One of the first things I need to do in Vienna, after I settle in, is to register with the police and obtain my residence permit (Auftenthaltstitel) for this year.
Austrians love bureaucracy. It is one of the things that makes them happy, I think. I am starting to believe all the things I've read about Austrians and paperwork...almost as bad as the French! Having dealt with both, I still think the French are worse (I had to go to the French Consulate in Chicago 3 times, and even then they did not give me the "right" visa). Nevertheless, a thorn in my side may be what the MA 35 (Magistratsabteilung) becomes.
First, I arrive in Vienna, thinking I need to register with the American Embassy. Since Vienna is a lot bigger than Amstetten and I can't just walk down the street to register with the authorities. Fine by me. But, I have no idea where to go. So I go to the first logical place - the place they tell you to always go first when you're traveling abroad: the American Embassy. I take the U-Bahn to a place near the University, and walk out along the street looking for an official-looking building. Obviously, the one with iron bars, 6-foot high barbed wire and guard dogs is the American embassy. Easy to find, at least.
I saunter into the
Right. So I run up to Parkring from Boltzmanngasse (inconvenient seeing as I have to take 2 street cars and it takes 20 minutes from door to door) to get scanned - again - and interrogated. I wave around my passport, which indeed helps this time - I get to go to the front of the line! But it's a small victory, because the guy behind the desk tells me I'm in the wrong place. Again.
Fortunately, the gentleman behind the desk does give me an informative sheet of paper with an address and a list of services the Magistratsabteilung 35 provides. "This," he explains, pointing to the bolded heading, "is the place you want. People coming to the consulate want to get out of Austria, not stay here." Fair enough, good sir.
By now, I have wasted my whole morning running around. Yes, literally. It is now just after 11:00, and the problem with bureaucracy, the biggest problem, is that these buildings, which house "employees" to do "services" for the public have very short working hours. 8-11:30am. M-F. Or, if you're lucky, they'll stay open until noon. With another 1/2 hour on public transport ahead of me, I won't get to the MA in time to do anything but be handed a number. So the finishing of my quest needs putting off for another day.
Next day: out the door by 8 to get to the MA 35 in time to get my papers finished. YES! Today is the day, I tell myself. Today I will arrive home with a brand new Auftenthaltstitel and a feeling of accomplishment!
From the street car stop, I walk along a row of imposing metal and glass high-rises straight out of 1984 into #93-C and swarms of sweating, tired-looking people (it is August), crying babies and that smell you always get in European waiting rooms from the one or two people who are for some reason anti-deodorant.
I grab a number and am directed by the woman behind the desk to take the elevator to the fifth floor. From there, I wait for my number to be called. About an hour. I walk into the room to a weary-looking man behind a desk, who despite his "casual" summer office apparel (Tevas and a short-sleeved plaid shirt) does not have a "casual" attitude. He informs me that 1) I missed the deadline to extend my visa and will thus have to sumbit an Erstantrag rather than a Verlängerungsantrag. But he seems to take pity on me...I think? and decides he can go through with my request as soon as I get all of my forms copied and signed in triplicate. I may use the pay-per-copier outside his office. 20 cents a page.
Once I return to submit my triplicated forms, Mr. Casual has already moved onto someone else. And I thought I was special. Over his shoulder, he tells me to wait a little longer. My number will be called again shortly.
I sit back down. 10:42, my watch reads. Not bad. This gives the guy over an hour. And he did say "shortly" so I wait and watch the screen for my number.
At 11:12, I am sick of staring at a screen, so I whip open my book. I read one chapter, and then two. And by the time I know it, I've read 50 pages but my number has not been called. It is nearly 2:00. Supposedly the MA 35 has closed. I look around the waiting room to see a Turkish couple buying sandwiches from the vending machine. Has anyone told them the MA 35 closes at noon? A woman comes up to me and asks why I'm there. I tell her about renewing my visa, and that Mr. Casual told me to wait. OK, she nods. It'll be another minute.
Around 2:30, a younger, plumper woman comes to get me. She scans my fingerprints. She takes out my triplicated forms. She prints out a form and tells me to go to the cashier to pay for my Antrag. I can almost taste my victory!
I run up one flight to the cashier, who takes my €80 and hands me a receipt. I rush back down to the plump woman, who asks me for a Mietvertrag. A what? She repeats herself. I tell her I don't have one. She gets her colleague in from next door, who translates for me into English: a contract.
Yes, thanks for that, but just because you translate it for me doesn't mean it will magically appear in my backpack. I only have a Meldezettel - a residence registration form. Which has the same information, but is apparently completely different.
No dice, the ladies say.
Then the new one says something mean about me in German, thinking I won't get it, and the plump one laughs. I feel like calling them a couple of cows - in German - but I realize that would hurt my case, and seeing as I now have to return to the MA 35 to finish my business, the least I can do is hold my temper until I'm out of the building. Play the bureaucrats' game and sometimes, when they feel like it, they might just let you win.
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