Bureaucracy Abhors Creativity

Learning the order and patience needed to register as a non-resident resident in the efficient Dutch municipal system.

I was registering for a writer’s residency today and the payment form had two options at the top:

• I have been accepted and am making a deposit

• I have not been accepted and am using the wrong form

Being me, I laughed before realizing that they are there because enough people must have confused the words “application” and “payment.” The over-confident American side of my brain might think that’s just sad, but having moved to a new country where I am not fluent in the language and can’t discern between soap and surfactant, I’m changing my stance.

Yesterday, we had appointments to register with the municipality of Rotterdam, something you’re meant to do within your first five days but we figured they couldn’t count days they weren’t open.

I have since learned to question my assumptions.

To properly register with your Dutch municipality, you need to have a landlord and a formally arranged lease - all for tax purposes, of course. Our landing spot is not one that will allow for this so we have to register temporarily as “non-resident residents” which basically means we exist in the system but have no address, and they would send any formal communication back to our US address.

It’s a half-step forward.

In order to do anything with the gemeente (municipality), you need an appointment (duh). It’s rather slick the way it all works, you get a personalized QR code to bring in with you and scan upon arrival. From there, everything works a bit like a deli might, if they offered passports and resident registrations instead of pastrami on rye. If you’re thinking of the American DMV, you’re missing the delight of a properly-oiled Dutch machine.

At the IND, we knew not to be more than five minutes early, but we are so conditioned by the American system, we figured why not go early to the gemeente?

That’s a common practice, right?

“You are too soon, it is not your time.”

We detoured and found some hot lunch.

We made the appointment for our first registration before we realized that we couldn’t register at our current address. The online portal wouldn’t let us make an appointment to be “non-resident residents” who intend to stay for longer than four months, and we know better than to misrepresent ourselves by lying about our intention to stay.

William secured all the forms (both “real resident” and non) and printed them near our apartment before we made the trip to the Stadhuis. With everything in a glossy black folder, we scanned our code and waited for our number to come up. I wasn’t sure of the policy on photography, so this is the best I could do to capture the beautiful architecture.

The Stadhuis Rotterdam was built between 1914 and 1920. It’s in the beaux-arts style and the counters are in a long tennis court-style series of atria, surrounded by brick archways. On either end are the waiting areas and in the middle is a big bullpen where everyone works, with counters all around the outside.

I mentioned we had appointments and I won’t pretend there wasn’t a few minutes’ wait, but it was nothing like one might expect from a government office. Everyone was smiling, pleasant, and things moved along rapidly. It is very easy to adjust to the flow, just know you’ll be looking up every minute or so when the little dinging sound indicates a new number has been called.

At balie (counter) 10, the woman confirmed that we had to get “non-resident resident” registered, but that we had come on a “resident-resident” appointment. After clucking at our paperwork and conferring with her colleague at balie 11, she took our forms and went into the middle of the bullpen where she and another gentleman looked at several things on two different computer monitors.

William and I took deep breaths, convincing ourselves that nothing was going to go wrong.

I told myself that they were simply processing our registrations anyway, having decided to let our mix-up slide. The conversation in bullpen continued, another colleague stopped by to point at something on one of the monitors and I saw a big red bar across the screen.

After a little longer than my hope was meant to hold out, she returned with some printed papers to indicate that she’d been able to make appointments for us at the proper counters, for a little later in the afternoon. Endlessly grateful for her assistance, we now had a couple of hours to kill and were far enough from our apartment that it didn’t make sense to return.

Plus, the sun was peeking out!!

Back in the US, I was fortunate enough to work with a group of people who really understood me. In lieu of any sort of awkward Zoom happy hour, my team organized a trivia game all about Rotterdam. I didn’t win, but I got a few points. We haven’t done any proper sightseeing in the first week, having been too preoccupied with residency and finding places that sell cat food, but because of Lisa’s efforts to dig up facts, I knew of a landmark nearby!

The Markthall is a horseshoe of office suites with a glass-encased central atrium that is surrounded by eleven thousand square meters of mural, jokingly known as the Sistine Chapel of Rotterdam. Lining the floor beneath the artwork are hundreds of specialty food stalls, something I desperately wish I had remembered before we ate lunch elsewhere…

On the other hand, we might not have made it back to the gemeente in time if we’d gone on a tasting spree.

Much of Rotterdam was leveled in May of 1940 when the German Luftwaffe were trying to break the Dutch resistance, meaning there are precious few truly old buildings (somehow the Stadhuis survived unblemished). When beginning to rebuild, Rotterdammers decided against trying to remake the old image and embraced new styles, resulting in some of the most impressive modern architecture in the whole of the Netherlands. William couldn’t get enough of this one (and will probably comment something to that effect after his nap).

Bolstered by the walk and a little exploration, we returned to the Stadhuis for our two appointments. Originally, we made one since William is my visa sponsor and, for all intents and purposes, we travel as a unit. But for non-resident residents, apparently it doesn’t work that way?

Because the kind lady from counter 10 had made our appointments, we didn’t have QR codes and there wasn’t any other way to check in without a citizen number which is exactly what we were there to get.

Fortunately, there are several people on hand to answer questions.

Stop and read that again: we were in a local government office with enough staff on hand to not only shoulder the sizable workload but also to circulate and help the lost and confused foreigners.

The woman helping people scan QR codes took our papers into the central bullpen, where three or four people looked at them with her. She returned smiling with a green post-it on each of our forms, indicating our number in the queue. Both post-its said number 431, and she said we would be able to go together. My appointment was for a full half hour before William’s but, assuming they knew their business, we were glad to stick together and waited our turn.

The speed at which things move is really impressive and you can easily develop ping-pong neck looking up every few seconds to see who was the next contestant on “Welkom in Rotterdam.”

In short order, we were called to balie 9 where the woman was horrified to see two people for a single appointment. Our papers said mine was for 13:15 and William’s was for 13:45.

The woman from balie 10 wasn’t there any more to assist!

We did our best to explain that everyone told us that’s what we were meant to do, but the woman at balie 9 was very hesitant about the whole thing. She started working with me since I had the first appointment, but she was distracted - shooketh even.

As she slowly worked through the process of listing me in the system, I thought we might finally be on our way.

But then she stopped.

She frowned and clicked her mouse.

She said something to her colleague, turning her monitor to show what it said.

Her colleague snorted and grumbled.

My Dutch is getting better but I am finding that native speakers don’t speak slowly if they’re not trying to make sure I will understand. Rude.

Another colleague passed by and was invited to cluck and point at the monitor.

Collecting our papers, the agent rose and went to the middle of the bullpen, drawing over yet another colleague, this time someone with the air of a supervisor.

I turned to William, grimacing.

We took a deep breath, imagining that we could figure out how to proceed if a wall were put in our path.

We’ve made it this far, we shall overcome.

The bullpen conversation shifted to a different monitor and several people from the front were called over. They returned to balie 9 where they looked at the monitor again but this time, I was able to pick up a few words.

There wasn’t a problem with our address.

There wasn’t an issue with our presenting ourselves on the sixth day.

Registering as non-resident residents wasn’t the wrinkle.

The complication was that two is more than one.

That is not how Dutch order works.

In the US, if I have an appointment for 13:30, I might very easily show up at 13:00 and “see if they can squeeze me in.” Observing the upset in the gemeente, it occurred to me that if everyone with an appointment decided to come in when the doors open, there would be chaos. The people who reserved a first-thing-in-the-morning spot would have to wait while the staff sorted out all the people who simply couldn’t be bothered to wait until their appointed time. Most American waiting areas would turn hostile as no one likes to twiddle the old thumbs, especially not longer than “they’re meant to.”

Americans are told their time is valuable and therefore everyone is the most important in their own mind. By contrast, the Dutch seem a very egalitarian people: we will each wait, and be given our turn.

Eventually, the woman from the front apologized to everyone involved, admitting that she had accidentally written number 431 on both post-its rather than 431 and 432 as she meant to do. She, too, understood that 13:15 and 13:45 are different times and that if everyone just went to the counter whenever, no one would get anywhere. In an instant, the tension vanished and William was sent back to checkin to await his number being called.

In the time it took to find the woman from the front and chastise her, both William and my forms could have been processed; however, I see the other point of view: exceptions cannot overshadow the rules.

You are no more important than I am and, in fact, we’re both the same.

After the quick paperwork to “non-register,” I held on for my citizen number to be officially assigned. William’s paperwork was easily processed at his appointed time by the same woman at balie 9, who was so glad to have order restored that I think his took half as long.

In addition to the counters, there are meeting points where a staff member might escort you to their office or, in my case, present you with the official letter from the department of internal and kingdom affairs awarding a burgernummer, highlighted in neon yellow. The older woman who delivered mine wasn’t someone who I’d seen in the bullpen, she came from a side room. I imagine that her whole job is waiting gleefully to highlight a newly minted citizen number, knowing how delighted the recipient will be.

I was.

Altogether, we spent five hours orbiting the appointments, but we walked away from the experience utterly impressed with the ease and speed with which everything played out. I will also note that they had every form you could ever want, in multiple languages, waiting so we needn’t have gone to the print shop. There are pens to fill out your forms and fliers advertising the municipal services to ensure tenant’s rights and offering financial assistance through a variety of means.

We went to the gemeente to get the registration done, and thanks to the staff, we got everything we needed in the one trip. I’m not even disappointed that we will have to go back after we find an apartment to register as “resident-residents.” If we register in another city, I’ll get to see how a different one operates!

Fresh from my observations of Dutch order, we spent today doing regular life things: I ventured out in the rain for provisions while William did our laundry. I downloaded the manual for our combination microwave/air fryer/toaster oven/tanning bed and am going to attempt frozen pizza…if you hear that Rotterdam is burning, please know it wasn’t arson.

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