And then, a bit later, we went here:
The first photo is our new Czech bank, Česka Spořitelna on Rytířská ulice in Prague 1. The second, is the Foreigner's Police in Pankrac. The two could not be more different and experiencing both on the same day was something of a head trip.
First there's the terminology. Česka Spořitelna is equally famous for its gorgeous interior and its Expat Centre, which allows you to conduct all your banking in English. When you open an account, you are plied with tea, coffee and sparkling water and offered a variety of discounts on local services (including a slightly pricey gym which we had both, annoyingly, already joined). You're also asked to fill in a card listing your favourite leisure activities, so ČS knows to which of its swanky sponsored events it should invite you, the coveted expat customer. At the CP, by comparison, there are no expats, only foreigners. While I don't love the term expat (too often a glamorous-sounding synonym for socially irresponsible adult adolescent), "foreigner," at least in English, feels quite rude and calls up images of a crowd of Tea Partiers armed with pitchforks, hillbilly accents, tar and feathers. But I digress…
For our stint as foreigners at the cizinecká policie (CP) in Prague 4, Mr. P and I arrived armed with our passports and health insurance cards and accompanied by Nora, our unflappable immigration agent. We needed an immigration agent because the foreign police (despite the fact that the people they deal with are almost exclusively non-Czech-speaking) speak only Czech, and while my vocabulary is reasonably adequate for most daily interactions, Czech legalese is well and truly beyond me. We also needed help because the regulations and paperwork necessary for applying for residency in the ČR are constantly changing, making it difficult for a lay person to keep remotely on top of which forms and documents are currently necessary. We had thought our case would be fairly straightforward, Mr P being a European citizen and all. We'd had a visit from a couple of CP officers (which sadly I missed), who examined our flat (how many people live here?), our photographs and our wardrobes, followed a few weeks later by a letter instructing us to appear to pick up our resident permits. Stress free, right?
Wrong. First off, there's the atmosphere of the CP itself. We arrived at a modern building in Prague 4, where an open door revealed a shiny, white police station. I was just thinking "ah, not so bad", when Mr P pointed out a sign on the door directing us to the next door, which opened onto a far dingier scene, somewhat reminiscent of a US DMV in all its take-a-number-and-wait-five-hours splendour. (That's the Department of Motor Vehicles, for the uninitiated, aka the place you go to when you need a new driver's license, or want to experience Soviet-style bureacracy coupled with American righteous indignation – a fascinating juxtaposition, really.) The chairs were uncomfortable, wire-mesh creations, but at least there was the ubiquitous instant coffee machine in case we hadn't had enough coffee at the bank, though by the time I spotted it, the atmosphere had me so stressed out that the thought of consuming anything made my stomach churn. The creepiest thing about the CP were the doors. I really wanted to photograph them, but was scared I'd be yelled at for doing so, so description will have to suffice. I needed to use the bathroom and the doors to get there were all numbered, in creepy block numbers more suited to jail cells than public conveniences. Also, they weren't in numeric order. Door 47 (WC pro zeny) opened to reveal doors 13 and 62 (stalls, only one of which actually opened). I felt trapped in a prison film, a suspicion which increased when I washed my hands and was effectively hosed down by an overzealous tap and emerged dripping. Lovely.
Mercifully, we didn't have to wait long, as Nora had arrived early to get us a good number. We did encounter some difficulties surrounding Mr P's accidentally laundered passport and previous Czech residence permit, which had been retained by his last Czech employer and was thus not on his person. The lady dealing with our case was about to fine him 3000kc (£100) for not having it, when a passing colleague told her that to do so would be ridiculous, as the permit had expired anyway (whew!), so in the end, we were let off with only a bit of hassle. Hassling seems to be what the foreigner's police do best. Why make a simple request when it's so much more fun to harangue? For example, US passports list the state, not city of birth. CP lady wanted my city of birth, so first she called Nora to the desk, who then called me to the desk and explained what was required. While I was writing it down for her, CP lady continued to lament that "Pennsylvanie" was not a "konkrétní místo" (a concrete place) and that she needed the city. I wrote "Harrisburg, PA." CP lady entered "Harrisburg" on my residency permit, which, ironically, is not at all a konkrétní místo when separated from the PA bit, as god knows how many Harrisburgs there are in the United States! (A quick google search reveals Harrisburgs in Utah, Arkansas and California, for a start.)
In the end, however, all was well and I was issued with this lovely blue document, which means that I am legal. What excites me the most, though, is that I can now finally get a library card with borrowing privileges at the city library (hurrah!) without a friend needing to vouch for me.
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