Two weeks. Remember that? Two weeks? Two weeks they said and then I'd be registered as a resident in my country of origin again. Two weeks. Yeah right, two weeks. Rule number one when dealing with bureaucrats: do not trust them.
I counted the days as I waited to be informed about my registration. A week went by. Ten days. Two weeks, but no notification of registration. Time for a phone call. The same receptionnist that hands out the tickets answered. Hoping to be dealt with efficiently this time I explained the whole situation to her. I was told that I was going to be notified of my registration? No that was a mistake. We never send notifications. I beg your pardon? Wondering what is so dificult about having all employees providing the same information, I inquired about speaking to someone who could tell me whether I was registered. "O then I'll have to check there is someone here who can tell you that." And that is how you're put on hold. To wait.
No, there was no one there to help me so she would have someone call me to sort this out. Someone did call, unfortunately with bad news. I was not registered. Feeling more waiting coming up I asked for a good reason for this delay. There was none. The city council was dependent on the Home Office for my registration due to the fact that I had lived abroad. Right. Was there any way of telling me how long they were going to need as the necessary two weeks had already passed? No there was not. Two weeks was normal, but obviously something had gone wrong and now it was uncertain how much longer it would take. "It's probably best to wait another week."
Now, waiting is not something I am good at. I am a very impatient little girl with a very short fuse. So when told to wait, especially by bureaucrats, an explosion is quite possible. Trouble is guaranteed: "I have been contacted by my insurance company that they cannot insure me as I am not registered. Are you paying my hospital bill if I break an arm or a leg, not to mention if I'd need serious treatment in case of a major car accident?". Then you've done it. The bureaucrats become understanding. They will start by repeating what they have already said in an attempt to have you see reason. They will tell you they're aware of the difficulty of the situation. That they're sorry. That they hope it will be sorted out soon. But nevertheless, there really is nothing they can do. Still there was a light at the end of the tunnel: I would receive notification. Will I? I was told you never send notifications? No no, we don't but for international movements we do. From this point on I saw neither reason nor logic.
Whichever way I analysed the situation, I was looking at another week at the mercy of the bureaucrats who themselves were at the mercy of more bureaucrats. Unsurprisingly the week passed without the arrival of my registration. Growling I called the townhall again. At the wrong time. There was no one there to answer my question, I'd have to call back later. Having been spoiled a week earlier by a member of staff calling me, I had them do it again. A friendly young man rang during the afternoon to tell me that unfortunately they had not heard from the Home Office yet but it was expected any day.
I started to make his life difficult by telling him the insurance-story. As we all know, without registration, no insurance. Without insurance, a short drive in the car becomes a matter of life and death. Going downstairs is suddenly a very risky business which is best carried out sitting down. The guy understood. I mean, really understood. No long, useless explanations but rather asked whether it is actually the case that you can't be insured without a residence registration. I told him it was. Seeing the seriousness of the situation, he was keen to help, however did not know how. I did. What about provisionary residence? You just put me in your computer and get the stuff later? For reasons of severe bureaucracy that is not possible. Of course it isn't. That was to be expected. "I'm sorry but provisionary residence does not exist."
Trying to do some good though he promised me that he would be contacting the Home Office that same Thursday afternoon and then he hoped they would send him the information straight away. These days that was all digitalised so things would then take three working days to be sorted out. That was a bad move. He should not have told me that as I took the opportunity to make more trouble. "Three working days? For what? Emails within the Netherlands take three days to arrive? That is curious since I have no trouble talking to people on the other side of the world over the internet. Message is there straight away." No no no, that was not the case. So where do the three days come from? Yes, the three days come from bureaucracy. I was informed that apart from the Home Office, my last city of residence would also need to send them some documents.
That's right. If you have lived abroad for ten years and you come back, they still need documents from your last city of residence. Regardless that those are completely out of date. I was flabbergasted. The guy felt bad now and in a last attempt to make me happy gave me his direct line, told me to call the following week and hopefully he would have good news.
Apparently the guy was either terrified or on a serious mission to provide excellent customer service, because one week later, my phone rang. Phone number unknown, who's this? The friendly guy from the town hall. With good news: "You are once more a registered resident in this town." That was good news. So although you are at their mercy, they do call you back even if you haven't asked for it. Perhaps at least one bureaucrat can be trusted.
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