The immigration office

We have now all been successfully registered with all the appropriate German authorities. This was not without some difficulty, however, and two separate trips to the immigration office. No matter where you go in the world, dealing with government bureaucracy is rarely an enjoyable experience.

My first trip to the immigration office earlier this week began with walking into what appeared to be a rather dilapidated building, which is actually somewhat out in the middle of nowhere. There were no signs telling you where you were supposed to go or what you were supposed to do, so I simply walked up to the receptionist and handed her my application form. "Zimmer Elf, Links" was her only reply.

So, I wandered around unti l found a door marked "Eleven" on the left, and pondered what to do next. Do I knock? Do I just go in? Stuck on the door was an 8.5 X 11 sheet of paper with numbers written down the side. While I looked for some clue as to what to do, someone pushed past me and ripped off one of the numbers. "Ahh", I said to myself, "you take a number".

So, I ripped off a number and sat down on a wooden chair outside the door. Nothing happened for quite awhile, and I was really beginning to wonder if I was in the right place. I was also still feeling a bit jet-lagged, and it was a bit difficult to remain awake while sitting in a warm room, on a wooden chair, and staring at a poster of Bonn. After about a half hour, however, a woman emerged from the door and said "Nummer Funf!". Okay, so there was at least some activity.
My turn eventually came about, although I silently bristled that the guy who brushed past me got to go before I did. I handed in my VISA application, along with the passport photos we had taken in the U.S.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk." She said. "This will not do."

"What? Why not?"

"You are smiling", she replied.

"What? I can't be smiling in my picture?"

"No, you cannot smile in Germany"

"Trust me, I haven't been smiling that much in Germany, this picture was taken in the U.S."

"You need a new picture".

"Okay", I relented. "On my way in, I saw one of those passport photo booths in the lobby, can I go get a picture taken right now?"

"No", she replied, "that is not sufficient".

"So, you are telling me that the photo booth that is physically in the immigration office, does not take pictures that are suitable for a visa?"

"That is correct. You must go to a photo studio".

"Splendid! I guess I'll be back. Thankfully the office here is "conveniently" open from 8-12, four days a week."

So, the next day we went and had new passport photos taken of the whole family. Jill and I did our best to look as miserable as possible, so we have a nice set of pictures where we look like convicts. Unfortunately, we couldn't seem to get SJ not to smile. They were probably some of the cutest poses she's ever done in a photo studio. However, the photographer told me they were more lenient with children, and if she was showing a little bit of happiness the authorities would look the other way.

So, I returned to the immigration office the next day - this time making sure to rip off a number as soon as I got there. I got the impression that our applications were still not quite up to snuff, but the immigration officer seemed a bit tired of dealing with me, so she stamped our visas anyway. On my way out, I passed by a couple of workmen who were busily packing up the passport photo booth and hauling it away. I guess they finally decided that having a photobooth in the immigration office that does not produce suitable photos for visa applications is a useless waste of space.