I have returned to Santiago and want nothing more than to begin my life as a professional. Unfortunately, I still don’t have residency.
I know, we all thought it would be much simpler—I am a gringa, after all. And I married a Chilean. Isn’t there some privilege that goes along with being a white, American professional that magically ushers me into all things good?
My many privileges aside, it turns out that paperwork is still paperwork. Bureaucracy remains the same.
Fortunately, there exists in Spanish a word that very aptly describes what I’m going through: trámites. (For you newcomers, check out Intro to Trámites.) And I’m not really surprised that such a succinct way of putting it doesn’t exist in English. It means you’re in the process of something, the formalities; it means you reel about from one building to the next, waiting in line after line, taking number after number, filling out form after form, and always thinking the end could be just one little slip of paper away.
The process that we’ve been through so far is longer than was necessary because we didn’t have the right information before moving to Chile.
So here is what we have done so far:
1. I showed up to the country and paid $160 for a three-month tourist visa.
2. We headed to the Departament of Foreign Affairs and Immigration. We thought we had all the necessary documentation to be considered married and to apply for residency. Turns out our marriage was not valid in Chile (kind of obvious, I know).
After waiting in a line that extended down six flights of stairs just to take a number, we waited three or four hours in the waiting room for our number to be called. The woman who assisted us told us not to worry! We could get married again here in Chile. Simple.
3. We braved our first attempts at getting a marriage appointment. There was a three-month waiting period. That wasn’t going to work. I had a job offer, and my visa expired in three months.
We would take advantage of a pituto, which is Chilean for a connection or an “in” with someone, in the registro civil in Valdivia; we’d be married by the time we got back to Santiago. Unfortunately, the pituto was on vacation. And the waiting period was too long for us to tie the knot before returning home.
After waiting in the wrong line for an hour, as there were virtually no signs or indications of where we needed to be, we were directed upstairs. There were a couple of people there staring at an empty number dispenser. (The dispenser has since been removed, as shown in the picture to the right.) The frosted glass doors were closed and unlabeled.
A woman would periodically pop out of the door to hand us numbers, but then she proceeded to call numbers out of order, asking people, “What are you here for? Oh, no; you have to wait.”
When it was finally our turn, we explained our situation and what we had been told to do. Her response was, “What? You can’t get married again. You’re already married. Someone will find out, and it will get back to me. They’ll come asking why I married two people who were already married.”
But just to make sure, she called someone else and put us on the phone with them.
Finally, we had some of the information we needed.