Dulcinea and I arrived at the Oficina de Extranjeros, near Estació de França train station, around 11h30. There was a milling and frustrated crowd of immigrants outside, wanting papeles and work permits. There was a metal gate with a guard checking the credentials of everyone wanting to enter. I stepped forward and showed him my documents. Luckily, I had an official printout indicating that no appointment was necessary for me, and the specific hours I should show up (between 12h and 14h, Wednesdays only). It was too early yet, so he didn’t let us in. We went to a nearby café for a hot drink, watched a gang of suspicious youths “almost” rob someone (but the smart girls, sitting at the same café, hugged their bags close to themselves and made it clear they were “onto” the boys’ tricks). Dulcinea and I went back to check out the (now-bigger) milling crowd shortly after 12.

There was a new guard, and he let us both in after checking my papers (I’d heard some people have the experience that their Spanish partner — even a spouse — sometimes isn’t allowed to go in with them). We went through a metal detector (inactive?) and followed the directions the guard had given us. We entered a miserable-looking waiting room full of hopeless people sitting on shoddy chairs. We walked in front of them, bypassed them all to open a door (all while being far from certain that we were doing the right thing). We found ourselves in a big office with three desks, and an official behind each one. We stood by the door until someone motioned us over. I did as much of the speaking as possible, but it was great to have Dulcinea there as an extra set of ears, and as a far better explainer than me, if things got confusing (in a couple of cases, I misunderstood an explanation completely). There was the usual document-showing, the nice woman made me a photocopy of a page I hadn’t brought (a grumpier official would have sent us packing, to make our own photocopies; lucky again!), and then off we were to the next place.

None of the government agencies accepts payment of fees (by any means); they give you a modelo para el pago de las tasas (basically, a bill), which you have to take to a bank and pay it there. You then need to bring this proof of payment to the next place in the bureaucracy chain. For example, you may have to pay a processing fee or a card-issuing fee. In Canada, you’d normally just pay it right there, to the official.

Another key concept here is the resguardo. In the Oficina de Extranjeros, they gave me a handy list of all the things I needed to present at the comisaría (police station), to apply for my TIE (foreigner’s identity card). One required item was a resguardo from my application. I asked the woman what this was, and she said it was the original form I submitted. “You mean, my application for the visa, at the Consulate?” “Yes, it’s whatever you had to submit.” Hmm. (In retrospect, it seems that my situation was not the normal one I’ve seen described on the web: I didn’t have to apply for a residence permit myself, but had it filed “internally” and approved before I actually got my visa, which saved me some complication here in Spain…but it kind of confuses the process since later, I didn’t have the resguardo de solicitud for the permit. Luckily (again — I suspect being blond and Canadian has something to do with this “luck”), at the police station I was allowed to continue on with my application for a residence card, even though I was lacking the appropriate resguardo.)

After paying the latest set of fees (typically 10€) at a nearby bank, we caught another bus, back up town to Gràcia, to a major police station closer to our neighbourhood. Arrived around 13h15, but were told they weren’t allowing anyone else for the day (the processing part is only open 9h-14h every day).

So, that was it for “officlal business” on Wednesday. Since Dulcinea took the day off work, we took a late-afternoon trip to IKEA to look at storage options for “my room” — the small place where all my crap from Montreal will have to be housed. Snacked on albóndigas suecas (Swedish meatballs), then returned home, somehow exhausted, from having actually done very little “work”.

[to be continued]

I arrived in Barcelona a week ago (in the famous Spanish novel our hero arrives there just before the end of his story, but (hopefully) it’s toward the beginning of mine!). Spent a nice four-day weekend with my “Dulcinea” (something DQ never managed). Tuesday was the first día laborable that I was here, so I went to work, too, at my current “job” — which is to introduce myself to the various bureaucracies of Spain and Catalunya.

On Tuesday (with Dulcinea back at work), I wanted to start things off properly, so of course I went for a haircut (one of the things that eluded me in my last busy weeks in Montreal). I hoped to avoid any communication problems, and especially the 80s-style “hockey hair” (aka “coupe Longueuil” aka “corte futbolista” — everyone has their name for it); also, the dreadlocks and other favourites of misguided Catalan and Spanish youths.

I managed to get a reasonable (and pleasantly mullet-free) cut at a salon just up the hill, a mere block from my new home. The hairdresser’s husband, it so turned out, was from Canada; no less, from Edmonton! She’d even visited his family there (and (sorry, but), hated it)…Dulcinea tells me the hairdresser is actually separated now (she didn’t mention this to me), so perhaps that adds to the bad associations? Anyhow, this seemed a pretty unlikely coincidence, since there are very few Canadians (let alone Edmontonians) here, especially in this neighbourhood.

I then went to try to open a bank account (something that continued all week, until I finally gave up for now). I discovered (should have remembered, since it has happened to me before) that the numbers on two sides of the street don’t necessarily “align”. I was on Diagonal, looking for number 538. I was on the odd side of the street, around 300-something, so I kept walking and walking as the number slowly grew. Another thing is that a block doesn’t guarantee you a fixed increase in street numbers, such as by 100. Instead, it was quite a hike and I was still far from 500. I decided to cross, and discovered that I’d overshot! I was now at 602, so I imagined it would be a short walk back…instead, it was quite another hike back to (more or less) where I’d started. I think this phenomenon is especially common on the big streets, like Diagonal, Passeig de Gràcia and so on.

In the end, I was lucky that the bank was still open, since it was now after 14h, and most other banks were closed for the day. After a 15- to 20-minute wait, the ING man told me I couldn’t open a “current” (what we’d call a “chequing”) account because I don’t have a job right now — they only had “nómina” accounts (into which your paycheque is deposited). So I tried Deutsche Bank (also open), and after considerable confusion and freaking out the security guard with my apparent loitering in the massive open lobby, I was told more or less the same thing: that I should try with one of the more “local” banks, such as La Caixa or Caixa Catalunya. No success there — the only real progress for the day was a fresh haircut and also a set of “carné”-sized photos I had taken for the TIE application (Tarjeta de Identificación de Extranjeros, aka foreigners’ identity card).

On Wednesday, Dulcinea took the day off work to go with me to get empadronado (registered with the Municipal Registry). This is a key first step to almost every other game in town. Because I am not renting or buying a place right now, and because I don’t have any (water, gas, electric) bills with my name on them that prove my address, she had to come with me to certify that I was living at the same address. This all went remarkably well — and in a beautiful community building that had something in common, design-wise, with the Alhambra. We took a number, sat amongst a crowd of forty or so in a bright hall and watched the red quickly numbers tick up to mine. In total, we waited maybe 30 minutes (como mucho), then we were in and chatting with a friendly administrative woman. There were no problems. She told me it was very important to go to the medical centre to get a health care card (la tarjeta sanitaria from CatSalut, the debt-laden Catalan health agency). I was a bit surprised, since I’d understood I’d not be covered by the public health system for now, since I’ve never worked in Spain and so was not registered (nor could I register) with the Social Security administration. In fact, I had to show proof of private insurance in order to get my visa, and I understood that this requirement would not change once I was in the country. More on this mystery later (though it’s only more mysterious to me — and to everyone I ask about it — at the moment).

After that, we took the bus to the health centre just off Maragall, and at the front desk (after a short wait among old folks getting drugs or cups for their urine samples) were told to go to the third floor and ask for the card there. Up we went (via the stairs, being the healthy folk that we are) and were helped right away by a nice girl who gave me a sheet explaining the three things one needs to get the health card. Two of them I had (passport or identity card, plus proof of empadronamiento, which I had hot off the press), but the third was lacking: a registration number from the Social Security administration. I asked if I could still get this number if I weren’t working, and she said, “yes, they’ll still give you a number you can use for this.” Fair enough (though again, I was surprised, from what I’d heard before). But the place to get this number was a fair ways away, and we had yet to fulfill our main objective for the day: a visit to the Oficina de Extranjeros (Foreigners’ Office) down on Marquès de l’Argentera near Barceloneta, in order to fulfill the obligations for my residence permit and card.

I had a printout telling me I had to go within 30 days of my arrival in Spain (so far so good, since it had been only 5 days so far). It indicated I had to go on a Wednesday, between 12h and 14h, and that no appointment woulld be needed. Hmmm…can you tell we planned ahead? (Yes, it was Wednesday, and just after 11h, so off we went.)

[to be continued]

I’m Barcelona-bound, at last. I had seven months of visa-waiting (almost to the day). Now, seven weeks after that (precisely to the day), my house is under new ownership, my worldly possessions have been redistributed, given away, sold, or are en route to Europe. I’m at Trudeau airport, waiting for the adventure to begin. To continue, really, because the last while has been quite an adventure in itself. Months, days… In seven hours I should be in Europe.

There have been (so far) many hiccups and stresses, coulda-gone-wrongs and did-go-wrongs-but-worked-out-anyways, late nights, record snowstorms, farewell dinners and pub visits with friends, delays, glitches and surprises (both good and bad), but now I’m truly on my way.

You can’t expect much better than what I got. I mean, an ex-Prime Minister of Canada came to the airport to see me off. Not Trudeau, obviously, though the airport may bear his name. No — there he was, none other than Jean Chrétien, causing me to do a double take as I walked right next to him. In spite of myself, I had to turn back once I was past and sneak another look. Even better, my closest friend decided to save me the hassle and unpredictability of the shuttle bus, and took it upon himself to drive me to the airport and see me off. I really couldn’t hope for much better.

It wasn’t just a move, because then you can just have movers stuff everything into boxes and cart it off to your new home. No, I wanted to take this opportunity to lighten my load, the sheer amount of stuff I had, to feel free. Also, there’s the fact that the apartment waiting for me on the other end doesn’t have a whole lot of space. I managed to get rid of at least half my stuff. I was scolded several times for being too “unsentimental” — too ruthless with my purging. That may be so, but there are still a surprising number of boxes in a crate in a warehouse somewhere, waiting to be loaded on a ship that leaves Montreal next week. Port city to port city, not bad — assuming all works out fine (ha!), they should deliver my goods in a month.

Well, the plane awaits. Let’s see if this precious visa is all it’s cracked up to be! And what the Spanish customs folks make of my meticulous list of all my (remaining) earthly possessions…