Noted Abroad documents DSM contributor Charlie Geer’s forays in foreign and not-so- foreign parts. Currently he is living and working in Puente Genil, a small town in southern Spain.

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No Small Thing

When they say renewing the papers is less complicated than obtaining the original papers, they are not saying much. Orbiting the earth may be less complicated than obtaining the original papers. Even so, when you hear that renewing the papers is less complicated than obtaining the original papers, you may take heart. In fact you should take heart. In the process of renewing the papers, you will need it.

The first step in renewing the papers involves submitting various papers. These papers include a certificate of good health. The health certificate is purchased at your local tobacconist for a modest fee. After purchasing the certificate — and a carton of Camels, if you like — you will need to visit an authorized physician to have your good health certified. It’s possible you are expecting an actual physical examination, which maybe you could use and even, at such a reasonable price, afford. It’s possible you are thinking the reasonably priced physical is a strong argument in favor of the local health-care system. It is not. For the reasonable price an authorized physician will sign, then stamp, the official certificate of good health. If your name is not easy to spell across languages, you may have some sort of verbal interaction with the physician. Otherwise, probably not.

At this point, with your certificate of good health signed and stamped, you will feel, if not a sense of physical well being, then at least a sense of accomplishment. You are advised to enjoy this sensation for as long as you can. Soon enough, it will be bled out of you, and replaced by something much less agreeable. In fact it is a good idea to have the required ID photo taken at this point in the process, while you are feeling a sense of accomplishment, rather than later in the process, when any photo of you will present a seriously disturbed individual.

The assorted other papers needed to renew the papers are procured from various offices in various buildings and will require various signatures and stamps. You will need to do a lot of asking around and running back and forth, which is unfortunate, because there is only a limited window of time in which you can renew the papers before they expire and can no longer be renewed. You will learn to appreciate the brusque, solid fromp of the official stamp. It is the sound of a small success, and it means you are ready to move on to the next paper.

Should you procure the assorted preliminary papers in a timely and satisfactory manner, you are next instructed to take them to the Office of Foreigners and submit them. It’s not a bad idea to keep the word “submit” in mind when commencing your relationship with the Office of Foreigners. On your first trip, if you do not arrive before 4am, you will discover that the line to enter the Office of Foreigners runs well around the block. In the line you will find people from all different countries in all different stages of fortune and all manner of dress. Each is holding a file folder or large envelope of some sort, presumably containing papers. What unites these people is papers. When you join the line you will make a gesture of bewilderment, maybe a furrow-browed headshake, at which point it will be explained to you in various languages that people begin to line up at the Office of Foreigners long before dawn. It will also be explained to you in various languages that this line does not lead directly to the presenting of papers but to the dispensing of numbers for the presenting of papers, of which dispensable numbers there is a pre-determined number. Because nobody seems to know what the pre-determined number of dispensable numbers is, it is not possible to simply count the people in the line and pre-determine whether or not hanging around will be an utter waste of time.

Some hours later you may still be awaiting admission to the Office of Foreigners. A few of the others who did not get here before 4am are starting to give up and go home. Invariably the giving up is done with an indignant snort, as if snorting indignantly will somehow chastise the responsible party. Each departure fills you first with sympathy for the exasperated individual and then, as the line slinks forward a step, with renewed hope for yourself, at least until you recognize that these corrections represent the only real movement of the line, meaning that unless each of the two dozen some-odd individuals standing between you and the door to the Office of Foreigners should give up and go home, and soon, your hope is ill-founded. At this point it may occur to you that in the local language the word for “line” is the same as the word for “tail,” and that will seem oddly appropriate, as you are beginning to feel like you have all become the tail end of a bad joke. Sadly, it is not a joke. Not even a bad one. An hour or so later, at 2pm, the Office of Foreigners closes for the day. It is now safe to decide that hanging around was, in fact, an utter waste of time.

On your next trip to the Office of Foreigners, you may arrive early, well before dawn, to find that a handful of people have already established a line. Judging by the sleeping bags and blankets, they camped out. Over the hours you may establish a kind of camaraderie with these people. It will feel like the camaraderie of those who are enduring hardship together, which might be mildly touching if it weren’t so absurd. As others arrive late, after sunrise, you can’t help pitying them. They are so bright-eyed, so eager, and so naïve. They have no idea what they’re up against. But even as you pity these late arrivals, you can’t help taking some satisfaction in the fact that this time around you are not among them, which satisfaction quickly sours to shame as you wonder if maybe you have just taken pleasure in the misfortune of others. It seems the process of renewing the papers is changing you, and not for the better.

When an officer opens the Office of Foreigners at 9am, those at the back of the line do not matter anymore in any way whatsoever. They no longer exist for you at all, not even in the context of pity. What matters is you. You are pleased, even thrilled, to be where you are — within reasonable reach, it appears, of the door to the Office of Foreigners, and so the dispensation of numbers, and so the submission of papers necessary for the renewing of papers. When you are actually admitted to the Office of Foreigners some time later, you almost expect to find some garden of earthly delights, waterfalls and sprites and honeyed things. In fact it is just a regular government office, the Office of Foreigners. Still, you are here, and that seems like no small thing.

Another half an hour and you have successfully reached the Dispenser of Numbers. He is one of an assorted group of people known as functionaries. Under no circumstances should the word functionary be taken to mean “one who makes things function.” To wit, after you have at last successfully reached the Dispenser of Numbers, the Dispenser of Numbers may very well dispense the wrong sort of number. It turns out that some numbers are preceded by the letter A and other numbers are preceded by the letter B. After you have explained that you are here to submit the papers necessary for the renewal of papers, and demonstrated the bundle of necessary papers to be submitted, the Dispenser of Numbers may hand you a small slip of paper with a number preceded by the letter A, which may later turn out to be the wrong sort of number, which will lead you to consider the fact that not once while you were explaining and demonstrating your papers to the Dispenser of Numbers did the Dispenser of Numbers recognize your existence.

For the time being, taking a seat in the waiting room, a number in hand, you are immensely pleased with yourself. With a number and a chair, you are among the privileged. You suppose this is how wealthy people feel, in their box seats, private planes, and yacht clubs, their cushioned world. It’s true that the camaraderie seems to have disappeared, but that’s to be expected. The dispensing of numbers has made you individuals again; it has broken any notion of a group. Now that each of you has a number, there is no time for any funny business.

The waiting room is a waiting room — unadorned, climate controlled, functional. On the walls washed-out PSA posters offer illustrated information regarding birth control, employee rights, immigration law. The fact that the room is a little close-quartered might be socially awkward if nearly everyone in the room were not staring at one of the two LED displays, one for A numbers and one for B numbers, suspended above a doorway at the far end of the room. A few more easily distracted individuals read PSA posters or count ceiling panels or gaze cow-like at nothing in particular, but at the sound of the prompt that indicates an advancing of number, attention turns to the LED displays en bloc. It’s as if you have all forgotten how to count, what number comes next in the decimal system. Or maybe you are expecting the digital counter will somehow skip whole strings of numbers. It will not. The number that comes next is the number that has always come next. This leads each of you to then check your dispensed number again, like you have just now forgotten what that number is, or that number has possibly just now become a different number. Anybody stepping in on the scene unawares might take this to be the dayroom of a psychiatric ward.

At some point it may occur to you that the auditory prompt which indicates an advancing of number recalls the erstwhile Atari game Q-bert. An ascending three-note riff, curt but kindly, it is the sound of Q-bert successfully jumping from one block to another. That seems about right at the Office of Foreigners, where a prompted individual is more likely to jump up than to simply stand up. Once up, the prompted individual will then head for the far doorway at a brisk pace and with an air of self-importance, both of which, the pace and the self-importance, will flag a bit at the partition that lies just beyond the doorway, where an unseen entity inquires something of the individual then directs the individual to either the left or right of the partition. Because of the partition, it is not possible to say exactly what happens next, but it is safe to say that whatever it is involves papers. From where you’re sitting, the relevant individual simply disappears for a time, then reappears. The reappearance may or may not be preceded by the fromp of an official stamp. As the individual passes back through the waiting room on his or her way out into the world, you may try to read the face for satisfaction or disappointment, but this task will be complicated by the fact that the face is invariably pitched downwards, examining papers.

Insomuch as the local word for an officially dispensed number translates as an officially dispensed “position,” here in the waiting room you may think of yourself as “assuming the position,” “jockeying for position,” “playing your position,” and/or “getting into position.” In this way, at this stage, renewing the papers is kind of like a sport, if a very slow moving one. The A-team positions do look to be moving faster than the B-team positions, and although that’s not saying very much, it’s saying something. A is for “astute.” A is for “adroit” and “able.” The people with A’s have their papers in order. The people with A’s are people who know what they’re doing, just like in school. It’s too bad for the B team, but that’s the way it goes.

You are advised to be done with all this smugness as quickly as possible, so as to minimize your disappointment when, on at last seeing your number come up and being directed left at the partition and approaching the indicated desk, Desk A, with your papers, you are told that Desk A is the desk for obtaining information about the renewal of papers, whereas submitting the papers for the renewal of papers is the province of Desk B. Because Desk B is not far from Desk A, maybe four or five paces, it will seem reasonable to ask if you can simply wait for Desk B to free up, then step over to Desk B and submit the papers necessary for the renewing of papers. Should you reasonably ask this question, you will be told that no, you cannot step over to Desk B, because that is Desk B, and your number is preceded by an A.

If you have become proficient in the local profanity, you will be tempted to share some of it with Attendant A and/or the Dispenser of Numbers and/or any other available functionary before leaving, but this is not recommended, because if you want to submit the papers necessary for the renewal of papers in time, you’ll be coming back to the Office of Foreigners, and soon. You may imagine horrible things befalling Attendant A and/or the Dispenser of Numbers and/or any other available functionary, but you are advised not to say anything, even if you are certain you are in the right. This will feel less like biting your tongue than swallowing it.

On your next excursion, should you successfully reach the Dispenser of Numbers, you will make sure to request a B number. Your tone, insistent and a little snappy, is meant to rebuke the Dispenser of Numbers for the other day’s mispensation, but recognizing a rebuke would require recognizing your existence. Instead the Dispenser of Numbers unceremoniously dispenses a B number, per your request or by utter chance it is impossible to say.

So it is that, by the sheer force of your will or dumb blind luck, you now have in your possession a B number, entrée to the desk for the presenting of papers. Even so, you know better than to feel complacent at this stage. You know to temper your sense of accomplishment. It makes sense that the local language can have just one word for both “waiting” and “hoping.” Now you understand how that can work. In the Office of Foreigners, “Waiting Room” may just as well be translated as “Hoping Room.” In the Office of Foreigners, the office of foreigners is to wait, and hope. This time around, you do so nervously. It is not hot, but now and again a bead of armpit sweat skids down your side. Swamp ass is an issue. There are just too many variables. Something will go wrong. It appears that whether or not you were a defeatist before you began the process of renewing the papers, you are now a defeatist.

As it happens, your anxiety is justified. Events validate your defeatism, to the point where it may simply be called realism. Reaching the proper desk, Desk B, you will be told that something is not in order. You have brought only two ID photos when the required number is three; and/or you have brought the correct number of ID photos, three, but they are not the correct width and/or length; and/or you have brought three copies of the EX-11 form, when the required number is four; and/or you have filled out the EX-11 form in blue ink when it must be filled out in black ink; and/or you have filled out the EX-11 form in lower-case letters when it must be filled out in upper-case letters; and/or it is now 2pm, and the Office of Foreigners is closing for the day.

Even if you have become proficient in the local profanity, this time around you will not be tempted to share it with anyone. You will be too busy visualizing what you are going to do when you get home, which is to crawl into bed and go fetal.

At this point “renewing the papers” will no longer feel like a sport, not even a slow-moving one. In fact it will no longer feel like an action, something to be done, at all. More like a state of being. You are not yourself anymore. You are Renewing the Papers. Using your Sick Leave to tend to the papers is no longer really a ruse: whenever you tend to or even consider the papers, i.e. whenever you are conscious, you feel physically ill. Your head thrums; the folds of your brain press at your skull. There is no respite in sleep. Asleep, you dream that your existing papers have expired before you were able to obtain the new papers, in which case, according to the rules, the new papers are no longer available to you. You wake up terrified.

It seems you are out of options. There is not much left to do but start praying. “Start” as in for the first time in your life outside any obligatory supplications of youth. But pray to whom? The papers? It’s an uneasy sensation. You suppose everybody has their own personal method. The main thing, surely, is to say “please.” A lot. And to make promises. If you are safely shepherded through presenting the papers for the renewing of papers, you will volunteer at the local Red Cross. You will be more patient with functionaries and people in general, and you will not feel superior to anybody, least of all those unfortunate souls who don’t know to arrive at the Office of Foreigners before dawn.

It’s just possible prayers and promises will somehow eventually work. Or maybe what happens is things eventually come together by total chance, but since you have been praying and promising, to be on the safe side, as a hedge against future paper matters, you ascribe it to the praying and promising. Point being that either way, by divine intervention or random circumstance, it’s just possible that one day things will finally line up in your favor. Or not. If the former — if you should successfully navigate the various lines outside the Office of Foreigners, successfully receive a B number from the Dispenser of Numbers, and successfully reach Desk B, the desk for the presenting of papers, all before the expiring of the original papers, and sufficiently ahead of 2pm — a curious thing will happen. The curious thing that will happen is that not much will happen. Champagne corks will not fly, balloons will not drop from the ceiling, roses will not fall at your feet. No. Attendant B will simply check to make sure that the various papers are correct in number, dimension, color and script, and if they are, Attendant B will stamp the papers presented for the renewing of papers and hand you a new set of papers certifying that you have presented the papers for the renewing of papers.

All of which is to say that, in the end, presenting the papers necessary for the renewing of papers means handing various papers over, taking custody of another set of papers, and heading home. It may seem reasonable to ask Attendant B why this exchange of papers could not have been conducted by postal service, but at the moment you are rather enjoying the sense of accomplishment all of this possibly pointless effort has, at last, aroused. With the falling of the stamp, a great weight has lifted, and although you’re not exactly capable of joy at this point, you are capable of deliverance. When the stamp goes fromp, that thrumming pressure between brain and cranium relaxes, and you’re head flushes clean.

The moment this happens, the moment you see things more or less as they are, unadulterated by the assorted requirements of papers, it may occur to you that not once during the term of the original papers were you asked for the original papers. Meaning it is not exactly clear what the original papers were for—and so, by extension, what the renewed papers will be for. It’s almost as if the original papers were obtained simply in order that they might themselves be renewed before they expired. As if they existed simply in order to replicate themselves, like something biological. Like a lot of biological things, the papers behave as though they really mattered to the world. The insistence with which they exist and reproduce is at once remarkable and ridiculous. In the process of existing and reproducing, in the meanwhile, the papers provide sustenance to surrounding papers. In some cases the papers even grant life, raison d’être, to other papers. Really there is a whole ecosystem of papers, which ecosystem appears to exist solely for the sake of itself, with no higher purpose than to exist.

Ever the squeaky wheel, you can’t help wondering, out loud, to Attendant B, what the point is. Not just of the papers. Of anything.

“So…what’s the point of it all?”

“Sorry?”

Maybe this is not the time or the place for ontological ponderings. Or maybe it is precisely the time and the place for ontological ponderings. Either way, what’s certain, what will always be certain between 9 and 2 on a weekday at the Office of Foreigners, is that somebody is awaiting their turn at Desk B, and you promised to be a better person. For now perhaps it’s best to shelve the meaning of existence, and stick to the papers.

“I mean, what are these papers for, exactly? Why do I need new papers? Or any papers?”

Not sure you aren’t screwing around, the functionary will look at you with a little suspicion, then tell you as plainly as telling you the time, “To help you with the papers.”

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