8 Kilometers in their Shoes

Each Wednesday afternoon since I've lived in Bratislava, I've made the 8 kilometer roundtrip pilgrimage to the Foreigners' Police Office. The office's location in the Communist-style concrete jungle of the Petrzalka neighborhood might lead one to infer that the Foreigners' Police would prefer that no foreigners ever actually find the office. But, with the assistance of a crude map and some helpful Bratislavans, I found the tiny, hidden office four weeks ago and have been a regular visitor ever since.

The reason for my treks to this very off-the-beaten-path locale? I'm working on securing a pesky little document called a Temporary Residence Permit. As a US citizen, I'm only allowed to stay here for up to 90 days permit-free. The trouble is, the documentation required to obtain this permit is excessive.(involving x-rays and FBI clearance)

Additionally, it all needs to be officially translated into Slovak, notarized, and paid for with some sort of magical Slovak currency stamps.
After my first trip to the not-overly-welcoming-to-foreigners Foreigners' Police, I walked away a little discouraged and frustrated. How would I ever get all of this paperwork together? Why couldn't the people at the office be more helpful?
But since then, I've readjusted my attitude. Part of my rationale for coming to a completely foreign country in the first place was to put myself in the shoes of my students and their families, immigrants to the US. While our reasons for "immigrating" are obviously quite different ( mine for curiosity, enrichment, and diversion; theirs mainly out of economic necessity), my experience with trying to secure this permit definitely has given me a small glimpse into what navigating within a giant, bureaucratic system when not able to speak the language and not necessarily feeling overly welcomed is like for immigrants (and visitors) to the US. Additionally, I realize that in my "worst-case scenario," I am forced to leave Slovakia for a few months, travel to some other exotic, fascinating countries, and then reenter, while those desperate to come to the US to make better lives for their families have a legitimate right to be overwhelmed and frustrated by the tedious immigration process.
I have 60 days left to prove that I have no criminal record in Slovakia, find a notary, convince my landlord that I won't lose his property letter (whatever that is), translate my bank statements, resend my fingerprints to the FBI, and take a blood test.
Or maybe I'll start packing for Montenegro.

Stay tuned: Squash