Surviving Bureaucracy

Endeavoring to become a legal resident of Portugal has been something like what I imagine a blind person might feel like in Costco. From the moment you enter the store, or in my case, country, all previous navigational tricks and methods of gathering information virtually disappear. There’s very little written in your language, you don’t know where you’re going or where you’ve been, and you don’t know who to ask for help.

I entered the country assured by friends and the internet (<3) that the immigration process would be easy. I bought a plane ticket, packed my suitcases, said my goodbyes, and left without much knowledge of what lay ahead. The plan was to figure it all out as I went. I later realized this comes from a deeply internalized sense of American exceptionalism and privilege. As free and excited as I felt, I do not recommend this type of departure :’) unless you want your life to feel like a movie for 2 weeks and then banal stress dream for the next eight.

My first 2 weeks were indeed a movie. I lived in hostels, met fellow travelers, ate delicious and new food, and explored more of the city I had fallen in love with the summer before. No one knew me and I knew no one. I could wander around and meet someone, spend eight hours with them, and then part ways without exchanging phone numbers.

And then I got a drink with an American; a young woman and mutual friend (twice removed) who had moved here recently for graduate school. She started talking about her partner’s Visa troubles, and suddenly I realized I wasn’t wearing pants (figuratively speaking).

“You didn’t go to the embassy?”, she asked me. Those words sounded so heavy, so full of responsibilities and waiting rooms. As I sipped a glass of some nasty liquor I ordered to be ~spontaneous~, reality came crashing down. It was time to pay the price for my main character energy.

I began doing research online for how to get as a short-to-long-term Visa. Oddly, I couldn’t find a single working website for Portuguese immigration. I tried multiple phone numbers - no answer. I felt like a freshman, helpless and confused, except with a more developed pre-frontal cortex, i.e. stress response. After a few more days of marinating in confusion, I found out that the Portuguese immigration branch had closed down with no certain date of reopening! Yes! This might sound unbelievable to a foreigner, but having been here for 5 months now, it is totally on brand.

Another major adjustment: the internet.

Somehow, the internet felt someone’s abandoned backyard.

Unlike in the States or other cities in Europe, the internet here isn’t filled with well-built websites, reviews, addresses, decent interfaces, store hours, or contact information. It looks like what I imagine it did in the early 2000’s: you type in a question, or a topic, and often the first link to appear is a Reddit page. Maybe a Facebook thread. Many sponsored ads. Sometimes a website. Lots of people asking questions that never got answered. Things written on websites are often unreliable, outdated, or false. Entire agencies don’t have websites. Grocery stores have instagrams, websites have incorrect or missing information, and on top of that, no one picks up the phone. For a while, I felt like I couldn’t see straight, especially when it came to the immigration process.

Example: In order to apply for a work visa in Portugal, you need a few things, like a Portuguese bank account. But in order to open a bank account, you need a work contract. But 95% of the time, you can’t get a job (and certainly not a contract) without a visa. But you can’t get a work visa without a bank account… And yeah no one answers the f**king phone!

I got extremely lucky. By the grace of god and the skin of my teeth, I managed to get a job in a bookstore - don’t ask me how. It was truly a godsend moment. The other day while I was shipping out second hand books, my boss, a 26 year old independent business owner, said the following:

“In the U.S., you have a citizenship test. In Portugal, you just have to survive the bureaucracy. If you can do that, you’re Portuguese.”

There was more truth in that statement than I think he realized. Passing through Portuguese bureaucracy is a form of cultural conversion. The disjointed, lackadaisical nature of the federally-run systems and programs is akin to an “initiation”. Fundamentally, you understand a critical layer of Portuguese life by passing through these processes. And it doesn’t just apply to immigration. From my experience, it’s the same for many businesses, private banks, the insurance industry, the post office, and renting an apartment. But it doesn’t matter as much as it does when the will-they-or-won’t-they-answer-the-phone-this-time outcome can be the difference between you becoming a legal resident or quietly sliding into illegal alien territory. There is a second layer of truth to this joke about “becoming Portuguese”, and one I find more interesting.

Facing the frustrations of the immigration process has required somewhat of a cognitive rewiring.

At many points in the immigration process, I have wanted to bang my head into a wall. There have been moments that I’ve been so utterly at a loss, directionless, and exhausted. Having this experience multiple times over in multiple different realms is a test. The amount of time/money/energy spent arriving at closed doors, showing up for a long-awaited appointment without a necessary document because no one told me in advance that I’d need it, the unanswered phone calls and emails, the language barrier… it’s a lot!

In these moments, a new type of stress would arise, rooted in the fact that I would become illegal in the next (90 - X) days if I didn’t manage to complete these XYZ tasks. And how am I supposed to build a life here on top of this fundamental uncertainty? These were the questions, more real and more uncertain than any I had dealt with prior; and I had never been so far from everyone I knew and the comforts that being with loved ones can provide. With no clear next step other than go back and try again, it was in these moments that I had to recalibrate my stress response.

Sink, or swim. Relax. Adapt. Accept. And try again tomorrow. I had to learn to deal with my frustration and fears differently. When the week is over, you’ve done all you can do, and you’re standing in front of closed doors yet again with no tangible progress made, there’s nothing left to do but put your phone down, sit down in a cafe, drink your delicious 80 cent coffee and appreciate the glowing sunlight hitting the two century old church across the street in the quiet bumbling corner of city. Maybe contemplate the fallen empire. Your heart (and sanity) are sustained this way.

And eventually, with repetition, you adopt a more Portuguese mindset. A more relaxed resting state, one less fixated on time, less easily irritated. Soon, the person stopping the whole checkout line in the grocery store to have a conversation with the store owner becomes a non-event. You no longer order an Uber to the restaurant for fear of being late. (Odds are you’re the first to arrive anyway.)

Here is a photo of “dinner” on one of those long afternoons I spent trying to turn myself into a legal resident. If you can’t tell they’re SARDINES (I felt very Portuguese in this moment).

Persevering through this malfunctioning bureaucracy (I’m sorry but it’s true) has been a test in keeping a level head while still managing to create a life from the bottom up. When the solution is the problem, and the problem is the solution, you keep trying, find someone else to ask for help, keep learning the language, staying organized, finding ways to enjoy yourself in the in between, and hoping that eventually, you will get swallowed up into the circle.

I stood at the bus stop after failing to get in the bank for the third time that week, and finally saw my bus approaching. It was coming, coming, coming, aaaaand going, going, going. I returned to work from my lunch break completely unsuccessful in completing the task at hand.

“I missed my bus twice”, I told my co-worker.

“Impressive, it’s a pretty big object to miss.”

I was grateful for a laugh.