Sunday, October 05, 2008

Tarjeta de extranjero

It's like hockey. Fans will all say they're against the violence in the game, but then when a fight starts, they're on their feet cheering. So when the kerfuffle started at the front at the line, it was kind of exciting. I mean, I had been waiting on the street outside the Bilbao police station since the darkness of 7:30am.

You want a Spanish passport, national identity card, or foreigner's resident number? Go to the police station, open 9am-2pm, Monday to Friday. Are you Spanish? Get there a little before 9, go to the front of the line, get your appointment time, come back when you're supposed to, and it's done. Are you a foreigner? Oh, well. Get there as early as you can wake up, and wait on the street in a painfully slow-moving line, and pray you'll get in before they close at 2pm, or else you'll be back waitingin the line-up again tomorrow. And as the sign posted outside the police station doors says, please don't line up before 5am.

Yelling and movement from the front of the line. It was probably 10am, and those at the front of the line had been there since 6am at least, though from the vantage point of someone who hadn't gotten there until an hour or so later, it was hard to see what was going on up front. The security guard surveying the line butts out his cigarette and goes to investigate. He then comes by hauling two young men practically by the ear. They had tried to jump the line. The guard shows them the back of the line. "Dirty Moroccans..," you can practically hear him thinking. But the bored security guard seems happy to have something to do, and we're happy to have a moment of excitement to break the monotony of the street corner.

The two young guys keep trying their luck. Sneaking up front only to get hauled to the back again. Conversations with the people around me in line, coffee runs, and trips to the other side of the street to warm up in the sun were punctuated by intermittent yelling from the front of the line and then the boys' walk of shame the length of the impatient, glaring line of foreigners.

They were still going at it when I got to the front of the line at 1:30pm. They'd changed their technique, and were now just harassing the security guard at the police station door directly. "Why can't I go in? Why can't I go in? Tell me! Justify your job! Justify your job!"

Though you have to admire their perseverence, they didn't get anywhere with it. The Bilbao police may make you wait on the street to get your identity card, but at least they're fair about it.

No comments: