A grand day out

A day out in Alicante is one of my favourite ways to pass the time when I’m at a loose end. Unfortunately, this was not the case when trying to get a residencia for my brother at the last minute before the (since extended) Brexit deadline while in a hurry to get back to work due to our own deadline (which had been brought forward due to the public holiday on Friday).

Expats in Spain tend to be a hardy bunch as many of the things we love about living here are often the same ones that drive us to the verge of a nervous breakdown if we are trying to get anything done. That easygoing attitude towards life which seemed so attractive is not so helpful when one of its side-effects is convoluted old fashioned bureaucracy that doesn’t turn up for work on time and then takes a coffee break 15 minutes after finally starting.

The hoopla of the application process has always been so offputting that many British residents have simply never bothered, but the political situation has changed and needs must, as at the moment nobody seems to be driving at all.

So, to ensure that we didn’t find ourselves facing a Spanish version of the so-called ‘hostile environment’ that Britain has threatened EU citizens with unless they obtain Settled Status, we had to make sure that he got the necessary paperwork in time, dare I say it, ‘do or die’.

Since my brother moved over here last year, a conspiracy of circumstances managed to ensure that we could never quite meet all the requirements at the same time. These included British employers who for some reason think that a legal employment contract is some kind of inconvenient privilege you should beg for or pay for yourself; banks that will only let you open an account if you have a salary paid in otherwise charge you extortionate fees; and actually getting a bloody appointment to apply for the residencia in the first place.

After a huge amount of financial juggling and workplace negotiations, the bank account and monthly salary payments were arranged, so that was two less things to worry about. However, despite their being several foreigners’ officers distributed around the province, for the last few months it has been almost impossible to get an appointment at any of them unless you happened to go online and apply within seconds of someone deciding to cancel theirs (or you paid some handsomely to some chancer who had wrangled their way into being tipped off whenever one of these golden nuggets appeared). Although the British and Spanish authorities repeatedly insisted that the system was working, we were having no luck.

That was until three weeks ago when it was announced that, with three weeks to go until the supposed deadline, more appointments had been made available. Strangely, all of these were in Alicante, so somehow by reducing the number of places you could carry out the process they had created more opportunities to do so.

Unfortunately, the not-so agile online system would only let you book for the following day and more time was needed to obtain some of the required paperwork. For example, the next available appointment to obtain a padrón in Orihuela was two weeks ahead, so with this booked we had to bite our nails that we could get that without a hitch and then go on to get the residencia during the very last week.

It required a day off work but the padrón was obtained without a hiccup, which based on some people’s accounts of their experiences in that office meant the nice lady who attended us must have been in an exceptional mood that day. We immediately tried to get a residencia appointment next, but none were available and the result was the same the following day.

Without much confidence I tried again on Sunday morning and fate smiled on us, there were options for Monday or Tuesday. Sadly my brother’s employers had been dragging their heels and still hadn’t provided him with a copy of his contract and recent payslips, insisting he would get them on Monday – so we said a little prayer and booked for Tuesday.

After a nervous night’s sleep, the oh-so important paperwork did actually turn up, leaving only a few forms to be downloaded, printed and filled in to be ready for the big day. I had lots of work to get done but figured that with a 09.40 appointment I could be back and in the office by midday and stay late to catch up.

The anxiety struck again when we arrived as I realised I hadn’t printed off the appointment confirmation slip. Although I had copied down the reference number, when I went online with this to confirm the details the system kept saying there was no such appointment! Inside I was panicking but kept it to myself rather than causing any more distress until it was absolutely necessary.

One pleasant surprise was that the foreigners’ office in Alicante was not, as I had expected, besieged by thousands of desperate looking expats – there wasn’t even a queue outside! Having passed through security and joined the short queue to the ticket machine I nervously waited for the computer to say ‘no’.

Amazingly, when I entered my brother’s NIE number it simply said appointment pending and spat out a ticket with a number that would be called in the adjacent, slightly decrepit but spacious and airy waiting room. It was a hallelujah moment.

A few dozen other people were already sat there, with nothing to do other than stare at the TV screen, which warned us all to ‘stay alert’ because the numbers might not be called out in order, and because the public address system was – like most – completely unintelligible.

The numbers were actually called thick and fast, and in no discernible order, so we were called in pretty quickly for the final test. Everything seemed to be in order until the nice young man attending to us pointed out that my brother’s work contract had not been signed or stamped by his employer. The look of sympathy in his eyes told me this was a problem, but also told me there might be some wriggle room here.

He pointed out that without a signature the piece of paper was essentially worthless and that my brother also needed a signed copy for his own legal protection. This should not be a problem, I lied, but getting the time off for all of us to come back here before Brexit was very difficult – we had even had to bring our elderly mother with us because she couldn’t be left at home alone, so he could see that I wasn’t kidding about that.

I reshowed him the payslips, the social security career history that proved my brother had been employed there over a year and he wavered.

“I suppose we could take it on faith but you must get it done,” he conceded, ever so generously. We could have kissed him.

“Now come back at quarter past one to pick up the residencia card.” I could have punched him!

After some frantic texting to my (fortunately understanding) boss to explain the predicament and three hours of kicking our heels, we were finally rewarded with the green, flimsy cardboard Holy Grail. It was one day out that I won’t be recommending on Trip Advisor.