legal!

Ross & I have both received our residency permits, meaning we are legal residents of the EU until September.

I never thought I'd be a resident of the EU . . .

Just imagine the fine print.

At 32- and 34-letters, Levensverzekeringsmaatschappijen and Projectontwikkelingsmaatschappijen are officially the two longest works in the Dutch language. They mean "life insurance companies", and "property developing companies," respectively.

Brokers, eh? Tsk. Tsk.

Day Four

without hot water. This is losing its charm.

I've been home all day, waiting for the contractor to show up to fix our water "kettle". We're told that it might be a bigger problem than expected, and they might have to order a new kettle for us. As a way to pass time, I call our rental agency every couple hours, and ask if there's an update, and keep reminding them we want this fixed today. There's still an hour an a half before the work-day is done . . . do you think they'll make it?

I was watching some TV today, because I thought that might be a good way to listen to some Dutch, and was surprised that The A-Team is broad casted in the middle of the day, with Dutch subtitles. Who would have thought?

UPDATE: It's going to be another day. Think of us while you're having a nice hot, relaxing bath tonight.

Peice of Dutch Cake.

After approximately:
• five weeks
• six appointments
• €50 in phone calls
• two hours on hold
• two hours of speaking with an operator
• €15 in tram tickets
• three letters
• three hours in waiting rooms
• two visits to the Aliens Police
• one visit to the Canadian Embassy
• four visits to the Belastingdienst (tax office)
• one visit to the Immigration office
and,
• being told "That's not possible." innumerable times,
I have a SOFI number. This means I am permitted to work, and get paid, in The Netherlands.

I think I should frame it.

It was the carpenter, with a paintbrush, in our one-and-only room.

The whole "strangers walking into our apartment unannounced" was cute at first, but I'm officially over it.

Ross went to school this morning, and I went to the Canadian Embassy. When I came home, the street door to our building was propped open. Both the chimney-cleaners and the contractors who are renovating the apartment next door have been doing this, since they don't have keys. I don't really like it since they usually forget to close the door after them at the end of the day. We store our bicycles just inside the of door, and they could be stolen. They're not worth much, but I'd prefer not to have to go through the effort of getting them again.

When I came upstairs, the door to our apartment was also open – not just unlocked, but open – and no one was in sight. Instantly I had a flashback to Ross & I leaving the house together at the same time today, he locked the door, and double checked that I had my keys. . . there was no way we left the door open. The house smelled like paint, and I noticed the door was freshly painted, so I didn't think it was an intruder. But even still, I did a quick survey of our belongings. (We're fine.)

I went to the apartment next door, where one of the renovators was sanding. His English is on par with my Dutch, so our conversation didn't get very far. He called his boss, who I've spoken to a few times, and he assured me that no one from his company has keys to our apartment.

I then called the company we are renting through to find out who had been here, and why they left our apartment open to the general public. She assured me this is not the way they normally do business, and that before someone comes over, we must be notified (in my head I was thinking, yeah, right.) Immediately following this conversation, the mystery intruder walked in. . . it was the carpenter from our second day. He wiped some paint off the floor, and motioned that both sides of the door were wet, and left. He doesn't speak English, so I didn't bother saying anything to him. I just hope he stops inviting himself into our apartment.

In fact, I hope that all the random strangers stop walking in.

On a brighter note, I have some job prospects lined up.

On the down side, I learned that the woman at the Aliens Police did in fact fill out my paperwork incorrectly, and I'm not supposed to need a working permit; the Working Holiday Program is the permit. The actions to get this reversed may be very lengthy, and overly complicated, I am certain.

On the bright side, the woman at the Canadian Embassy gave me her card, and told me that if for some reason, it's going to take longer than 3 months, to contact her, and she'll be on my side. Cross your fingers I don't have to use her number.

Buying a Bicycle Part I

Ross & I left the house this morning with one goal: to buy bicycles (fiets). No problem, right? I mean, there's bicycles everywhere. Outside of every house there's at least two chained up. Outside of every store there's at least ten. All this city has is bicycles! There must be thousands of bicycles for sale, right?

Wrong. For some reason, nobody sells used bikes. We went to 4 different stores, and discovered that in all of Den Haag, there are only 12 used bicycles for sale--two of which are for kids--and these start at 200 euros ($300).

This is baffling to us, after all, the bikes that the Dutch are riding are not nice. They're cool, cause they're old city cruising bikes, but most of them look like they belong in a history of cycling museum. Most bikes look like they're about to rust through. (When I asked a Dutch guy about this, he explained to me "Bicycles are not about fashion, they're about functionality.")

So, where do the Dutch get their bikes?! If anyone knows, please tell us.

We want bikes!

Not that I'm complaining, but . . .

trying to get anything accomplished around here can be so frustrating!

You may or may not know that Ross & I each ran into our share of speed bumps trying to get things in line before we left home. No matter what we read, or how informed we thought we were, someone at the Dutch consulate would tell us some "essential" piece of information that would come from left field. We've actually laughed about it many times, because it's quite bizarre compared to what we're used to (ie: a handy pamphlet, or an informative human to talk to).

This morning was our meeting with the Aliens Police to apply for our residency permit. This was frightening for two reasons. First of all, they're called the "Aliens Police", and secondly, even though we had all the documents they requested we bring, we were fully prepared they were going to tell us we forgot something essential that we've never heard about.

If there's one thing that's consistent in Dutch policy it's this quote: "I can't help you. You have to call this number. . ." Once we call the number of the day, someone will answer. Unfortunately, this person can't help us, but they will immediately put us on hold for an indefinite amount of time. At this point, there's a pretty good chance that someone will hang up on you. Repeat.

Did we mention that using the phone here is incredibly expensive? In our few days here, Ross & I easily spent close to 100 Euros using the the phone. For most of that, we were on hold.

Everything is so bloody bureaucratic. Ross likens it to the movie Brazil where every issue has it's own department, and there's no communication between any of them. Our meeting with the Aliens Police went well, but afterwards we were sent on a wild goose chase to answer this one question: Can we apply for a SOFI number? (SOFI is like a SIN).

Anyone sitting behind a reception desk can sense when you're about to ask a question, and the second they hear that tone of voice, they send you off in another direction, building, or town, as it happened today. Or they reach to a stack of paper in front of them and say the famous line, "I can't help you. You need to call this number. . . "

Argh!