On a sunny morning in mid-November last year, I emerged from a taxi and wandered through the wrought iron gates of Sydney’s German Consulate. I felt a little seedy, having stayed up late the previous night drinking wine and watching Ru Paul’s Drag Race, but was in good spirits nonetheless. I was going to organise my German visa, paving the way for a grand adventure the following year.

Ordinarily the Germans prefer you to turn up on a tourist visa and then apply for a residence permit locally, but I was having none of that. I’ve had bad experiences with European immigration in the past. When I ventured overseas for a semester at the University of Copenhagen, for example, I submitted a timely and comprehensive application for a student visa, which I received around 3 weeks prior to my return home.

Because of Denmark’s unusual paranoia regarding illegal immigrants, my lack of a visa meant that I was unable to undertake some very ordinary activities, like use the gym or library or open a bank account. I’ve always wondered what these prohibitions were designed to accomplish. Were they a subtle way of weeding out the aliens? Just look for fat people who don’t read and carry lots of cash. The cold fury captured in my belated Danish visa photo has long served as a reminder of the irritating inconvenience of inefficient bureaucracy.

This time I was hoping to exploit my home-court advantage and organise everything pre-departure. Nonetheless, it wasn’t going to be an easy process. To begin with I lived in Melbourne but applications were only taken at the Sydney Consulate, in person, in order to accommodate electronic fingerprint scanning – a policy doubtless developed to prevent we Aussies from anonymously wreaking havoc on the Continent.

Having passed through the iron gates without hindrance, I entered the Consulate building and looked around. There were two windows, one for general inquiries and one for visa applications, and a waiting room. A tall, pretty blonde woman stood at the visa window chatting happily to a young applicant in their early 20s who nodded with ingratiating enthusiasm. I made myself comfortable in the waiting room, turned off my phone in behest of the myriad signs ordering me to do so and waited patiently. A few minutes later the young traveller finished her conversation and departed, at which point I approached the visa window sporting a warm smile.

“Hi” I began, “I’m a little early for an appointment at 11am. Shall I keep waiting? I don’t want to rush you”

The blonde, German woman smiled back. “No, that’s fine, I can see you now. I’m Lisa”

“Lovely to meet you Lisa, I have an application to submit for a working holiday visa”

We continued to exchange a few pleasantries as Lisa took my application, and then departed to a desk behind the window to study it in privacy. I remained standing, slightly nervous, but confident all would go smoothly. I had thoroughly checked and double-checked the requirements listed on the Consulate website and was positive I had included all of the necessary documentation.

Unfortunately, Lisa soon stood up and wondered back to me, frowning as she shuffled my paperwork.

“You’re application’s incomplete” she announced, “I can’t accept it”.

“What seems to be the problem?” I enquired, with a downward inflection to match the gravity of her expression.

“You need to provide your German address” Lisa vented, “You can’t just write ‘Berlin'”. She pointed to the appropriate section of my application form to demonstrate her point.

“But I don’t live in Germany yet” I explained. “I live in Melbourne. I’m not actually going to be leaving for another 3 months so, obviously, I don’t have a German address yet”. I probably shouldn’t have said the word ‘obviously’, but it escaped my lips before I could help it. My news year’s resolution is to become a stricter word warden, only releasing inmates when I’m sure they’ll make a positive contribution to society.

Lisa hardened. “Well I need your address in Germany to process your application”

“As I say Lisa: I don’t live in Germany. If I lived in Germany I’d be there. I live in Melbourne. Would you like me to write and let you know my address when I arrive in Berlin and find an apartment?”

“No, I need to know now”

The stress Lisa placed on the word ‘now’ sent a spontaneous rendition of Violet Beauregard’s ‘I Want The World’ reverberating through my brain and gave me an insightful glimpse into her childhood.

“I see” I replied, wondering if she would accept my application if I told her I was planning just to live at Berghain for the year. “Well that seems silly and is not something that was mentioned on your website. Is that the only problem?”

“No. You haven’t included enough detail about your travel insurance either” Lisa snapped.

“I’ve provided the certificate of insurance and copies of the relevant pages in the Product Disclosure Statement outlining that I’m insured for treatment or repatriation to Australia in the event of a medical emergency” I pointed out, sighing under the weight of my own frustration.

“Yes but it doesn’t say exactly what your policy will cover in a medical emergency” countered Lisa.

I opened my mouth to respond, but Lisa pre-empted me. “You’ll just have to come back with a new application” she instructed, looking me square in the eye and placing my current one on the threshold of the visa window.

I’m sure at this point, Lisa felt resolved in her decision to reject my supposedly incomplete paperwork, but she was unprepared for my own determination. I am not an enthusiastic and ingratiating young adult. I am not fresh out of high school and slowly casting off the residue of age-borne authority. I do not put up my hand and ask if I need to go to the toilet. And I have a very short fuse when it comes to bureaucrats.

I returned Lisa’s gaze in equal measure, and spoke slowly and methodically.

“I’ve flown all the way from Melbourne to submit this application Lisa, and I return this evening. I would suggest you think of a way to accommodate me”

Lisa and I locked eyes, commencing a silent battle. Initially I could almost see the electricity buzzing around us. They’re thrilling, those moments of absolute engagement with a stranger.

It was me who broke first. Despite my poker face I was well aware that Lisa had the upper hand in the situation. I softened my stare, cocked my head slightly and smiled a warm but sincere smile.

“You’re leaving this evening?” Lisa confirmed.

I nodded. “It’s my mother’s birthday tomorrow so I’m heading home for some family time”.

Lisa melted. “Alright. I’ll take this and give you my email. Send through the entire PDS from your travel insurance. Also, book a hotel for when you arrive in Berlin and send me the booking confirmation and address”.

“Thank you, I’ll do it tonight” I responded with genuine gratitude.

“I won’t be able to start processing your application until I received this information though” Lisa warned, “I shouldn’t even be accepting it”.

“I really appreciate your help Lisa” I assured her, “Thank you again”.

It was Lisa’s turn to smile as she lowered her head and began reorganising my paperwork.

“Oh, one more thing…” I started.

Her gaze darted upward, sharply meeting my own and challenging me to ask for further special treatment.

“Is there anywhere decent to get a coffee around here?” I asked, grinning widely.

Lisa laughed. “You are from Melbourne” she replied.

*          *          *                      

I didn’t bother with the 7am start at the Burgeramt.

I got home, did a bit of online detective work, discovered that they open at 11am on Thursdays and decided a 9.30am start would be sufficient. 9.30am is still early for me, but it’s got nothing on 7. I came well prepared, bringing a book, an apple and stopping by a hipster coffee joint for a takeaway.

“I’m about to line up at the Burgeramt to register my address” I confided in the British barista, rolling my eyes.

“I’ll make it a strong one” he replied.

When I arrived I was one of the first in the queue, which was heartening as I’d expected everyone to have had the same idea, and for it to be a few hundred people deep by now.

In fact I was number 8. I’m the type of person who counts how far back they are in queues and then counts down as I get closer to my destination. It’s because I’m incredibly impatient. I would rather walk than wait for public transport for example, purely so I can feel as if I’m getting somewhere.

It appeared as if I was going to be able to get an appointment, but I still wondered how my late registration would go down with the Burgeramt authorities. I kept remembering the struggle I’d had with Lisa back in Sydney when applying for my visa, and presumably she was conditioned to be a little more relaxed than the average German bureaucrat, having had a bit of experience with the notoriously flippant Australian attitude towards anything anybody else considers important. I dreaded what was to come.

The first bugbear of the day occurred at about 9.45am, when Burgeramt queue-member #7 received a visit from a random pedestrian. I’m not able to accurately relay the finer points of their conversation as it was in Turkish, but I’m fairly sure it went something like this:

“Hey, are you waiting in line for the Burgeramt?”

“Sure am”

“Boom”

“Do you need to need to see them too?”

“Yeah but I’ve got a whole heap of really important shit to do. Way more important than anything anyone else here could possibly have on, so I can’t be bothered lining up”

“All good, I’ll save you a spot in front of this Aussie guy who’s clearly not a morning person. That way you can come back just before they open and you won’t have to wait”

“Boom indeed!”

This little interchange would have been fine except for two things.

Thing #1: it was evident that these people had never met previously, so it’s not like the guy in front of me was saving a spot for his busy best buddy, who only had that morning to organise jobs curing cancer for all the unemployed youth across the Eurozone.

Thing #2: I happened to be the Aussie guy to which they referred, and the two Turks were correct in their observation that I’m not a morning person.

As you can imagine this development did nothing to improve my mood. In fact it sent me into an internal rage of cataclysmic proportions. You all know what I’m talking about…

The ability to queue is the single greatest achievement to which human civilisation can lay claim. It is the last defining socio-cultural practice still elevating us above other forms of animal life on Earth. Queuing directly challenges the concept of survival of the fittest, rewarding patience and organisation over brute strength. But should a single queue member attempt to bend the unspoken rules of respect for those who came before, the delicate dynamic of lining up can splinter into sheer, unadulterated chaos.

I’d witness this chaos before while waiting for service at a patisserie in France, and learned that you should never come between a French woman and her pastry. I quickly determined to assert myself upon the return of the queue-jumper. It was for the greater good.

As the minutes ticked by I drank my coffee, read my book and watched the line grow steadily longer. Every now and then the Turkish fly-by would return to ensure his space was being saved, before disappearing once again, chased away by the force of my glowering stare.

I counted down the minutes, knowing that eventually the doors would have to open, but still I dreaded my entrance to the building and what the bureaucrats had in store. If they were anything like the dusty/frosty receptionist there was going to be a clash. Once again, a storm was brewing.

All of a sudden, at around 10.30am, those dreaded doors swung open. This surprised me as I’d heard that not only does the Burgeramt never open early, but that it often leaves you hanging well past what should be the official welcome. Instead of letting us in though, a well-built German women made her way to the start of the queue sporting an air of importance, some paper, a clip board and a pen.

My spirits were instantly raised. Common sense had prevailed! She was going to take our names so that we could get out of the cold and head into the waiting room and the poor buggers snaking around the corner, who had no chance of scoring an appointment, could wander home and return another day. People seemed happy to be writing down their details so I was fairly sure my theory was accurate. Person by person the Burgeramt woman made her way down the line giving instructions in friendly German for us to add our details to her form. When it was my turn I eagerly obliged.

When I finished I turned to a handsome Frenchman close by who had responded to her request in German and attempted to confirm my theory. As it turned out, however, I was mistaken. Neukolln Rathaus houses the last Burgeramt in Berlin to make people wait in this ridiculous and impractical way, with every other region in the city taking online appointments. The staff here were clearly fed up with the cold and grumpy visitors they had to deal with every day, so each morning, before opening, they circulated a petition for everyone to sign, demanding that a better system be enacted.

Despite this minor setback I still relished being included in affirmative action. I began to occupy my time with fantasies about the heavy set German woman leading the group in an impromptu protest to the Burgeramt carpark where, high on vigilante passion, we would upturn dusty/frosty’s Smartcar.

When 11am finally came the Burgeramt doors abruptly swung open. Three chubby security guards strutted outside and began organising the waiting masses into small groups, which would be invited to enter the building incrementally so as not to overwhelm the staff waiting inside.

I smirked to myself and looked around: the Turkish fly-by was nowhere to be seen. Just as the first group (including myself) began to be ushered inside however, he materialised and joined us, slipping in front of me like a wet fish.

With the end in sight I limited my disapproval to a sharp glance and a raised eyebrow, and in response something magical happened. The Turkish fly-by spontaneously released his inner gentleman and gestured for me to stand ahead of him. Immediately all was forgiven. In fact I was ready to take him home to meet my parents before settling in Istanbul for a life of gay Eurasian bliss. I really am quite a desperate human being.

I smiled widely and stepped forward, only to be confronted by the dusty/frosty figure of my nemesis receptionist sitting at the desk ahead. I hesitated. My stomach lurched.

No sooner had my gaze crossed his countenance however, than I heard ‘Bitte’ and quickly looked right to see a portly German man in his early 30s waiting expectantly at a second reception desk. He looked alarmingly like Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons, replete with burrito belly and pony tail, so I braced myself for a tide of sarcasm…

“Sprechen Sie Englisch?” I enquired, as I strode forward.

“Absolutely, how can I help you?” he replied. I almost keeled over.

“I need to register my address” I managed.

“Certainly, do you have the appropriate paperwork and your passport?”

I handed them over.

“Thank you, please take this ticket and have a seat in the waiting room. You will be called promptly at 11.10am”

He spoke the truth. At exactly 11.10am my number was called. I quickly found my way to the appropriate office and sat down in front of a warm and friendly woman. Her English was genuinely limited, but what she lacked in language skills she made up for in efficiency, as 5 minutes later I was on my way home, all registered!

I was in a bit of a daze as I left the Burgeramt. I was sure it was going to be a disaster but, aside from the long wait, everything had been fine.

All of a sudden a sense of foreboding descended. This was supposed to be our first fight. The time when I discovered that thing about the city that I hated but was forced to come to terms with. This episode was supposed to mark a new relational milestone, consolidate our love affair and strengthen our romance.

If our first fight wasn’t going to come at the hands of blisteringly useless bureaucrats, what was it going to be? When would it happen? Would it be explosive? Unforgivable?

I wandered home ambivalent. I was relieved, but new something bad was still bound to happen eventually.

Then a strange thought dawned on me: perhaps the storm clouds have been a figment of my imagination. I should definitely make more of an effort to stop expecting the worst.

Besides, I like a bit of rain and thunder every now and then.