Stranger in a Strange Land

extranjero n. 1 foreigner, stranger: soy una extranjera.

Ruyman was born and raised here in Tenerife, so returning home isn’t just easy, it’s highly beneficial. The government rewards returning citizens, especially if that citizen is of working age, because the returning emigrant helps pay for the social services of the retired. It’s like the Social Security problem facing the US in the near future, except with half the eligible workers leaving the country to get jobs elsewhere. So to increase the workforce, Spain offers a 600 Euro a month stipend and a fast track to home ownership for coming back. 

Normally, this system works to everyone’s advantage. However, with the global economy precipitously near the crapper, the dynamics have changed. Spain still loves its prodigal sons and daughters because they return with skill sets they acquire in other countries, usually ones that aren’t as developed in the motherland, thereby helping the economy. What Spain doesn’t want, though, is the added bulk of spouses or companions. If the spouse becomes a citizen of Spain, he or she is a strain on already burdened social services. Exacerbating the problem is the ridiculously high rate of unemployment in Spain: 21% nationally and 28% here in the Canaries. Every person who doesn’t originally belong to Spain takes a job that could go to someone who does.

The process of citizenship isn’t as complicated here as it is in the States, particularly if your spouse is already a citizen. Spain keeps track of information about people in terms of nuclear families using a document called El Libro Familia, or The Family Book. It’s the size of a passport and includes birth records, marriage records, and any other details that affect the size and shape of the family. If your spouse is a citizen, the first step to legality is to obtain a family book, registering the creation of your family. 

We applied for our book in May while we were living in Utah. Our local Spanish consulate sent it to the consulate in Los Angeles who sent it to the consulate in San Francisco, who misplaced it for a month, and then sent it back down the chain. Ultimately, we got our family book the middle of August. 

Once we got into Spain, there was more to be done. The next thing we had to do is register with the city and establish our residency there. Ruyman received his certificate on the spot, while mine will hopefully show in a month. However, the woman at the counter gave us a copy of my application so that we could do the next step, which is called extranjeria. I need an official card identifying me as a lawful foreigner living in Spain. We showed up at the extranjeria office yesterday with all our documents in hand just to be told that we needed to make an appointment online. This is where things got a little complicated. 

Normally I’m a highly accomplished decoder of bureaucratic crap, having both worked for the State of California and gotten Ruyman through the American citizenship process. Spain added a whole new level of anguish to a usually painful experience. Whoever designed their government website obviously didn’t want it to be used, because even without a language barrier, it’s one of the more frustrating places on the web. All links to extranjeria forms were broken. The links that did work merely described the forms required. I finally found a phone number and Ruyman spent three hours trying to set an appointment. 

That’s when we gave up trying to do things the straight-forward American way. Instead, we contacted everyone we know to see if someone knew an employee in extranjeria who could take pity on us. Ruyman’s father went so far as to send an email to the president of the province. We now have an appointment on Tuesday. Barring any unforeseen complications, I should get my DNI card then. The card entitles me to health care, permission to work, and deliciously cheap airline tickets to anywhere in Europe. Here’s hoping nothing goes wrong.