I went on Wednesday after class to the istanbul emniyet müdürlüğü. But first let me tell you what it took to get there. Back in America, we wondered what we’d need to do to get me a residence permit. I almost took a road trip to Chicago (it was also a good excuse to hang out with my favorite neighbors and break in their new Ford Flex), with the understanding it would be easier to file there. I was probably right. About a week after I arrived, we went to the local municipality to get the paperwork started for the request. Contrary to what we’d been told on the phone, it was the wrong building. One afternoon wasted.
The next day, we took all my papers – application, pictures, proof of good standings, to the Istanbul branch, where we did a lot of shuffling to get in. No appointment, but perhaps it was because no one there had any phones and the published number just rang and rang. Did I mention they use typewriters to publish the permits? After pulling a few strings we got my papers approved. I got a residence permit for 3 years.
Here we are Wednesday, where I go to pick it up. I went into the building, passed passport control, across the way, into the same building to pick up my permit. I gave my sheet of paper to the attendant and she told me to wait….so that I did. About 15 minutes later all the people that had arrived after me had been called. I saw the guys across from my clinching a Spanish passport, so I asked him how long he’d been waiting and what was the deal. He had been there for about the same amount of time, so I thought it was normal. Then I asked the attendant again. This time she told me I had to go back to the other office and get a file number. So I did. (No central database, in case you hadn’t guessed) So I walked the little post-it graciously supplied by Turkish Airlines back to the attendant who took the number and told me to wait. By this time, my gracious ride had to get going. I asked again 10 minutes later and she told me, it is not here, come back Friday. My ability to put together Turkish sentences at this point is in no shape to argue, so I used my lifeline, also known as fiancé, to squeeze more of an explanation for why they told us it was ready and really, it was not, via cell phone. [Introduce first taxi experience which is probably worthy of a whole different entry, here].
Friday, I went with someone who speaks Turkish. A lot of waiting, lots of short answers, they finally told us they had lost my file. Sweet. Welcome to Turkey. The head attendant hand shuffled through each pile until he found mine. It was in the no-official-appointment-pile. Low and behold, I got the permit. The little document with a story longer than could be captured in the little pages stitched into the little book. It looks like a minny passport! It’s a little book, about 3x4 inches, with lots of pages – reminds me of a promotional copy of the declaration of independence or a bible except you’d get from a street peddler in the US.
The next day, we took all my papers – application, pictures, proof of good standings, to the Istanbul branch, where we did a lot of shuffling to get in. No appointment, but perhaps it was because no one there had any phones and the published number just rang and rang. Did I mention they use typewriters to publish the permits? After pulling a few strings we got my papers approved. I got a residence permit for 3 years.
Here we are Wednesday, where I go to pick it up. I went into the building, passed passport control, across the way, into the same building to pick up my permit. I gave my sheet of paper to the attendant and she told me to wait….so that I did. About 15 minutes later all the people that had arrived after me had been called. I saw the guys across from my clinching a Spanish passport, so I asked him how long he’d been waiting and what was the deal. He had been there for about the same amount of time, so I thought it was normal. Then I asked the attendant again. This time she told me I had to go back to the other office and get a file number. So I did. (No central database, in case you hadn’t guessed) So I walked the little post-it graciously supplied by Turkish Airlines back to the attendant who took the number and told me to wait. By this time, my gracious ride had to get going. I asked again 10 minutes later and she told me, it is not here, come back Friday. My ability to put together Turkish sentences at this point is in no shape to argue, so I used my lifeline, also known as fiancé, to squeeze more of an explanation for why they told us it was ready and really, it was not, via cell phone. [Introduce first taxi experience which is probably worthy of a whole different entry, here].
Friday, I went with someone who speaks Turkish. A lot of waiting, lots of short answers, they finally told us they had lost my file. Sweet. Welcome to Turkey. The head attendant hand shuffled through each pile until he found mine. It was in the no-official-appointment-pile. Low and behold, I got the permit. The little document with a story longer than could be captured in the little pages stitched into the little book. It looks like a minny passport! It’s a little book, about 3x4 inches, with lots of pages – reminds me of a promotional copy of the declaration of independence or a bible except you’d get from a street peddler in the US.