The quest for a passport, take two
Ah, yes, my quest continues. Still, it's no fault of mine, of course.
Hurrah...?
So, this Monday I went to the police station and reported my passport missing. The nice policeman said sure, no problem. He'd write a report pronto. It was pretty standard.
"And then you just fill out this application form for a new passport."
"Well, I'm not Danish; I'm Finnish, so I'll have to go to the embassy. I just need the police report."
"Ah... well, no problem. Then I'll need your passport number."
It took me a while to explain that since I had not actually set eyes on my passport for the last 20 odd years, I did not, infact, have the number. (I didn't say, but I am fairly convinced that 99.6% of the passport-carrying population of the world do not have their passport number written down. But, of course, I may be wrong). In the end he and his colleague decided it was okay, and they could do without the number. I got the report (once they located the correct form for me to fill in) and I was outta there, report safely in my bag.
Next stop was my workplace (I'm really on vacation, but what with finances being what they are I'm vacating at home, in front of my computer). My very nice boss took a picture of me and printed it on real photopaper, in the correct measurements and all that jazz. No need to waste money on pictures, after all.
This is getting silly
Armed with the pics and all of my paperwork I went to the Finnish Embassy.The kind lady (the consul) took one look at my pics and told me, sorry, they were all wrong. I was smiling. With teeth. No teeth are allowed; the machine won't have it. She told me there was a small photo shop some 300 metres that way, and they'd know how the pics ought to look. Yay...
The photo shop girl was very nice. She took my picture, no teeth (and it was just about the most awful pic ever taken of me. Nobody - and I mean nobody, will ever get to see it, apart from the people letting me into and out of countries!
Back to the embassy. Ah yes, the pictures were fine now. The consul even managed to keep a straight face while she looked at them, which I thought was pretty strong. All we needed now was for me to pay for the passport. I whipped out my plastic and saw the smile on her face fade.
"We are only allowed to take Danish cash."
"No problem", says I; "I'll just nip along to the small shop across the street and get some cash."
The shop attendant informed me (after I had waited in line for ten minutes) that they did not allow customers to withdraw cash. But I could go 600 metres that way, to find an ATM. Well, wow; how about posting a big sign or something. Dumbass...
So I trotted along, again. And as I passed the photo shop I thought I'd ask the nice girl if she'd allow me to withdraw some cash. She sure would, the sweet thing. Just as soon as that other customer got off the shop's telephone. He was trying to get a fax number from someone who did not seem to have it. It took him almost five minutes to ascertain that he could not get the number, and hang up. I got my money and hurried out (as I left the shop I heard him say "Oh, the fax number is right here, on the invoice."), almost running back to the embassy. It was nearing their closing hour.
Like, really silly
Back at the embassy I prepared to pay for my passport. But no... no, no, this was not over yet:
"We called the administration in Finland, and they say you moved from Sweden in 2003, yes?"
"... No. I moved from Sweden to Denmark in 1968."
"Ah. It says 2003 here..."
"I was 9 years old when I moved. It was in 1968." I may have sounded a little bit defensive here.
"Well, there might be a misunderstanding... Can you give me your parents names on this piece of paper? Maybe we have the papers of someone else..."
At this point in time I was beginning to have some serious doubts as to whether I was going to go anywhere, ever. My ticket to the US was non refundable, so if this quest ended with me crashing and burning that'd be 800 dollars (app. 4400 Dkr) I'd never see again. I really did not like that thought.
I wrote down my parents' names on a piece of paper and pushed it under the bullet proof glass. It may have helped that our names are not very common; the administration in Finland seemed to confirm that I matched my parents, and that the date in their papers had been mixed up somehow. After some discussion - in Finnish, which I don't understand a word of - I got the green light from the administration! Yay.
Nnnghaaarg...
The consul leafed through the papers in my file. The clerk lady typed away on her computer, printing more papers for the consul to look over. I watched her warily, and sure enough she soon started to look like she was searching for something.
"We need your adress in Finland"
"I have no adress in Finland. I have never even been to Finland. I am a Finnish citizen because my father was Finnish. Such were the rules then."
"Yes... Well, then your adress in Sweden."
"I live here, in Copenhagen. On Østerbro. I was nine when we moved from Sweden, and I can only vaguely remember some street names."
She looked at the papers again. "Then we just need a paper from Folkeregisteret to confirm your present adress in Denmark."
"But... but... "
"I know," she said, almost apologetic; "I think it's silly too, but there you have it. Folkeregisteret is in Dahlerupsgade, by the Lakes. It'll cost you some 100 Dkr."
"So... I'll just come back tomorrow, I guess."
I must have looked extremely deflated because the consul almost carried my bags to the door for me, and waved, saying "See you tomorrow then..."
So now, besides taking a lot longer than it ought to, this passport is also turning out to be an expensive affair. Adding to the cost is the fact that the streets around the embassy are rather rich in clothes shops and shoe stores, and I have a soft spot for those places, so...
Yes, yes, YES... YESSS
Ah, yes. A happy ending. The paper from Folkeregisteret was a mere formality (and only cost 54 Dkr), the walk through Copenhagen from the Lakes to the embassy was delightful. I took the opportunity to call a dear friend on my cellphone, and thus I had a very pleasant stroll across town. The consul brought me the final paper to sign (one last obstacle: the pen had dried out, so she needed to find another. I think The Powers That Be tries to tell me something here). I signed, we smiled, I was informed that they didn't normally do this kind of work for one passport, because they are understaffed; I promised to bring a box of chocolate when I pick up the passport in four weeks time - and I left. I am home free. Nothing can go wrong now (I did the 'jinx dance' after writing that), and I'll be flying to Washington in October.
Thank you for your time.
And rest assured that if I should find my old passport, I am not going to tell anyone about it. I'll shred it and burn it and bury it in the garden. When I get a garden. Or something.