It's new year's eve already, and time to decide where you'll be when midnight rolls around. If you're an expat or tourist in Prague, the obvious thing to do is go to the city center. That's where the fireworks and crowds will be, so that must be where the party is.
But there's a reason it's almost entirely foreigners in the city center on Silvestr. You might feel like you should go at least once, just so you can experience it. I'd like to try to spare you that nightmare by describing what exactly awaits you there when the clock strikes twelve.
First of all, take all the Czech people in the city, and move them someplace else. Most natives are either at home, at friend's houses, or out in the countryside, hiding from the festivities you are considering taking part in. Now take all of the foreigners who are either living in Prague or on holiday here, and move them to Wenceslas Square and Old Town Square.
Both of these locations tend to be overcrowded to begin with, but on Silvestr, there is literally no room to breathe. Many thousands of people will be packed into a relatively small area. You can get there early and have a good spot, but you won't be able to leave for several hours. If you've ever been near the stage at a concert when the main act comes on and everyone pushes to the front, been picked up off your feet by the bodies of those around you and tossed around with no hope of regaining control, then you have an idea of what it will be like right around midnight.
Now that everyone is in one place, it's time to introduce alcohol. Most of these people will be drunk by the time they get there, but there is no shortage of booze on the street. In fact, one of the favorite pastimes for new year's drunkards on the street is opening champagne bottles by the clever method of shaking them until they're about to explode, then firing the cork out into the crowd. Bonus points if you hit someone in the eye!
The only thing more enjoyable than firing projectiles made of cork is firing explosives, and there are plenty to be found. All of the local shops have been selling various fireworks for the past month or so in preparation for the only day of the year when it's perfectly legal for any old drunken fool to set off bottle rockets and other explosives in the middle of a crowd. It's safe enough as long as people are careful to fire upwards, but with so much alcohol involved, you can be sure that there will be some strays which fly horizontally, damaging property and people alike.
In fact, whether you speak Czech or not, you can get a pretty good idea of the aftermath of Silvestr (and what the emergency services have to deal with) from the pictures on this 2009 article from Blesk.
Finally, once midnight is over and you're tired of partying, you have to find a way home. The trams are backed up for several kilometers, and occasionally someone sets off a firework inside one of them by accident (at least, one hopes it's by accident). Your best bet is simply to walk home, but it will take some time even to get off the square.
If you're looking for something safe and genuinely fun to do tonight, I recommend asking a Czech friend for advice and tagging along with them. On the other hand, if that friend suggests going to the center, it's time to find a new friend, because that person is deranged enough to be willing to deal with the torture just so they can enjoy watching you suffer.
As for me, tonight I'll be at a small bar called Abstrakt with some friends. It's far enough from the main festivities to be safe, but close enough to the center that it won't take long to get home. The drinks are reasonably priced and the service is good, and there's plenty of couches for sitting. The key is that this place is small, so it won't draw dangerous crowds, and the majority of the clientele are Czech, so the drunken tourist problem is not a concern.
Information on tonight's party can be found on Abstrakt's main Facebook page.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Czech Bureaucracy: Obtaining a Long-Stay Residence Permit (Part 2)
Over the next few days, you discuss the situation with your boss, who, having dealt with the government before, is fortunately very understanding and agrees to give you the day off the following Wednesday to retrieve the papers (assuming the offices have them ready in time) and go to the foreigner police in Rakovnik to submit your application at last. This time you take no risks, and employ a Czech friend to do the translation for you. They’re always nicer when you have a native speaker to do the talking.
On Monday, you plan to call both offices (neither of which are open on Tuesday) to check the status of your papers and make sure they’ll be ready in time. The finance office beats you to the punch, however, calling you at 11:00 and rattling off something very complicated-sounding that you are apparently expected to memorize instantly. You ask that they hold on for just a second and pass the phone off to a Czech-speaking colleague who is kind enough to write everything down for you.
She’s gone for a lot longer than you expect. Finally, ten minutes later, she returns with a piece of paper covered in numbers. The first number is 32 - the number of crowns that the finance office claims you owe and must pay before they will issue you the bezdlužnost.
But wait - how could you possibly owe them any money? You’ve only been in the country for four and a half months! You certainly don’t owe any taxes. Well, the woman on the phone had no idea why you owe the money, but until you pay it, they won’t give you the paper.
Lovely. At least it's only a very small amount. So how do you get them this money?
Well, you could go to the office in Kladno and give them the money in person. Of course, they close at 2 pm and it would be physically impossible to get there from here in time. The other option is to make a bank transfer (the other numbers on the paper are the information you need for this) - but it must be from the Czech National Bank, only one branch of which is located in Prague, and which closes at - you guessed it, 2 pm. Peachy.
You have your colleague, who graciously offers to cover for you while you leave a bit early to run to this bank, call the woman back to inform her you’ll be paying by bank transfer and confirm that your paper will be ready on Wednesday. She also tries to call the social office for you, but she encounters nothing but an impenetrable labyrinth of automatic systems, none of which offers any useful advice or, you know, a human being to speak to. You give up, cross your fingers and squeeze your thumbs hoping that all will be well, and rush out the door to the bank.
You make it 15 minutes before they close and have to go through a metal detector to get inside. You take a number and, after a few minutes of searching, manage to find the forms for making a payment to the finance office. The form is indecipherable, however, and even the Czechs waiting their turn are helping each other figure out what to write in each field. Fortunately, the average Czech citizen is considerably more friendly and helpful than most government workers, and one of them speaks enough English to help you out. You fill it in as best you can and pray to whichever gods might be listening that you’ve done it properly.
You watch each person approach the window and try to pay. Each of them is up there for a distressingly long time, and each has to answer questions and make adjustments to their paperwork. Finally, it’s your turn. You hand the woman the form and the money. She punches something into a computer then hands you a receipt. That’s it, she says.
That was suspiciously easy.
How sad is it that when something goes smoothly, your first instinct is to suspect that you've done something wrong?
Now there’s nothing left to do but wait until Wednesday and hope that everything goes well.
On Monday, you plan to call both offices (neither of which are open on Tuesday) to check the status of your papers and make sure they’ll be ready in time. The finance office beats you to the punch, however, calling you at 11:00 and rattling off something very complicated-sounding that you are apparently expected to memorize instantly. You ask that they hold on for just a second and pass the phone off to a Czech-speaking colleague who is kind enough to write everything down for you.
She’s gone for a lot longer than you expect. Finally, ten minutes later, she returns with a piece of paper covered in numbers. The first number is 32 - the number of crowns that the finance office claims you owe and must pay before they will issue you the bezdlužnost.
But wait - how could you possibly owe them any money? You’ve only been in the country for four and a half months! You certainly don’t owe any taxes. Well, the woman on the phone had no idea why you owe the money, but until you pay it, they won’t give you the paper.
Lovely. At least it's only a very small amount. So how do you get them this money?
Well, you could go to the office in Kladno and give them the money in person. Of course, they close at 2 pm and it would be physically impossible to get there from here in time. The other option is to make a bank transfer (the other numbers on the paper are the information you need for this) - but it must be from the Czech National Bank, only one branch of which is located in Prague, and which closes at - you guessed it, 2 pm. Peachy.
You have your colleague, who graciously offers to cover for you while you leave a bit early to run to this bank, call the woman back to inform her you’ll be paying by bank transfer and confirm that your paper will be ready on Wednesday. She also tries to call the social office for you, but she encounters nothing but an impenetrable labyrinth of automatic systems, none of which offers any useful advice or, you know, a human being to speak to. You give up, cross your fingers and squeeze your thumbs hoping that all will be well, and rush out the door to the bank.
You make it 15 minutes before they close and have to go through a metal detector to get inside. You take a number and, after a few minutes of searching, manage to find the forms for making a payment to the finance office. The form is indecipherable, however, and even the Czechs waiting their turn are helping each other figure out what to write in each field. Fortunately, the average Czech citizen is considerably more friendly and helpful than most government workers, and one of them speaks enough English to help you out. You fill it in as best you can and pray to whichever gods might be listening that you’ve done it properly.
You watch each person approach the window and try to pay. Each of them is up there for a distressingly long time, and each has to answer questions and make adjustments to their paperwork. Finally, it’s your turn. You hand the woman the form and the money. She punches something into a computer then hands you a receipt. That’s it, she says.
That was suspiciously easy.
How sad is it that when something goes smoothly, your first instinct is to suspect that you've done something wrong?
Now there’s nothing left to do but wait until Wednesday and hope that everything goes well.
Stamps
The trouble with making stamp ink from unicorn blood is that they are so commonly needed, but unicorn blood is so very rare. While it's true that only a drop of the blood is needed for each vat of ink, the price of even such a small amount is so high that it becomes astoundingly expensive to get even a single rubber-stamp on any official document.
In the government offices the cost is partially subsidized, of course, so the price is usually only about 100 kč, but in the private sector, such as banks, it can be much higher. For example, I myself was just yesterday in my friendly neighborhood branch of Raiffeisen, where my paychecks are deposited each month, and I needed an official printed bank statement for the foreigner police with a stamp on it to prove I hadn't forged it. I knew that such a service could hardly be free, what with the cost of that single sheet of paper, the power to run the printer, and the eighteen seconds that the clerk at the desk had to work to print it out for me, but I had forgotten to take into account the unicorn blood in the stamp. The woman told me that I could print one for free from my online banking page, but if I wanted that stamp, it was going to be 300 kč.
Alas, I don't see what other choice the bank had other than to charge me the full cost of the ink in that stamp - especially since she had to use it twice, stamping both sides of the paper.
Perhaps the solution is that the government stop mandating that all stamps contain traces of unicorn blood. No one likes the fees that banks have to charge for each small service rendered, least of all the bank owners themselves, but as long as this prohibitive regulation is enforced, what else can they do?
In the government offices the cost is partially subsidized, of course, so the price is usually only about 100 kč, but in the private sector, such as banks, it can be much higher. For example, I myself was just yesterday in my friendly neighborhood branch of Raiffeisen, where my paychecks are deposited each month, and I needed an official printed bank statement for the foreigner police with a stamp on it to prove I hadn't forged it. I knew that such a service could hardly be free, what with the cost of that single sheet of paper, the power to run the printer, and the eighteen seconds that the clerk at the desk had to work to print it out for me, but I had forgotten to take into account the unicorn blood in the stamp. The woman told me that I could print one for free from my online banking page, but if I wanted that stamp, it was going to be 300 kč.
Alas, I don't see what other choice the bank had other than to charge me the full cost of the ink in that stamp - especially since she had to use it twice, stamping both sides of the paper.
Perhaps the solution is that the government stop mandating that all stamps contain traces of unicorn blood. No one likes the fees that banks have to charge for each small service rendered, least of all the bank owners themselves, but as long as this prohibitive regulation is enforced, what else can they do?
Monday, December 19, 2011
Czech Bureaucracy: Obtaining a Long-Stay Residence Permit (Part I)
I’d like to take you on a journey through the intimidating, frustrating, and sometimes downright horrifying world of Czech bureaucracy. Even Czech citizens must deal with the government and public offices from time to time, and it’s not fun for anyone. But for a foreigner without EU citizenship, it can be an absolute nightmare.
Imagine for a moment that you are an American citizen trying to live long-term in the Czech Republic. You’re highly qualified in your field, which is in high demand in this country, and your job cannot effectively be done by Czech citizens. In short, this country has a real use for you, and it is in the best interests of the government to make it possible, even reasonably easy, for you to get legal permission to live and work here.
In a long and difficult journey which is too long to be fully described here, you managed to obtain your long-term work visa from the Czech government at a cost of many thousands of crowns, countless hours of running between various offices, even more hours of standing in line, and dozens of thank-you beers and seriously-worded I.O.U.s for your Czech friends who helped you with translation. They stuck that glorious green stamp in your passport which declares you LEGAL in the Czech Republic to live and to work using your Živnostenký List (business license). Now you have a work contract with a reputable school in Prague, you’ve been paying your social security each month, and you even have your name on the lease of a nice apartment in Kladno (a small city about 30 minutes outside Prague by bus). You’re even learning Czech and can hold a conversation with the natives as long as they speak slowly. Life is going well.
Of course, this visa only good for six months – just twice the length a tourist is allowed to stay with no visa at all. And it took you nearly six months to get it, including the preparation and the waiting time while they processed your papers. It was worth it, but that was about four months ago. There’s two months left now. That’s about sixty days. Should be plenty of time to gather the documents you need and submit your application for a two-year long-stay residence permit before the visa expires. And this time you don’t even have to leave the country – you can apply straight from your local foreigner police headquarters.
But you still need to gather the paperwork, and in order to do that, you need to first find out which paperwork you need. Time to do some research.
There’s no easy place to look for your answers. You might have a look at the web site for the MVCR – the ministry of the interior. Unlike most places in this country, they even have an English version of their web site and a listing of what you need to submit your application. Essentially, in addition to your passport and photos, you need three things:
1. Proof of accommodation
2. Proof of reason to stay
3. Proof of finance
Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it? But a quick check with others who have completed this process reveals that it is anything but simple. First of all, there are a wide range of documents which may or may not be accepted by the MVCR for each of these items. Second, there is a great deal of variance from person to person when it comes to which documents are accepted and which are not. It seems to depend on the mood of the person who happens to receive your application, and since Czechs are so keen to believe in fortune tellers, perhaps the position of the stars is also important.
A notarized lease ought to suffice for the first item, and your business license is your reason to stay, but proof of finance seems to be tricky. They won’t accept a bank statement, says one person. They need to see proof of regular income (so they know they’re guaranteed good tax income from you, and you don’t try to collect any of that social security you’ve been paying) so proof that you have plenty of money to fall back on won’t help. A credit card won’t do either. You can try to show them your work contract, but they tend not even to accept that. People make mention of government documents and tax records. Sounds complicated.
It looks like you’ll need more information. You’ve spent over a week just getting this far – sending out messages asking for help and waiting for the responses. The clock is ticking, and it’s time for more direct action. You call on a Czech speaker – your boss, in whose interest it is to get this residence permit approved – and have her directly call the foreigner police office in Rakovnik (the location you’ll need to deal with as a resident of Kladno) and ask them for a clear list of items you need to bring.
The man on the phone is neither friendly nor informative. He’s unsure about many of the answers you need to put on your application form, and he gives rather vague answers about the documents to bring. The words “probably” and “I guess” are used far too often for comfort. He does say that you need the notarized lease – but the notarization cannot be older than 180 days, so you’ll need to re-sign it. He says if you have a business license already, that will suffice. As for finance, they will need a Bezdlužnost (that’s a document certifying you don’t owe any money) from both the social (OSSZ) and finance offices, and also your Czech tax records from the previous year. You point out that you didn’t work here or pay taxes the previous year, and he says well, maybe you won’t need it then, try submitting the application without it. (Maybe? Try?) A second phone call a few days later provides a small addition to this – if you don’t have tax records, write an affidavit (in Czech of course) declaring that you didn’t work in Europe in the past and therefore no tax records exist, and sign it. That should be sufficient. (Should?) Also, you must submit your application with no less than 15 days remaining on your visa – that’s half a month less time than you expected you would have.
Well, it sounds a bit shaky, but at least you’ve got your information, and all of this is very doable. In fact, it sounds like you can do it all in one day, even taking into account the fact that these offices are only open a couple of days per week for a few hours each day (and you’ll have to miss an entire day of work each time you go visit them). Anyway, you have nearly three weeks remaining before the deadline.
It takes a week or so before you’re able to get the time off work on a Thursday and make your trip from Prague (where you work and spend most of your time) to Kladno (where you legally reside and where you must visit the social and finance offices). None of your friends are available to come translate, but you’re confident in your basic Czech and even prepare a small phrasebook containing various things you might need to say. Should there be an emergency, several friends have offered to translate by phone.
The first stop is the social office. You timidly approach the information desk and very politely explain what you need. A bezdlužnost, for the foreigner police. You also excuse your bad Czech. It seems that this is your lucky day, because the ladies working the desk here are very friendly and helpful. They don’t speak English, of course, but they speak slowly and use a bit of mime to indicate what you need to write on the form they give you. And it doesn’t even cost anything! While you’re writing, they make a photocopy of your passport. Finally, you sign the form, and they give your passport back and happily inform you that that’s it.
Wait, that’s it? What about the form? They ask you when you need it. You answer, as soon as possible – you were hoping you could get it today. After all, what could possibly be involved in looking up your records to make sure you don’t owe any money, then printing your debt-free status on a piece of paper with a stamp and signature?
No such luck. Like everything in the Czech Republic, this is going to take “about a week.” They’ll call you, they say, when it’s ready. And no, there’s nothing you can do to make this process go any faster.
Well, that’s a problem. You were hoping to go to the offices, get the papers, then go straight to the foreigner police and submit your application straight away. But what can you do? You thank them for their help and move along to the finance office.
Your luck seems to be dwindling now. You didn’t expect the woman at the counter to speak English, but she needn’t be so nasty about you not speaking perfect Czech. You explain what you need in the same words you used at the social office, but the gnarled old woman simply scowls at you and asks why you didn’t bring a translator if you can’t speak proper Czech. (Sadly, this is the rule rather than the exception. The ladies at the social office were truly extraordinary.) Finally you manage to get the form to apply for your bezdlužnost and do your best to fill it out. She grumbles that you filled in an area you didn’t need to, demands 100 crowns as a processing fee, and walks away without another word.
You’re already a few steps outside when you remember that you need to ask about the tax documents. You take a deep breath and timidly step back into the building. The angry woman who "helped" you before is gone, thank goodness, and a younger woman is now sitting at the window. You apologize for your bad Czech, read a prepared sentence from your notebook explaining your concern about tax records, and look at her hopefully. She stares back as though you had just tried to order a large pizza with extra spiders, and shrugs her shoulders. The tax people are here on Monday and Wednesday, she says. Come back next week.
Deep breath. You can do this.
Time to get out your phone. Nevermind that it costs you 7 crowns a minute to call someone, you need to get this sorted out. You get ahold of one of your friends, explain the situation, and hand the phone to the young woman, whose confusion seems only to be growing (for a few seconds, she looks at the phone as though you had asked her to swallow it). You listen attentively to her half of the conversation, but the only part you understand is “really I have no idea what on earth she needs.” Finally she smiles, understanding seeming to dawn, hangs up the phone, and hands it back. She writes three digits on a piece of paper and hands it to you. Go to that phone over there, she says, and call this number. No other explanation, but what else can you do?
You pick up the phone and dial the number. It rings eleven times before you give up and set down the receiver. You tell the woman that no one answered, and again, she shrugs her shoulders and says come back on Monday.
Well, it’s not possible to come back on Monday. You have work, and you’ll already have to take Wednesday off to come back and pick up these forms, and finally submit your application to the foreigner police. You’ll just have to hope that the affidavit will suffice.
Time to go back to Prague and regroup.
Imagine for a moment that you are an American citizen trying to live long-term in the Czech Republic. You’re highly qualified in your field, which is in high demand in this country, and your job cannot effectively be done by Czech citizens. In short, this country has a real use for you, and it is in the best interests of the government to make it possible, even reasonably easy, for you to get legal permission to live and work here.
In a long and difficult journey which is too long to be fully described here, you managed to obtain your long-term work visa from the Czech government at a cost of many thousands of crowns, countless hours of running between various offices, even more hours of standing in line, and dozens of thank-you beers and seriously-worded I.O.U.s for your Czech friends who helped you with translation. They stuck that glorious green stamp in your passport which declares you LEGAL in the Czech Republic to live and to work using your Živnostenký List (business license). Now you have a work contract with a reputable school in Prague, you’ve been paying your social security each month, and you even have your name on the lease of a nice apartment in Kladno (a small city about 30 minutes outside Prague by bus). You’re even learning Czech and can hold a conversation with the natives as long as they speak slowly. Life is going well.
Of course, this visa only good for six months – just twice the length a tourist is allowed to stay with no visa at all. And it took you nearly six months to get it, including the preparation and the waiting time while they processed your papers. It was worth it, but that was about four months ago. There’s two months left now. That’s about sixty days. Should be plenty of time to gather the documents you need and submit your application for a two-year long-stay residence permit before the visa expires. And this time you don’t even have to leave the country – you can apply straight from your local foreigner police headquarters.
But you still need to gather the paperwork, and in order to do that, you need to first find out which paperwork you need. Time to do some research.
There’s no easy place to look for your answers. You might have a look at the web site for the MVCR – the ministry of the interior. Unlike most places in this country, they even have an English version of their web site and a listing of what you need to submit your application. Essentially, in addition to your passport and photos, you need three things:
1. Proof of accommodation
2. Proof of reason to stay
3. Proof of finance
Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it? But a quick check with others who have completed this process reveals that it is anything but simple. First of all, there are a wide range of documents which may or may not be accepted by the MVCR for each of these items. Second, there is a great deal of variance from person to person when it comes to which documents are accepted and which are not. It seems to depend on the mood of the person who happens to receive your application, and since Czechs are so keen to believe in fortune tellers, perhaps the position of the stars is also important.
A notarized lease ought to suffice for the first item, and your business license is your reason to stay, but proof of finance seems to be tricky. They won’t accept a bank statement, says one person. They need to see proof of regular income (so they know they’re guaranteed good tax income from you, and you don’t try to collect any of that social security you’ve been paying) so proof that you have plenty of money to fall back on won’t help. A credit card won’t do either. You can try to show them your work contract, but they tend not even to accept that. People make mention of government documents and tax records. Sounds complicated.
It looks like you’ll need more information. You’ve spent over a week just getting this far – sending out messages asking for help and waiting for the responses. The clock is ticking, and it’s time for more direct action. You call on a Czech speaker – your boss, in whose interest it is to get this residence permit approved – and have her directly call the foreigner police office in Rakovnik (the location you’ll need to deal with as a resident of Kladno) and ask them for a clear list of items you need to bring.
The man on the phone is neither friendly nor informative. He’s unsure about many of the answers you need to put on your application form, and he gives rather vague answers about the documents to bring. The words “probably” and “I guess” are used far too often for comfort. He does say that you need the notarized lease – but the notarization cannot be older than 180 days, so you’ll need to re-sign it. He says if you have a business license already, that will suffice. As for finance, they will need a Bezdlužnost (that’s a document certifying you don’t owe any money) from both the social (OSSZ) and finance offices, and also your Czech tax records from the previous year. You point out that you didn’t work here or pay taxes the previous year, and he says well, maybe you won’t need it then, try submitting the application without it. (Maybe? Try?) A second phone call a few days later provides a small addition to this – if you don’t have tax records, write an affidavit (in Czech of course) declaring that you didn’t work in Europe in the past and therefore no tax records exist, and sign it. That should be sufficient. (Should?) Also, you must submit your application with no less than 15 days remaining on your visa – that’s half a month less time than you expected you would have.
Well, it sounds a bit shaky, but at least you’ve got your information, and all of this is very doable. In fact, it sounds like you can do it all in one day, even taking into account the fact that these offices are only open a couple of days per week for a few hours each day (and you’ll have to miss an entire day of work each time you go visit them). Anyway, you have nearly three weeks remaining before the deadline.
It takes a week or so before you’re able to get the time off work on a Thursday and make your trip from Prague (where you work and spend most of your time) to Kladno (where you legally reside and where you must visit the social and finance offices). None of your friends are available to come translate, but you’re confident in your basic Czech and even prepare a small phrasebook containing various things you might need to say. Should there be an emergency, several friends have offered to translate by phone.
The first stop is the social office. You timidly approach the information desk and very politely explain what you need. A bezdlužnost, for the foreigner police. You also excuse your bad Czech. It seems that this is your lucky day, because the ladies working the desk here are very friendly and helpful. They don’t speak English, of course, but they speak slowly and use a bit of mime to indicate what you need to write on the form they give you. And it doesn’t even cost anything! While you’re writing, they make a photocopy of your passport. Finally, you sign the form, and they give your passport back and happily inform you that that’s it.
Wait, that’s it? What about the form? They ask you when you need it. You answer, as soon as possible – you were hoping you could get it today. After all, what could possibly be involved in looking up your records to make sure you don’t owe any money, then printing your debt-free status on a piece of paper with a stamp and signature?
No such luck. Like everything in the Czech Republic, this is going to take “about a week.” They’ll call you, they say, when it’s ready. And no, there’s nothing you can do to make this process go any faster.
Well, that’s a problem. You were hoping to go to the offices, get the papers, then go straight to the foreigner police and submit your application straight away. But what can you do? You thank them for their help and move along to the finance office.
Your luck seems to be dwindling now. You didn’t expect the woman at the counter to speak English, but she needn’t be so nasty about you not speaking perfect Czech. You explain what you need in the same words you used at the social office, but the gnarled old woman simply scowls at you and asks why you didn’t bring a translator if you can’t speak proper Czech. (Sadly, this is the rule rather than the exception. The ladies at the social office were truly extraordinary.) Finally you manage to get the form to apply for your bezdlužnost and do your best to fill it out. She grumbles that you filled in an area you didn’t need to, demands 100 crowns as a processing fee, and walks away without another word.
You’re already a few steps outside when you remember that you need to ask about the tax documents. You take a deep breath and timidly step back into the building. The angry woman who "helped" you before is gone, thank goodness, and a younger woman is now sitting at the window. You apologize for your bad Czech, read a prepared sentence from your notebook explaining your concern about tax records, and look at her hopefully. She stares back as though you had just tried to order a large pizza with extra spiders, and shrugs her shoulders. The tax people are here on Monday and Wednesday, she says. Come back next week.
Deep breath. You can do this.
Time to get out your phone. Nevermind that it costs you 7 crowns a minute to call someone, you need to get this sorted out. You get ahold of one of your friends, explain the situation, and hand the phone to the young woman, whose confusion seems only to be growing (for a few seconds, she looks at the phone as though you had asked her to swallow it). You listen attentively to her half of the conversation, but the only part you understand is “really I have no idea what on earth she needs.” Finally she smiles, understanding seeming to dawn, hangs up the phone, and hands it back. She writes three digits on a piece of paper and hands it to you. Go to that phone over there, she says, and call this number. No other explanation, but what else can you do?
You pick up the phone and dial the number. It rings eleven times before you give up and set down the receiver. You tell the woman that no one answered, and again, she shrugs her shoulders and says come back on Monday.
Well, it’s not possible to come back on Monday. You have work, and you’ll already have to take Wednesday off to come back and pick up these forms, and finally submit your application to the foreigner police. You’ll just have to hope that the affidavit will suffice.
Time to go back to Prague and regroup.
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