Work Permit?

The US has a reciprocal agreement with the Belgian government. Well, at least one. Spouses of foreign diplomats can be issued a Type C work permit, allowing them to easily and quickly work on the Belgian economy. This sounds like a great plan, and I thought I would put it to the test. After all, I am the spouse of a diplomat as my nifty black passport attests, and as I don't know how long that will last, I thought I might as well take advantage of all the perks I possibly can. What I discovered, however, is that with most administrative policies in Belgium, things are neither quick nor easy.
Here is a brief timeline:
I applied through the US Embassy in October 2007, thinking that I would like to sub at the kid's school during the winter months. By February, after several follow-ups, I had no paperwork. David made a call to the Embassy, and presto, within a week he came home with several official documents in French that appeared to be a work permit. With the winter months about over, and school holidays coming like ocean waves, it was May before I actually spoke to the school. They were pleased to have me sub, and while filling out paperwork with HR, I was told that I probably didn't need the work permit after all but that they would let me know. Fast forward through summer to the week before school starts. The school called to finalize paperwork and discovered that they did need a copy of the permit after all. That is when I discovered that what I had was not in fact a work permit, but a permit to get a work permit. Getting the actual permit required a trip to the Commune-the Belgian equavilent of a city hall--plus a trip to the Ministry for...you guessed it...Work Permits. After two trips to the Commune, a supplimental trip to the Embassy for more paperwork, and one more trip to the Commune, I was ready to face the Ministry. For all you Harry Potter fans out there, there were some startling similarities.
I arrived at the address only to find myself IN the train station. Not exactly what I was expecting. After asking directions to the Permis de Travial, I walked into a waiting room on the order of a public health clinic. After twenty minutes of watching two cute little African boys tackle each other and push every button in the room, my turn finally arrived. I found my way to a back cubicle where a young man, eager for his lunch break, awaited. Here is a synopsis of our conversation, translated for the benefit of all:
Worker Man: May I have your papers?
Me: Excuse me?
WM: May I have your papers?
Me: Oui
WM: Oh, I see you have the wrong papers. These are the old papers. You need the new papers. Here they are.
Me: Thank you. (Try desperately to decifer the French directions and fill out the forms correctly. I don't want to have to come back.)
WM: This permit, it is for co-habitation? (meaning, living together but not married)
Me: No, I am married.
WM: This David Passey, he is Belge, no?
Me: No, he is American.
WM: May I have your Marriage Certificate please.
Me: (??????) I don't have my marriage certificate.
WM: Oh, but you must have a marriage certificate for this permit.
Me: (Pulling out every official document that I have stating I am the wife of David Passey, and I have several--including the permit to get a permit) I don't have my marriage certificate with me, as a matter of fact, it is not even on this continent, but these papers attest that I am married to David Passey.
WM: Oh, this is very bad. Excuse me please.

Worker Man walks to the cubicle next door and has a lengthy discussion in French. Worker man returns with new forms.

WM: Ah, it is clear to me now that you have the wrong papers. You need a Type B Permit. You must start again with new papers.
Me: I was told that I need a Type C Permit.
WM: No, no, you need this other permit.
Me: Excuse me, please.

Ok, at this point I start to panic a little because I know that I need a Type C permit, and I can't argue that point in French. So, I pull out my cell phone and call the Embassy work permit guy for back up.

Me: Hi. This is Beth Passey and I am at the Ministry and they are telling me I need a Type B permit, when I know I need a Type C permit. What should I do?
Work Permit Guy: Who are you?
Me: (repeat)
WPG: Who is your husband?
Me: David Passey
WPG: Just a minute, let me turn on my computer............................................................................
Oh yes, here he is. Yes, you do need a Type C permit.
Me: I explained that to the gentleman, but he insists that I need a Type B permit.
WPG: Ok, ask to speak to Madame Boin. She is familiar with the process.

Me: May I please speak with Madame Boin?
WG: Oh, I am so sorry. She is on holiday for another week.

Me: She is on holiday.
WPG: Ok, ask to speak to Monsier Director.

Me: May I please speak with Monsier Director.
WG: Oh, I am so sorry. He is on holiday as well.

Me: He is on holiday.
WPG: Ok, can you hand this phone to the worker guy.

Me: Could you please speak to this gentleman from my embassy?
WG: In ENGLISH?????
Me: No, in French.
WG: Oh, of course.

At this point, I hand my phone to the worker guy who begins a long and loud conversation in French. In the mean time, another worker has come into the office and called someone on the desk phone and is also speaking loudly in French. I am sitting in the chair wishing I was on holiday and only understanding enough to know that both workers are trying to figure out what on earth to do with the crazy American lady without a marriage certificate.
Finally the visiting worker hangs up the phone and utters the infamous phrase: Ah, this is a speical case. Then the regular worker guy hands me back my phone.

WG: Oh, it is clear to me now that you need a Type C permit. Let me see your papers.
Me: You have my papers.
WG: It is very good that you need a Type C permit. A Type B permit is very hard to get...there are lots of papers.
Me: I am glad too.
WG: May I see your marriage certificate.
Me: (Are you kidding me???) I don't have my marriage certificate.
WG: That is quite alright. I do not need your marriage certificate.
Me: Good.
WG: Oh, I think I have everything I need. You will need to go back to your Commune in several weeks to get your work permit.
Have a nice day.

Ok, so there are several ironies in this story, but the biggest is that I am writing this from a sub job at ISB. I still do not have my work permit, but apparently ISB is completely desperate for subs. When I explained to the secretary that I didn't have my permit yet, she said "That is no problem. You come and work tomorrow, and we will pay you when your permit arrives."
Hhhhhmmmmmmm.

Anniversary in Amsterdam

For many years we have had two anniversaries: The Anniversary, August 10, the day we were married, and more importantly, The Anniversary (Observed), the day, or weekend, or week, that we actually get to spend a few minutes together rediscovering why we got married in the first place. This year we spent our Anniversary (Observed) in Amsterdam. And we learned alot. We do still love each other, we do still like each other, we don't particularly love Van Gogh, Dutch candy is awful, raw herring has too may bones but a curiously appealing texture, and we are very sheltered. I am ready to start the scantily clad, chain smoking, window sitting, what am I doing with my life?, you do have other options, prostitute rescue mission. Dave, face pointing the other direction, said he would have to sit that one out. There is nothing like crusing a canal at twilight to bring out the romance of a place, and Amsterdam really glows at dusk. The water takes on an almost natural blue tint, contrary to its daily greenish brown, and the house boat inhabitants come out onto their decks to drink, laugh, and ignore the tourists. The houses feel more real, the churches benefit from the misty glow, and the counter-culture are all busy doing their counter-culture thing.

I love the markets in Europe--each city seems to have its own theme and specialty. Amsterdam of course is flowers, and tulips reign supreme. THIS is the place to get tulip bulbs. We also found the flea market (of course) which was an amazing jumble of african masks, indian fabrics, bicycle parts, produce, second hand clothing, counter-culture necessities, bad paintings, bizarre shoes, and general miscellany. David and I stopped to dig through bins of pocketknives and sewing scissors and we both found a treasure.

Rick Steves said that you really must try the raw herring sandwiches, and being of generally obedient natures, we did. Besides, we had a coupon. So now we can say we did it and we got a pretty healthy dose of Omega-3 in the bargin.