Blog Backlog

It's summer in Denmark! One of the things that means this year is the "Sculpture by the Sea" exhibit, in which the art museum sets up a bunch of sculptures (you guessed it) by the sea. And in the forest, but I guess that doesn't sound as good.

Anyway, it was really cool! We got great weather, there were tons of people out and in a good mood, and we saw some interesting/cool/weird/neat sculpture. Here are some pictures:











We still like inside art too, though. We like it even more, now that Your Rainbow Panorama has opened on the top of our art museum (Aros). We've been watching them build it all year from our back window and we finally got to go up in it! More pictures to come later.

(This is the museum's picture of it)

In-Wanderer Woes

For the most part, Danes are pleasant and cheerful people who love efficiency. But there's a small faction who are unhelpful, grim of nature, and alarmingly indolent. Unluckily for us, 100% of those Danes work for the National Immigration Service.

B and I were originally issued permits to live and work in Denmark for one year, beginning on June 1, 2010--which was when B's contract with the University started. B actually got it in the mail in April 2010. I didn't get mine until October 2010, after multiple tearful visits to the police station, which houses the local immigration office.

Even though my permit didn't arrive until October, it still expired on June 1, 2011. So like dutiful Danes-in-training, B and I filled out all the requisite paperwork, paid the requisite fees, and trooped down to the police station again on May 23rd. There a joyless but well-meaning employee suggested to us that we also apply for Rejsetilbagetilladelser, or re-entry permits, in case we chose to leave the country for travel while waiting for our new permits. This seemed like a great idea, since not only do we plan to travel, but who knew how long we'd be waiting for? She had us fill out some additional forms, then instructed us to come back if we didn't get permits in the mail within two weeks.

Guess what didn't come in the mail?

So I made another trip to the police station. A different and even more joyless worker--although perhaps good-hearted, since she listened very carefully to my fledgling Danish-- explained that the forms had all been sent to Copenhagen, that she had no idea why we didn't have any permits yet, and that all she could do was give me the phone number of the Copenhagen office and have me call myself.

On Tuesday I called eight times. Every single time a recording told me that there were too many callers; all the lines were busy; and I would have to try again later. Then I was promptly disconnected--eight times.

On Wednesday morning, I somehow managed to call in time to be number 12 in the queue. Finally I spoke to a woman who informed me that while she had our residence permit applications, she did not have any record of our re-entry permit applications. She also said that re-entry permits are never mailed; they must be picked up in person, and why would any (inept?) person tell me otherwise? Then she said I hadn't called the right office anyway, and she transferred me to a different one.

At this point I encountered the first nice person at the Danish Immigration Service. This fine gentleman explained that I had been given the wrong case ID number (by an inept employee?) and that, true, there was no record of our re-entry permit applications in Copenhagen. An (possibly inept?) employee had failed to ever send those on. Hearing my desperation--we have to go to London on Monday! And we have no permits!--he devised a solution. If B and I could just get down to the police station with our passports and Danish identity cards, we could give the local employee his personal and direct phone number. He was authorized to give verbal permission over the phone, and with the proper identification, we could get the stamps right in our passports, right then. I thanked him profusely.

This was 11:15 AM. The police station would close at noon. I called B, grabbed the passports, and we sprinted over to the office. There we took a number and waited in the queue. When we were admitted in to speak to joyless woman #1, she listened to our whole story and then said no. No, local employees were not allowed to call the Copenhagen office during business hours. It was not the policy. I pleaded, citing all the effort I had gone to trying to get these permits. To which she replied,

"Well, you were on hold for 45 minutes. Imagine if we called and had to wait on hold for 45 minutes for each person who came here. How would we ever get any work done?"

I'd like to take this opportunity to point out that our local--meaning it serves the second-largest city in Denmark--immigration office is open 4 days a week, from 9 AM until noon.

B glowered. I tried not to cry again. He pleaded with her some more.

In the end, she agreed to try calling this man in Copenhagen after the office closed for the day. Then, if she got through and got permission before 2 PM, she would call us. If one of us could come back to the office, in person, before 2 PM, we could have the permit.

Unlikely as it all sounds, it worked. Somewhere around 1:15 PM, we got the call and I hustled right back down to the police station. I had to ring the bell twice, but I got the permits.

I think it was my worst Danish experience yet, although it's competing with my previous unpleasant visits to the local immigration office.

Maybe I should cut the Danes some slack, though. Before 1983, Denmark had less than 600 immigrants each year. Nobody wanted to go there. So they're not too experienced with the whole situation. In fact, the Danish word for "immigrant" is "indvandrer," or in-wanderer, which I think describes the whole situation very well. In-wanderers--they weren't trying to get here, it just sort of happened, probably by mistake.