Field Trip to Immigration

I am now, [kind of] an official [temporary] resident of Budapest, Hungary. What does that involve exactly you may ask? Well! dear reader, let me delight your senses with a vivid description of the wondrous place that is the Hungarian immigration office.

First, imagine that you are in an official looking office of the government. Lets say, the DMV. Now, take away all license plates, vanity plates, and any personal touch that any employee might have given to that cheerless office, and you are starting to get the idea. Now, imagine all the signs are in a different language. One that you should know, but haven't studied enough. It could be Klingon, you wouldn't understand it any less. There are a few english translations of the signs, but they don't really help.

Now, dear reader you face your first task: getting a number. Like our esteemed DMV, you have to get a number, then wait for it to be called; however, at the immigration office, this is not as simple a task as taking a number from a ...(for lack of a better word) thing. Oh no. When you walk into the office of immigration, you are presented with two lines: one to the right and one to the left. You pick one and hope for the best. You have in your hands, just about every document that proves that you do indeed exist, have sufficient funds for a prodigal son-type lifestyle, and are enrolled in a local university. Also, you have carefully made copies of each of these documents JUST IN CASE they want the copy instead of the original. You inch forward. Your palms become sweaty. A packet of stamps costing about $100 is handed to you, you try not to drop them. Finally it's your turn to get a number. You stand there in front of the counter without a clue what to say to this woman who gives you that look that you are now well used to. That what do you want, crazy American-look. You carefully place your application and stamps on the counter and mumble some inaudible nonsense, hoping that they will infer the meaning of your quest. The woman glances at your paperwork, and gives you a number: 159. Oh bliss! Oh joy! Oh rapture!

So after a 15 minute wait in line, you have your number. Lucky number 159, you just know it. You look with nervous anticipation at the display of which number is being helped. Current number: 106. ...you suppose you have time to sit down. You gaze up at a TV screen that has video clips of all the things you could be doing in Hungary, but can't because you're stuck in the immigration office. It's irritating because there's a mouse arrow in the middle of the screen. This video is punctuated by screens of textual information presented in about five different languages. You always seem to miss the english one. You slowly realize that there are two different rooms for interrogation--I mean application, and you move back to the appropriate room. You make another keen observation: the immigration office is only open until noon. it's almost 11am now. The question arises: what happens when it turns 12, and you're still there. Do they kick you out to come back another day? Hopefully not. Your question is answered when the clock strikes noon, and they close the gate with everyone inside. So you don't have to leave, but no one else can get in. Bad time to start feeling hungry. Ask permission from the guard to run across the street to the nearest Tesco. Get the greasiest pizza you've ever seen. wolf it down with pleasure.

Finally, after about four hours of waiting, your number is called. Booth six. You sit down with a sense of vague anxiety. The woman on the other side of the glass starts asking for documents. You flip through the file folder in front of you making a mess of your neatly stacked pile. Copy? Original? Makes no difference apparently. Confusion over what form they're asking for. -did you even need that ATM slip? you guess not. Many much, pounding of the stamp from ink to paper. (Hungarians love stamps) You're told you're missing a form, but you can just have the university fax it. ....is that it? They hand you a form and you hesitantly get up and walk away thinking:

what just happened?