Foreign residents in Germany making their pilgrimage to the immigration office are often full of horror stories. But Expatica's editor admits that her experience was a revelation.

Up to now, I have been spared the trials and tribulations of the Auslaenderbehoerde or the German immigration office.

For the past few years, I circumvented it with the Federal Office for the Press, which consists generally of meeting with a specific officer, handing her clips to show I do work as a journalist and paying a fee. Here, getting a work permit is pleasant, easy and quick.

So yes, I will admit that I evaded the degrading and painful experience of joining other foreigners in the middle of an ugly industrial area to wait for hours, at the mercy of some petty bureaucrats, who want to keep out the hungry hordes. Instead, I took advantage of an agency whose sole purpose is to keep foreign journalists away from the infamous bureau.

This year, I decided to try my luck directly with the agency — I coveted a two-year visa and also, a specific sentence on my work permit that an employer wants, one the press agency doesn't get for me.

My journey started with the appointment. This is a very tricky process, I had heard. It reportedly takes months to get a specific date and without one, one is out of luck. And I was running out of time — in essence, I had three weeks to renew.

Looking on the immigration office website, I saw that one can call either on Mondays or Fridays between 9am and noon. Alternatively, they have email addresses to write to and propose a few appointment dates. Frankly, I was really skeptical. I just don't like sending important messages into a black hole. I tried it anyway.

To my great surprise, I got an answer — and a date before my visa expired on 13 January — within an hour. The only thing I could even complain about was the time: 8am (I am not a morning person). But no kicking a gift-horse here.

Then the worry began. What to bring? How much? They instructed me to bring proof of my work as a journalist, of income, of health insurance, a photo and EUR 30. Well, this being Germany with its legendary bureaucracy and love of TMD (too much detail), I decided to arrive armed with paper, hundreds of pages actually —  clips from multiple publications, invoices, bank statements, health documents, everything I could think of, assembled into a very organised folder, even labeled.

In essence, I decided to out-paper the bureaucrats. Overwhelm them actually, get the tactical advantage. And just in case, I pulled out my most chic suit, polished my most conservative pumps, assembled matching make-up and jewellery. Dress to kill, the adage goes.

One foreseeable problem left to go.

You see, as a non-morning person, I am always aware of my biggest weakness: if something is too early, I just don't wake up. And 6am is too early. My back-up plan was Andy. He has long been charged with injecting me with caffeine, cajoling, threatening, whatever he has to do, to get me to join the land of the living. In the end, he was at his most heroic this day. Neither of us has had much sleep in the past week. So of course, I slept through the four alarms bellowing next to my head while he was already making coffee, longing for bed again.

In the end, we set off in the dark, on a bus, to the nether regions of Berlin. I don't remember it too well because it seems like a dream now. But I brought a German — as I was advised to do, and this one got us there — on time.

We walked through the typical dank, drab building that government interior designers specialise in. We found the room and the designated bureaucrat, Mr. B. He rattled off rapid fire German, very crisp and business-like, but not unkind. I handed him my documents, passport, photos and Mr. B said that there was an issue: my past visa was incorrect, but it was their fault and he would get it fixed.

We went outside to wait while he made his call "upstairs". Andy told me that he got the impression that it wouldn't be a problem, that Mr. B had already signaled that he actually wanted it to go through. We got called in again, were told to go downstairs to pay and return. When we did, Mr. B. handed me back my passport. It was over. I don't think he really looked through my carefully prepared package of proof before handing them back either.

I have to say that Mr. B defied the image of a bureaucrat from the beginning, with his quick movements and decisiveness, curt orders and a complete absence of facial expression, including petulance. And as we were leaving the room, I saw a clock showing 8:30am and said to Andy: "Wow, that was amazing".

Mr. B heard me and actually cracked a smile.

I understand that I am probably one of the lucky. I know those horror stories have their roots in something concrete. But I have to say that in my few years in Germany, I just haven't experienced the legendary German bureaucracy or its petty spite I hear so often about. Of course, I am not naïve enough to believe that being an American journalist doesn't give me an advantage either. But I do wonder if it is actually easier here than, let's say, in the US, with its supposed open-door policy toward immigrants and its anti-bureaucratic posturing.

In the end, we went home, drank a whiskey and celebrated my new two-year visa. It wasn't even 9:30am.

Jabeen Bhatti
Editor
Expatica Germany

January 2007

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[Copyright Expatica 2007]

Subject: German immigration procedures, life in Germany