Fingerprints
I knew that getting fingerprinted posed certain challenges...
I figured that it would take at least an hour and involve various communication mishaps...
I guessed that the law enforcement officials might not be the most obliging fellows in the world...
You could say that I was well prepared for my fingerprinting adventure, for the walking from police station to police station, for the waiting, for the futile attempts to reason with the officers. Prepared but still not quite willing.
I actually left the house on Wednesday morning quite hopeful that the process might be much easier and quicker than I imagined. I walked two blocks to the local police station with my fingerprint cards and the brief instructions that had been included from the education agency. (I am applying for a Texas teaching license, and the state requires fingerprints for a routine criminal background check. I will not be in the U.S. until July; therefore, they sent me the cards with instructions to take them to "any law enforcement official" and then mail them back.) When I told the officer at the local station that I needed fingerprints, he shook his head and directed me to the provincial station located at the other end of the downtown. Actually, he was quite polite, writing down the address for me and assuring me that I should let them know if I needed anything.
The walk to the provincial station took nearly half an hour. (Ok, so I could have taken a bus, but I honestly prefer to walk than wait for them to arrive. I have this problem with waiting sometimes...) I inquired about fingerprints at the front desk and was directed to some room at the back of the building. The station was like a labyrinth to me, and I had to ask two more individuals before locating the office for fingerprinting. Once there, I tried to explain the situation to the young woman behind the desk, but although she was quite pleasant, she was confused by my situation (granted it was a little unique), and thought that it might be out of her jurisdiction since I wasn't an Argentine. She recommended that I go to the federal police station a few blocks away and then return if needed. I tried to explain that all I really needed was my fingerprints on the card, the date, and her signature in a little box; that was it. No luck.
Fortunately, the federal police station was indeed just around the corner along the Costanera. I entered and once again explained my situation to the individual at the front desk. She initially suggested that I really should go to the provincial station, but when I explained that I had just been there, she went in search of more information. I finally followed her back to a room where other individuals were "haciendo tramites." I explained my situation a few more times to a few more officials, was met by a few more confused looks, attempted to patiently answer what seemed like irrelevant questions to me, and handed over my passport and the fingerprint cards. At one point, it was suggested that I might need to go to the national bank to pay a fee first and then return. After my previous experience at the national bank, I inwardly--or maybe audibly--groaned. I was about ready to grab that inking block myself.
Just when I thought that it had been decided that I would need to go to the Migraciones office, I received the go-ahead from one of the officers and was beckoned over to the inking block. I explained the instructions (written in English on the back of the card) for making the prints and hoped that he knew what he was doing. We got the prints on the card finally; whether they are sufficiently clear, I'm not sure. He had never used the U.S. form before, and I had only vague memories of the last time that I was fingerprinted a few years ago (I do, however, distinctly remember it as being a fast and painless process). After making the prints, I went to wash my hands and was then instructed to sit down and wait. "Wait for what?" I wondered. After all, they only needed to sign and date the form. But about 10 minutes later, the officer returned with the form, now bearing a note on the bottom verifying that the prints belonged to me and stamped with a large official seal that bore a signature...a signature that just happened to partially overlap a few of my fingerprints. I really hope that this is an unimportant detail... "Just one more thing" I told the officer. "I need you to sign and date the card right here," and pointed to the labeled boxes. It seemed like a small detail to me, but they absolutely refused. No amount of trying to explain and reason with them had any success. The simple fact was that they didn't understand what they were signing and they didn't wholly trust me to translate five simple words: "Signature of official taking fingerprints." I asked if they had ANYone who spoke any English in the building. No. A dictionary? No. I was probably getting a little frustrated and perhaps impertinent at this point. They let me know that they were doing me a favor, and if I would bring in an official translation of the form then they would consider signing it as I asked. They suggested that I send in the form and then come back if necessary. I uselessly explained that this was completely impossible because it would take two weeks to return to the U.S, time to process the prints, and then additional weeks to repeat the whole process... I never did get the signature, but at least they typed in the date.
I walked home frustrated but at least relieved to be done with the ordeal. In retrospect, I probably should have given the police officers more patience and grace, because in reality, they were doing me a bit of a favor as I am not an Argentine citizen or resident, and the Argentines probably do have to pay a fee for this process. At least it wouldn't surprise me. And just as I frequently find myself confused an intimidated by bureaucracy and paperwork in Spanish, I imagine that they felt confused as well. After all, I could have been trying to trick them or something. I would hesitate to sign something in a completely foreign language too. Anyway, it was quite an ordeal and makes for another good story.
I figured that it would take at least an hour and involve various communication mishaps...
I guessed that the law enforcement officials might not be the most obliging fellows in the world...
You could say that I was well prepared for my fingerprinting adventure, for the walking from police station to police station, for the waiting, for the futile attempts to reason with the officers. Prepared but still not quite willing.
I actually left the house on Wednesday morning quite hopeful that the process might be much easier and quicker than I imagined. I walked two blocks to the local police station with my fingerprint cards and the brief instructions that had been included from the education agency. (I am applying for a Texas teaching license, and the state requires fingerprints for a routine criminal background check. I will not be in the U.S. until July; therefore, they sent me the cards with instructions to take them to "any law enforcement official" and then mail them back.) When I told the officer at the local station that I needed fingerprints, he shook his head and directed me to the provincial station located at the other end of the downtown. Actually, he was quite polite, writing down the address for me and assuring me that I should let them know if I needed anything.
The walk to the provincial station took nearly half an hour. (Ok, so I could have taken a bus, but I honestly prefer to walk than wait for them to arrive. I have this problem with waiting sometimes...) I inquired about fingerprints at the front desk and was directed to some room at the back of the building. The station was like a labyrinth to me, and I had to ask two more individuals before locating the office for fingerprinting. Once there, I tried to explain the situation to the young woman behind the desk, but although she was quite pleasant, she was confused by my situation (granted it was a little unique), and thought that it might be out of her jurisdiction since I wasn't an Argentine. She recommended that I go to the federal police station a few blocks away and then return if needed. I tried to explain that all I really needed was my fingerprints on the card, the date, and her signature in a little box; that was it. No luck.
Fortunately, the federal police station was indeed just around the corner along the Costanera. I entered and once again explained my situation to the individual at the front desk. She initially suggested that I really should go to the provincial station, but when I explained that I had just been there, she went in search of more information. I finally followed her back to a room where other individuals were "haciendo tramites." I explained my situation a few more times to a few more officials, was met by a few more confused looks, attempted to patiently answer what seemed like irrelevant questions to me, and handed over my passport and the fingerprint cards. At one point, it was suggested that I might need to go to the national bank to pay a fee first and then return. After my previous experience at the national bank, I inwardly--or maybe audibly--groaned. I was about ready to grab that inking block myself.
Just when I thought that it had been decided that I would need to go to the Migraciones office, I received the go-ahead from one of the officers and was beckoned over to the inking block. I explained the instructions (written in English on the back of the card) for making the prints and hoped that he knew what he was doing. We got the prints on the card finally; whether they are sufficiently clear, I'm not sure. He had never used the U.S. form before, and I had only vague memories of the last time that I was fingerprinted a few years ago (I do, however, distinctly remember it as being a fast and painless process). After making the prints, I went to wash my hands and was then instructed to sit down and wait. "Wait for what?" I wondered. After all, they only needed to sign and date the form. But about 10 minutes later, the officer returned with the form, now bearing a note on the bottom verifying that the prints belonged to me and stamped with a large official seal that bore a signature...a signature that just happened to partially overlap a few of my fingerprints. I really hope that this is an unimportant detail... "Just one more thing" I told the officer. "I need you to sign and date the card right here," and pointed to the labeled boxes. It seemed like a small detail to me, but they absolutely refused. No amount of trying to explain and reason with them had any success. The simple fact was that they didn't understand what they were signing and they didn't wholly trust me to translate five simple words: "Signature of official taking fingerprints." I asked if they had ANYone who spoke any English in the building. No. A dictionary? No. I was probably getting a little frustrated and perhaps impertinent at this point. They let me know that they were doing me a favor, and if I would bring in an official translation of the form then they would consider signing it as I asked. They suggested that I send in the form and then come back if necessary. I uselessly explained that this was completely impossible because it would take two weeks to return to the U.S, time to process the prints, and then additional weeks to repeat the whole process... I never did get the signature, but at least they typed in the date.
I walked home frustrated but at least relieved to be done with the ordeal. In retrospect, I probably should have given the police officers more patience and grace, because in reality, they were doing me a bit of a favor as I am not an Argentine citizen or resident, and the Argentines probably do have to pay a fee for this process. At least it wouldn't surprise me. And just as I frequently find myself confused an intimidated by bureaucracy and paperwork in Spanish, I imagine that they felt confused as well. After all, I could have been trying to trick them or something. I would hesitate to sign something in a completely foreign language too. Anyway, it was quite an ordeal and makes for another good story.
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