. After a few minutes, I knew that every foreigner’s nightmare was happening: Something was wrong with my paperwork, as he was barking things at me and asking his fellow Officer Dipshit what he was supposed to do with me, gesturing at his computer. He didn’t speak English, and made no effort to slow down his Spanish so I could understand him better, but I understood that he couldn’t fulfill my request because my original approval from Spanish immigration came from Barcelona, not Madrid, that something had to be submitted by my lawyer to Barcelona’s immigration office, and that I needed to be registered in the Social Security System. He shoved my pitiful paperwork back at me, and I took that as my cue to GTFO, heaving a frustrated sigh.

I angrily text my lawyer what happened and he replies in the most maddening way one could respond: “I already told you, you can’t get your fingerprints taken in Madrid. You need to go to Barcelona because that’s where your company is based.”

UMMMM, NO, YOU DIDN’T TELL ME THAT. ALSO, THAT MAKES NO SENSE. I LIVE IN MADRID. I’M NOT GOING TO BARCELONA.

…is what I basically replied.

Guess how many more times I went back to Aluche?

Twice. And I was turned away each time. And given different reasons why. By two different policemen.

So first it was because I wasn’t registered in Spanish Social Security. Then it was because I received my approval letter from Barcelona, not Madrid, so I had to go to Barcelona (even though I’m registered as living in Madrid), and then it was “I can’t do it because you’re literally not in our system, you need to have your lawyer submit so-and-so and request that you be switched from Barcelona to Madrid. All the while, my lawyer and I are going back and forth, both sounding like broken robots as he insists that I have to go to Barcelona and I tell him that’s impossible, my other coworkers in Madrid got their residency cards just fine, and I paid him, so as my lawyer he better figure it out (it got a bit snippy between both of us, in case you hadn’t already guessed).

Finally, we try a different tactic. My lawyer gets me an appointment at a different police station, an hour and 15 minutes from my home. I go there with the same documents, but I don’t present anything that says Barcelona on it. This office is calmer, less depressing, more organized. The police officer calls me over and takes my paperwork: I hold my breath as he looks at his computer screen, waiting for him to say that something’s wrong, that I’m not in their ‘system’, or that my lawyer sucks. Nope, he asks for me to scan my fingers, which, thanks to a little skin condition called eczema that caused me a mountain of trouble last spring, means that I sit there, sweating, as he repeatedly tries to take my fingerprints, visibly getting frustrated as it takes longer and longer. And I think, “If it’s not my paperwork that gets me kicked out of here, it’ll be my damn fingers. This guy’s just going to give up.”

Finally, he’s able to scan my messed up fingers, walks over to a printer, and comes back a minute later with a document saying “Make an appointment and come back in 20 days to pick up your card”.

I’ll be picking up my card next week, and using my lawyer never.