A Year of Spanish Paperwork
Pack your patience.
After nearly a year in Spain (OMG, where did the time go?!), I’ve learned a few things about Spanish bureaucracy — starting with this: pack your patience.
We have bureaucracy in the U.S., but you might only rarely interact with it. And when you do, you’re mostly familiar with the process — either from watching your parents as a kid or figuring it out as you go. And, of course, it occurs in English. If that’s your native language, that automatically makes it easier.
No one likes bureaucracy. Even employees of bureaucracy don’t usually like it. I worked for the Department of Veterans Affairs as a claims representative right out of college, and the hoops that had to be jumped through to process a claim were … interesting. My coworkers and I were constantly frustrated by the ever-moving goalposts for what had to happen before a veteran could receive their benefits.
In college, I worked for the National Park Service in the visitor center at Mammoth Cave National Park. (It’s an incredible place to visit, by the way, if you’ve never been.) Most visitors were happy to see someone in uniform (yes, I had the hat), so my role there received less abuse. Still, when people were angry about a missed tour or no parking, they are quick to blame the nearest bureaucrat — namely, me.
I’ve written about the process we completed to obtain our digital certificates. But that’s just a taste of the many run-ins you’ll have with Spanish bureaucracy as an immigrant.
When your boots hit the ground, one of the very first things you have to accomplish is your empadronamiento, or padrón, as most people call it. I made an appointment, and when we arrived, the very sympathetic woman told us — in Spanish — that they didn’t have any room to fit us in that day and offered another solution: go to another office. Luckily, we’d rented a car for a few days and were able to drive all the way across the city to get there.
And a huge surprise awaited us: The woman who helped us spoke English and was happy to do so for us. One note: Never expect English. They are not required to speak English (you’re in Spain, after all), but if you are humble and use as much Spanish as you know, most people are kind and will help you along with what English they know (if they know any). Otherwise, they’ll tolerate your translation app so that you can accomplish what you need to.
Once you have your padrón in hand, the next step is booking a TIE appointment. In Valencia, those have become like precious gold. But once you have the appointment, you need to show up with the correct paperwork, or you’ll be turned away to return another day. So double-check that paperwork like it’s Santa’s naughty-or-nice list.
You successfully completed your TIE appointment. Congratulations! Now, you get to wait to pick up the card. That usually takes about a month. In some cities, you’re going to need another appointment. Depending on the city, this can be easy or difficult.
The digital certificate will save you a whole lot of time and headaches if you make the time to get one. While I dreaded it like the plague, it was one of the easier procedures we’ve done in Spain. And now I’m using it to submit our visa renewal, saving us all a trip to the ayuntamiento and a whole lot of time.
I’m still learning about Spain, its dreaded bureaucracy, and all the government procedures we have to do to live here. But its people — yes, even the bureaucrats — are some of the kindest, most helpful people I’ve run into anywhere. Approach everything with a sense of humility, use your Spanish, and be willing to admit you were wrong. It can be a tough pill to swallow, and yet I’ve found that it works every single time.
Love this kind of real-talk? The paid tier helps keep it coming — no translation app required.
“Yes I had the hat” was the A to everyone’s Q 🤠