4 january 2005
Well, you know what they say about the cycle of the years: Out like a lion, in like a bureaucratic nightmare.
The fun of December 31 has past, and the reality of paperwork has arrived. Is there a country without paperwork? Can we go there next time?
I jumped through countless hoops at the University of Oregon to get here. The Office of International Programs, the Office of the Graduate School, the university health center, the registrar, and the School of Architecture and Allied Arts each had their own, incredibly redundant and yet just unique enough to merit different forms, requirements for my release. I don’t know why I expected anything different from the Universiteit van Amsterdam. My housing contract and lease come from one department. My student identification comes from another. My class registration is completed at a third. And because the UvA is, shall we say euphemistically, decentralized, each of these buildings is in a completely different part of the city.
Have I mentioned yet how confusing the layout of Amsterdam is? Sure, the narrow, meandering, unmarked, medieval layout is what gives many European cities their character. And at the scale of Sienna, or even Venice, this full-of-surprises streetscape is downright charming, assuming you have sensible footwear and a cheerful disposition. But extrapolate this train wreck of a grid to the scale of Amsterdam, throw in a few dozen canals that can only be crossed periodically, and the result is: I cannot step outside my door without becoming completely lost.
Because the streets are numerous and tiny, and blessed with lengthy names like Lange Leidsedwarsstraat and Van Oldenbarneveldstraat, maps are only meaningful at large scale. Alas, large scale maps do not cover much of the city in one go. So Amsterdam maps come in sets. The streets, unfortunately, do not come in sets, but instead roam freely across unadjacent map pages, playfully changing names at at arbitrary mid-block points, or not changing names at all as they turn corners. Though some of my journeys involve map consultations approximately every three blocks, it is less a practical tool and more a general reassurance that to some mapmaker, one time long ago, the layout of Amsterdam was briefly apparent.
This being the case, I can only guess that it was with the benevolent intention of helping foreigners get oriented quickly that the Amsterdam Aliens Police, where all foreigners must register, was placed far, far on the outskirts of the city. Alone on the edge of a highway, in no proximity whatsoever to shops where one might procure a necessary photocopy, passport photograph, or notarization, an anonymous concrete mass of a building houses the Aliens Police. More precisely, the second floor houses the Aliens Police. There is nothing on the first floor. This cannot have been an error. We’ve made them come this far, they must have thought, let’s just add a superfluous flight of stairs for emphasis.
Complaining aside, the Netherlands is one of the first countries I’ve been to where they’ve made an effort at simplifying paperwork for Americans. Once I presented my US passport, the Dutch officials were happy to exempt me from the tuberculosis tests and birth certificate authorization required of other nationals. They were also happy to charge me 430 Euros for the residency application, as opposed to the 28 Euros requested of EU citizens. “Paying the fee does not automatically mean that your application will be granted!” noted the friendly immigration guidebook. In fact my application will not even be processed for another three months, when the Aliens Police will send me a letter to notify me that I am eligible to make an appointment for residency consideration.
So, I looked at a map, found a street called Metalwerkstrat, took a ferry there, and walked around industrial Amsterdam for a few hours. As planned, it made the paperwork go away.
The fun of December 31 has past, and the reality of paperwork has arrived. Is there a country without paperwork? Can we go there next time?
I jumped through countless hoops at the University of Oregon to get here. The Office of International Programs, the Office of the Graduate School, the university health center, the registrar, and the School of Architecture and Allied Arts each had their own, incredibly redundant and yet just unique enough to merit different forms, requirements for my release. I don’t know why I expected anything different from the Universiteit van Amsterdam. My housing contract and lease come from one department. My student identification comes from another. My class registration is completed at a third. And because the UvA is, shall we say euphemistically, decentralized, each of these buildings is in a completely different part of the city.
Have I mentioned yet how confusing the layout of Amsterdam is? Sure, the narrow, meandering, unmarked, medieval layout is what gives many European cities their character. And at the scale of Sienna, or even Venice, this full-of-surprises streetscape is downright charming, assuming you have sensible footwear and a cheerful disposition. But extrapolate this train wreck of a grid to the scale of Amsterdam, throw in a few dozen canals that can only be crossed periodically, and the result is: I cannot step outside my door without becoming completely lost.
Because the streets are numerous and tiny, and blessed with lengthy names like Lange Leidsedwarsstraat and Van Oldenbarneveldstraat, maps are only meaningful at large scale. Alas, large scale maps do not cover much of the city in one go. So Amsterdam maps come in sets. The streets, unfortunately, do not come in sets, but instead roam freely across unadjacent map pages, playfully changing names at at arbitrary mid-block points, or not changing names at all as they turn corners. Though some of my journeys involve map consultations approximately every three blocks, it is less a practical tool and more a general reassurance that to some mapmaker, one time long ago, the layout of Amsterdam was briefly apparent.
This being the case, I can only guess that it was with the benevolent intention of helping foreigners get oriented quickly that the Amsterdam Aliens Police, where all foreigners must register, was placed far, far on the outskirts of the city. Alone on the edge of a highway, in no proximity whatsoever to shops where one might procure a necessary photocopy, passport photograph, or notarization, an anonymous concrete mass of a building houses the Aliens Police. More precisely, the second floor houses the Aliens Police. There is nothing on the first floor. This cannot have been an error. We’ve made them come this far, they must have thought, let’s just add a superfluous flight of stairs for emphasis.
Complaining aside, the Netherlands is one of the first countries I’ve been to where they’ve made an effort at simplifying paperwork for Americans. Once I presented my US passport, the Dutch officials were happy to exempt me from the tuberculosis tests and birth certificate authorization required of other nationals. They were also happy to charge me 430 Euros for the residency application, as opposed to the 28 Euros requested of EU citizens. “Paying the fee does not automatically mean that your application will be granted!” noted the friendly immigration guidebook. In fact my application will not even be processed for another three months, when the Aliens Police will send me a letter to notify me that I am eligible to make an appointment for residency consideration.
So, I looked at a map, found a street called Metalwerkstrat, took a ferry there, and walked around industrial Amsterdam for a few hours. As planned, it made the paperwork go away.
posted by tortaluga at 8:18 AM
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