I was nervous about going today to the Landesamt für Bürger- und Ordnungsangelegenheiten to get my residence permit, because another exchange student said it took him seven hours to get his.
For that reason, I woke up at 6:30, hoping to get there early. And I did. I was there and ready with all my papers at 7:55.
I was pleased to be there so early even when I saw a medium-sized (for Berlin) line before the front door. You may notice, however, that I was sans bright eyes and my tail is a little less-than-bushy.
I was still clinging to the tatters of foolish optimism when a mustachioed hunchback sidled down the line giving us each a slip of paper to inform us, oh so gently, that he was sorry, but the office was on strike.
As much as I want to share my misery with you, out of fear of boring myself *completely* senseless I’ll spare you details of the next 2 ½ hours. Let this suffice: I now have an *appointment* to go back in three weeks to the Landesamt für Bürger- und Ordnungsangelegenheiten so that I may show them my various IDs, forms, letters, receipts, photos, and certifications, in order that they may give me a permit.
And I thought going through airport security in Philadelphia was bad.
Oh! That reminds me of a funny story I haven’t told you yet. The very first interesting thing that happened to me on my journey took place as I went through security at the Indianapolis airport.
The security guard in front of the metal detector, a man clearly well trained in the subtle arts of detection and interrogation, pointed at my shoes and asked: “Are those your shoes?”
I am convinced that the test that one must take to qualify as a "security expert" is easier than the instructions on the Poptart box.
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