Most countries can make only educated guesses about their exact populations. Even the mighty United States only gets an accurate snap shot once every ten years of who lives in its country. But not Belgium. Belgium keeps a running tab of everyone who lives everywhere at all times. They are strict about this. Newcomers have only 8 days to announce their arrival – “officially” at their local commune.

Since the Belgians, as little brothers of the French, love bureaucracy, I anticipated complexity and took an initial investigative trip to the commune offices of St. Gilles to inquire about our registration. I arrived at 1:30pm and went to the INFORMATION desk where the man behind it told me I was far too late to register, that I should come back early the next day. Ok. What time? “Early,” he said, “people come early and sign up for an appointment on that day – and it’s closed after lunch.” Ok. And what documents should I bring? “I don’t know,” he said, “you have to ask the people down the hall.” Can I ask them now? “Nope. They don’t work in the afternoons.” (So much for INFORMATION).

We went back the next week at 8:00am, laden with documents. Too late. All the appointments for that day had already been handed out (what time did everyone get there?). The list was full. We asked a man (sitting at a folding card table in front of the ‘Salle des Etrangers’) if we could schedule an appointment for the next day. Nope. But the following Tuesday would be ok. Fine. The man wrote David’s name down in pencil and handed him a blue raffle ticket, onto the back of which he scribbled 10:30. So David had an appointment. What should he bring to the appointment? “Oh, I don’t know. Bring everything just in case”. What? Wasn’t this the man down the hall who was supposed to have the information the man at the information desk didn’t have? Apparently not. “Oh and bring €7.50 in cash and some ID photos. And the blue ticket.”

Because I was registering under my British passport, the man at the card table wasn’t interested in me. I had to go to another wing, to the ‘Salle des Europeans’ where I wasn’t lucky enough to receive a raffle ticket – just a scrap of paper with the words 10:00 Tuesday, two copies of passport, 1 ID photo, € 7.50, scribbled in pencil. So I guess we both had appointments.

David, being the good lawyer he is, made several copies of all our documents (passports, lease agreement, his professional card – that took 6 weeks longer than it was supposed to and delayed relocation – his visa, employment contracts, letters from the bank, our marriage certificate, our birth certificates). We got ID photos taken and came each with exactly €7.50 in cash.

We returned early on Tuesday and waited with all the other bleary-eyed newcomers until our turn. I went to the European wing and (fifteen minutes before my scheduled appointment) knocked on the door to find out when/where to go. Four women were sat at four desks – one sending messages on her mobile phone, one filing her nails (I’m serious), and the other two chatting to each other across the room. I told them my appointment wasn’t for fifteen more minutes, where should I wait? “Oh come in now, if you like”. Had I even needed an appointment? I handed over copies of my passport, my ID photo and my €7.50 in cash, and filled in a form requiring nothing more than my new address, my parents’ names, my husband’s name, and the date of our wedding. Wow. Easy. But wait.

I was then given instructions for how I would register with the commune. Wasn’t that what I had just finished doing? No. This was only the pre-registration registration. “Next, the local police will come to your house to check to see if you really live there. Then they will give you a form that you have to fill in, and an appointment card for your registration appointment. You must come on that day, at that time with copies of your husband’s work contract, your marriage certificate, your rental agreement, 3 ID photos and €42.50 in cash.” What? “Can’t I just give you all those things now and be done with it?” “No.” “When will the police come?” “I don’t know.”

Meanwhile, David was in the ‘foreigners’ room handing over multiple copies of all the documents he had luckily come with. His agent was happy to take them because David had brought them, not because he knew exactly what he should be looking for. “Oh, that looks important, I’ll take that too!” They happily took his €7.50 and told him to wait for his police visit after which he would come back with more copies of all the same things! Oh and 2 ID photos (not 3) and €27.50 in cash (not €42.50)! What?

So now we wait for the police to knock on our door and invite us to our third attempt at registering. If we’re lucky, we may have a residence card before we move back to Canada. Register in 8 days?! I’ll be happy with 8 months?

BK