Santiago, paperwork inferno.

Saturday: We are happy. The sun has risen and illuminated the smog of Santiago. Serkan just boarded his flight back to Punta Arenas. My flight doesn’t leave for another couple of hours, but the airport just reopened, so I have a seat inside, alongside cracked beams and 2x4 bolsterings, beneath the cracked ceiling with missing patchwork squares. We're going home. Where everything is simple and quiet, where things might not work but they are simple in their non-functioning.

It’s been a long week to say the least. We arrived to Santiago on an “overnight” flight after zero sleep, around 6.30 a.m. Monday morning. Our goals in the capital: legalize our marriage in Chile and submit the petition for Serkan's immigrant visa to the U.S. The embassy accepts petitions from Americans residing in Chile continually for at least the previous six months before filing the petition. I came armed with evidence of this, as I was advised to do in my various email correspondences with the embassy. The week went pretty much like this…

Monday: Our hostel reservation turned out to be a sham, as the owner quoted us a more expensive price when we arrived and I wasn’t having any of it. We headed directly to another place we’ve stayed before, wasting precious errand-running time, stuck hostel-searching in the morning crush of traffic. After we got settled we ran out.

Went to Ministry of Foreign Affairs office to translate some official documents for the visa. There are no simple translation services in Chile, not even in the capital. (Anyone willing to get certified, willing to actually work at a decent pace and charge a reasonable rate would make bank!) Anyway, we had read that in order to legalize our marriage, the marriage document must be translated by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs itself. But in order to translate any document, it must first be “legalized,” (stamped and signed by some important fingers) by two different authorities, in two different places, then returned back to the translations department, where, for example, a document with about 10-15 words on it will take 5 days to translate. WTF?

When you say, you need it faster, the woman there will charge you double or more and proudly tell you how much more difficult the process used to be. After some pressing, she did direct us to another place, which realizes certified translations. Here’s how our conversation went with them:

Us: We need to translate a couple of documents. I show them the documents. We also need you to write and sign something at the end of the translation, stating that you are fluent in Spanish and English and that the translation is correct.

Dude: No. I will translate, but I will not certify anything.

But you are certified, right?

Yes.


Well then we just need you to demonstrate that you are certified to do the translation somehow. You know, stamp the document afterward and sign it. We just need to show that the translation is true and correct and that you are capable of doing it.

No, I will not certify anything. I only do the translation.

(Boss comes over.) Yeah, we will stamp it and sign it.

OK, the stamp shows where the translation is coming from, right? I think that will be good enough.

Let’s see how many pages (gets out calculator), 7 (unfull) pages. Ooh. That is gonna set you back quite a bit. It’ll cost you 145.000. (Almost $300. Incidentally, I just finished translating a book of 80 pages for less than that… not for the money obviously, more for practice, so this makes their estimate seem even more outrageous.)

What? And when would it be ready?

It will take at least a week or longer.

Really? That long? We are leaving on Saturday.

Well, this stuff can’t just complete itself overnight. It takes time.


Hmmmm.

I decide to do the translations myself. And even though I am not certified, I can certify that I’m fluent in said languages and that the translation is correct. The embassy only accepts petitions on M,W,F so I have all day Tuesday to work on it. Or do I…?

Tuesday: Yesterday we’d found out what is necessary for the marriage document. First we need to get it legalized from the Turkish embassy, so we go there when it opens in the morning and the ambassador translates our marriage document, signs it, certifies it, makes it official and legal in Chile. Serkan takes care of a couple other embassy errands while we’re there and honestly it takes less than half an hour. We leave there applauding the Turkish work ethic, practically high-fiving each other, it was so easy.

Back to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, where we get our legal translated marriage document legalized by the powers that be in Chile. Then we stop by the translator’s desk to see if they will accept the translation. Seems to be no problem, she tells us to go to the Registro Civil to inscribe the marriage.

OK! Walking walking, coffee, metro, walking, line waiting. Registro Civil tells us we need to get a paper from the International Police saying that Serkan’s permanent residence is vigente. But how would he have this ID if it wasn’t? We run around in some loops to get this little paper. It takes us about 1.5 days. We continue to run-run around to do some other paper-wasting errands, then I sit down to start translating and changing the cover sheets for Serkan’s visa forms, finishing up the last minute printouts, etc. My friend Laura says I can send her a page to translate, which is super helpful (thank you!!!) so we all work the rest of the night on that.

Wednesday: Early morning printouts of the translations and new cover sheets, before heading to the American embassy fortress. No, we could not file, but yes, it looks like all of our documents are correctly filled out and the process will go smoothly when we can file. When can we file? Probably another couple of months…

Run around until we finally make it to the Registro Civil around 1 p.m. Here the super rude woman proceeds to tell us that our marriage document is not legal. This is how our conversation with mean woman goes, mas o menos...

MW: Why is it titled an International Marriage and Family Booklet if it is a certificate?

Us: Because that is what the marriage document is called in Turkey. And it’s international. It’s been legalized by your country and by the Turkish embassy. What can be illegal about it? (This conversation lasts much longer than I write it here. And the attempts to be nice, smiling and calm were many and varied.)

The ambassador of the Turkish embassy needs to legalize the signature of the original marriage certificate.

How could it have been legalized by the Chilean government if it wasn’t already a legal document?

Normally you must do this in the country where you married.

So you’re telling us we have to travel to Turkey to legalize an already triply legalized document?

Yes, or see if the Turkish embassy and verify this other guy’s signature. And come back.

Today we feel ruined. Utterly. Exhausted and sad. Not just by the constant stream of No’s that we are receiving, but mostly by that woman’s meanness.

I should also mention here that after we got back to the hostel, I decided to venture out to get my hair "trimmed," and the "stylist" completely butchered it. I haven't had hair this short since high school, and I did not ask for it, but I'm starting to be positive about it.

Thursday: A new day. Back to the Turkish embassy, where we meet the ambassador as we step out of the elevator, right as he is walking out to run some other errand. Serkan explains the situation to him, and the ambassador rolls up his sleeves. He essentially says what we are all thinking: She has no right to refuse this. We all walk inside the embassy. After many phone calls, he gives us the name of someone to talk to at Registro Civil. The ambassador superheroed through all the little “no”-mongers, to find us the route to a possible yes. He might be the most helpful man in all of Santiago.

Off to Registro Civil again to talk to another woman. She takes our marriage booklet and its über-legalized translation from the Turkish embassy and talks to a few other people. After a while, she says that she will try to call us by Monday after she talks to the head jefe. We say we are leaving on Saturday. She says she will try to contact us by Friday then, or maybe even later this afternoon.

We leave, walk almost all the way back to the hostel and sit down for a coffee. Serkan’s phone rings and we are called back to the Registro Civil already. We still have time to make it before it closes at 2 p.m. It sounds good. We go, we sign, we are officially married in Chile! (Oh, and remember the silly note we needed from the International Police? We tried to give them that piece of paper several times. Each time, they said, no, we don't need it. We have your carnet. Hmmm.) A man sitting next to us for some other errand with the mean lady chats with us and congratulates us several times. Mean woman refuses to look in our direction.

Friday: American embassy again, to set up and pay for the name change to my passport. It’s a smooth process. I’ll send my passport to them on Monday and they’ll send it back to me mid-April. Around the same time, we should have received the Chilean marriage certificate at the Registro Civil office in Puerto Natales. With these two things, we’ll stabilize my Chilean residency. If all goes well, it should only take about two months, at which point we’ll return to Santiago to file Serkan’s U.S. visa petition and wait another several months for it to be approved.

Not-so-interesting public service announcements coming soon!

Who decides what's interesting or not?

Writing in the mornings. Preparing cardamom spiced espressos in the Italian percolator. Cereal breakfasts before making the rounds in town. Sheltering a black kitten from certain death then sweating awake from nightmares where she’s speaking to you because you suddenly you discover she has some skin diseases and it's not a good idea to touch her.

An occasional morning movie with Serkan. Reading too late into the night yet not enough to make a dent in the list. Retaking to Turkish studies in the midafternoon shine when the kitchen is lightest. When nobody’s around to listen to the noise. Often drown out by the neighbor who washes, manhandles and vrooms his red 1980s hotrod...every day. Back and forth, back and forth, vroom vroom in his driveway as reggaeton booms from his dinky subwoofer, rattling the doors of his baby and--on Saturdays--shaking the windows here.

Hunting for land with friends and coming home with a kilo of the sweetest strawberries this side of the equator and one more blondie kitten. Stumbling upon a woodworker’s dream. A house found lost in Puerto Natales where every single log has been worked, carved, glossed, each stair, floorboard, piece of furniture, shelf, counter a piece of art. A sauna and two hot tub mini-houses, landscaping even and planted trees. Houses like this don’t exist here. But there is one, which you can buy from the lonesome woodcraftsman wolf whose family left him or is waiting for him (oh who knows for sure it’s a long story) up north.

In other real news my dear friend Tim is coming to visit us in mid-February. And I just made my first jam ever! Red currant with strawberry. We’ll see how it firms up and cools tomorrow. Tim can let everyone know if it was any good or not on the other side. The kittens, by the way, are named Jules and Rome.

Arbitrarily speaking

The truth is so many interesting things are happening every moment. Right now: The wind whipping loose cables against the house, pushing the clouds at such speed. Within one minute sun turns to shadow; it rains; returns sun. The windows shutter. A cieling board leading up to an uncrawlable crawlspace lifts up and lands back askew on the rafters. The swinging door in the kitchen sways and creaks. Gusts lash through the tin chimenys; the stoves inside vibrate a little.

Unfortunate plastic bags tatter through the streets, sticking to trees and fenceposts. A red bug, tinier than a pinpoint, hurries down the white wall, tracing loose esses. These must be the types of bugs--in large quantities--they used to dye wool, anciently. Someone writes all this down, abritrarily.

Elsewhere a couple commences their first kiss. Someone is on fire or dreaming of flying salmon. Looks up phoenix in the dictionary. Cries for loneliness or a wedding. Hides under the bed. Gives birth. Is born. Dies. Looks in the mirror and sees a stranger. Starts their first day of work. Avoids an accident on the road. Saves a life on the river. Writes a difficult letter to a friend. Stares out the window instead of the hard monitor. An orange striped cat stares back--halted. Takes a few steps, looks back, locks eyes. Continues this along an entire fenceline, so that one cannot even leave her future gaze.

Visit us while the skies are blue

...and while we are still here! This is a small photo post, because I finally have an internet connection fast enough to post pics! My photo-taking skills are sorely lacking, but it's on my list of things to learn, as is Turkish, Photoshop and knitting.

A few clear-day photos from Torres del Paine, doing the usual W trek...

Typical Patagonian skies, on a clear day.


Base of the Towers on a crazy calm windless day.


Los Cuernos at night with a bit of moon.


And a couple more photos from our land. Yes, it's true. Just like real adults, we have bought a slice of the Patagonian pie. It's half a hectare just outside of Puerto Natales in a sector referred to as Los Huertos. Beautiful views of several mountain ranges and of the fjord (if you build two stories). We don't have any plans to do anything with it. We're just hoping to have an asado fiesta there (or my other idea is some sort of sunworshipping rave, but that looks doubtful). For now it's a great place to play frisbee, especially when you get the wind on your team.

Land view toward fiordo Última Esperanza.


Land view Cerro Dorotea side, with pro frisbee tosser.

Happy New Year!

It's the beginning of summer down here, the days are long and the weather rainy. Lambs, which were born a few months ago, eat people's lawns or get eaten by people. The lambs have already grown quite a bit, so they're on super sale. And what better time for an asado than NY's eve, right?

In the markets store clerks incessantly restocked booze and briquettes while dodging the hordes of people trying to complete their shop before everything closed down. By 5 p.m., the carnicerias had freshly skinned and butchered lambs dangling in the windows. Strings of blood still dripped from their toothy grins. And their eyes, just a spot poppier for having no skin.

As I was walking around town revving up for our New Year's eve events--which did not include any little lambs--I passed several men shouldering black plastic bags stuffed with a clumsy something. Then one man with a bounce in his step and a garbage bag on his shoulder walked by, his long-necked lamb's head bobbing behind him. that solved the puzzle of the what's in the bag.

We're still thinking about buying a lamb to chow down in our backyard jungle. But what to do with the cutiepie when he turns mutton age and we aren't in town anymore. I have a rule about not eating pets.

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