My teaching contract expired on June 30th, although my last day of teaching was the 24th, and unlike last year I have made a large enough contribution to Spanish social security (360 days) to be eligible to claim unemployment benefit, or paro.
I wasn't keen at first, it seemed slightly wrong claiming for what is basically a summer holiday. However, I've got mouths to feed these days and, while I've been offered a new contract from October plus work in September, I've got nothing on paper. Plus it's really worth doing - within certain maximums and minimums you get 70% of your previous base salary! So Friday morning, clutching virtually every official piece of paper I had, I headed off to our local INEM office on Virgen del Puig.
I went early, at 9am. The queue snaked down the street. People had books and packed breakfasts. Hmmmmm. At 9.55am I finally got to the front of the queue.... to the ticket machine. I explained what I wanted to do, the lady had a quick glance at my papers to check I was eligible, then gave me a ticket. B395. I looked at the screen. They were on B325. I looked at the ticket - it gave a tiempo orientiva of 12.45pm. Right. Funnily enough I went home!
12.30pm I got back to the office. They were only on B375. Hmmmm. Tiempo orientiva was right! 1.40pm I finally got seen, he had a look through the mountain of papers I had and then decided - of course - that I was missing something I'd never heard of - una baja en la demanda - but luckily I'd just have to go next door for it. I was a bit worried - the office was closing at 2pm - would I get back in before they shut? Was I going to have to come back on Monday?
Anyway, next door I was the only person waiting. I took my number and I paced around, death-staring all the functionarios doing nothing and studiously ignoring me. Somebody else came in, took a number (different letter) and was seen immediately. Time was ticking down. Finally, my number flashed up above the desk of somebody who had been doing sod all for the past 10 minutes and I was seen. 3 questions, sorted... except... take a number again, go to another desk, go to reception, get a print out and run back to the other office moments before the security guard turned the door to exit only. Phew.
I caught the eye of the guy who had been dealing with my application - he was of course with another applicant - and I took a seat. It was 2.30pm when I finally got out the office. Phew!
Showing posts with label bureaucracy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bureaucracy. Show all posts
Sunday, 4 July 2010
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
Bloody British Bureaucracy
So, having finally won my battle with the Spanish bureaucracy - registering Rosie's birth and getting paternity and maternity benefits for Kate and I - after only three trips to Social Security, one to the Register Civil, one to the Post Office, one to the Health Centre and another to a translator's office, my skirmish with the British Consulate begins. As annoying as the Spanish paperwork had been, at least it hadn't cost me anything.
€117 - That's how much it costs to register Rosie's birth with the British Consulate.
This isn't mandatory - we can apply for Rosie's passport (€95) without registering her - but if Rosie ever wants to enjoy any of the benefits of British Citizenship (the NHS, education, etc) it needs to be done. Merely registering her, however, wont be enough; upon return to the UK we'll need to prove she has been registered and for that we'll need a certificate. A snip at €75, plus €13 for delivery.
Of course registering her was never going to be straightforward. I had the form all filled out plus our marriage certificate, hospital papers, our passports, Rosie's Spanish birth certificate, both our short form birth certificates and Kate's long form birth certificate. What I didn't have was my long form birth certificate. Apparently they need it because it gives the details of my parents - the fact that these are also on Rosie's birth certificate and our marriage certificate was neither here nor there. Ironically, had I been Spanish, my details wouldn't be needed - Rosie could still be registered as British using Kate's papers alone. But I am British. So they need my long form birth certificate. A mere £25 and 5 working days; a bargain really considering the prices of the other bits of paper paying the rent for the British Consulate's panoramic views at Torre Espacio.
€117 - That's how much it costs to register Rosie's birth with the British Consulate.
This isn't mandatory - we can apply for Rosie's passport (€95) without registering her - but if Rosie ever wants to enjoy any of the benefits of British Citizenship (the NHS, education, etc) it needs to be done. Merely registering her, however, wont be enough; upon return to the UK we'll need to prove she has been registered and for that we'll need a certificate. A snip at €75, plus €13 for delivery.
Of course registering her was never going to be straightforward. I had the form all filled out plus our marriage certificate, hospital papers, our passports, Rosie's Spanish birth certificate, both our short form birth certificates and Kate's long form birth certificate. What I didn't have was my long form birth certificate. Apparently they need it because it gives the details of my parents - the fact that these are also on Rosie's birth certificate and our marriage certificate was neither here nor there. Ironically, had I been Spanish, my details wouldn't be needed - Rosie could still be registered as British using Kate's papers alone. But I am British. So they need my long form birth certificate. A mere £25 and 5 working days; a bargain really considering the prices of the other bits of paper paying the rent for the British Consulate's panoramic views at Torre Espacio.
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
Money for nothing By Kate
Beware, all pregnant teachers - your work could damage you and your unborn child. I know this because I have been plucked from the jaws of peril by a team of Spanish bureaucrats and at times it was a close-run thing.
After acquiring the risk assessment survey, which uncovered the treacherous nature of language teaching, then the recommendation of my doctor that I should be signed off work due to the inherent dangers to myself and my developing offspring, the next step was to convince the Social Security.
The faithful Marina and I accordingly took a taxi to the Asapeyo office, the organisation set up to protect workers in Spain and prevent avoidable accidents and illness during employment. We had an impressively fat wad of bumf to take with us - my boss, already acquainted with the Spanish way of doing things was taking no chances. He'd made two copies of everything official related to me - my passport, Certificado de Registro, doctor's notes, work contract, etc. etc.
Marina and I carted all the paperwork to the office (which turned out to be at a different address to the one we'd been given, but no matter - it was only across the road) and after one redirection, made it to the desk of a young woman, who expertly sifted through all the data and separated out the stuff she needed to manage our claim.
We were both slightly taken aback to be scolded for neglecting to apply for the baja por emarazada del riesgo earlier - it seemed a bit harsh, given our combined efforts before Christmas and the third-time-lucky routine with the tough talking Dr P. The young woman told us that to ensure the baja was granted quickly, we would have to go to another office to see a further official and be assessed by the Asapeyo doctor. This, we were told, should be little more than a formality, but we must get on with it straight away.
Ignoring our grumbling stomachs (it was lunchtime, after all), we flagged another taxi to take us across town and found ourselves sitting at the desk of another official, this time a man named Jorge. He went through the sifting routine again, made a few notes and tapped something into his computer, then sent us back out to the floor receptionist.
She went through what appeared to be almost the same process, then bade us sit down for a moment. This we did until we were summoned back and told to go down two floors and wait to see the doctor on duty there.
It was a good thing Theo had slipped an emergency clementine in my bag, because I'm not sure Marina and I would have made it otherwise. We shared it and entered the lift with our strength slightly revived.
Another floor, another waiting area. After about five minutes, the doctor called us into her office and smiled kindly. What repetitive actions did I have to do in the course of my job, she wanted to know? I stood up and did a little mime of writing on the white board, feeling like I'd stumbled into a rerun of What's My Line. The doctor seemed satisfied with my performance and I was allowed to sit down again. She then asked what hours I had to work. I said around seven per day, including lesson preparation. That, apparently was enough. She told Marina and I that the fact I was often on my feet for several hours at a time was enough to categorise my situation as risky. She said she would recommend that I be signed off on that basis and that we would have the definitive answer from the Asapeyo in the next few days. She gave us the impression that this was likely to be little more than a rubber-stamping exercise. She told me she would ring me to let me know the outcome, at which I admitted I might have trouble understanding her, as my level of Spanish wasn't very high.
"That's all right, nor is my English", she said (in Spanish) - which was supposed to be reassuring, I think.
So, all being well, in the next day or two I should be officially entitled to receive 100% of my salary from the state until the day our baby is born and I start my four months maternity leave. And my boss will get a bit of help paying for my replacement, which I think he more than deserves after all his (and his wife's) efforts navigating through the swamp of Spanish bureaucracy. Possibly, they should be awarded some sort of medal as well.
In celebration of our achievement, Marina and I headed gratefully to a nearby cafe and shared a mixed salad (which we requested to have without tuna, given that I'm a vegetarian - they obliged and brought one sprinkled with cubes of ham instead) followed by French omelette and chips. I was so hungry I had practically wolfed the lot before I realised the omelette was still very runny in the middle - pregnant women are supposed to avoid undercooked eggs at all costs because of the risk of listeria. Out of the fire and into the frying pan.
After acquiring the risk assessment survey, which uncovered the treacherous nature of language teaching, then the recommendation of my doctor that I should be signed off work due to the inherent dangers to myself and my developing offspring, the next step was to convince the Social Security.
The faithful Marina and I accordingly took a taxi to the Asapeyo office, the organisation set up to protect workers in Spain and prevent avoidable accidents and illness during employment. We had an impressively fat wad of bumf to take with us - my boss, already acquainted with the Spanish way of doing things was taking no chances. He'd made two copies of everything official related to me - my passport, Certificado de Registro, doctor's notes, work contract, etc. etc.
Marina and I carted all the paperwork to the office (which turned out to be at a different address to the one we'd been given, but no matter - it was only across the road) and after one redirection, made it to the desk of a young woman, who expertly sifted through all the data and separated out the stuff she needed to manage our claim.
We were both slightly taken aback to be scolded for neglecting to apply for the baja por emarazada del riesgo earlier - it seemed a bit harsh, given our combined efforts before Christmas and the third-time-lucky routine with the tough talking Dr P. The young woman told us that to ensure the baja was granted quickly, we would have to go to another office to see a further official and be assessed by the Asapeyo doctor. This, we were told, should be little more than a formality, but we must get on with it straight away.
Ignoring our grumbling stomachs (it was lunchtime, after all), we flagged another taxi to take us across town and found ourselves sitting at the desk of another official, this time a man named Jorge. He went through the sifting routine again, made a few notes and tapped something into his computer, then sent us back out to the floor receptionist.
She went through what appeared to be almost the same process, then bade us sit down for a moment. This we did until we were summoned back and told to go down two floors and wait to see the doctor on duty there.
It was a good thing Theo had slipped an emergency clementine in my bag, because I'm not sure Marina and I would have made it otherwise. We shared it and entered the lift with our strength slightly revived.
Another floor, another waiting area. After about five minutes, the doctor called us into her office and smiled kindly. What repetitive actions did I have to do in the course of my job, she wanted to know? I stood up and did a little mime of writing on the white board, feeling like I'd stumbled into a rerun of What's My Line. The doctor seemed satisfied with my performance and I was allowed to sit down again. She then asked what hours I had to work. I said around seven per day, including lesson preparation. That, apparently was enough. She told Marina and I that the fact I was often on my feet for several hours at a time was enough to categorise my situation as risky. She said she would recommend that I be signed off on that basis and that we would have the definitive answer from the Asapeyo in the next few days. She gave us the impression that this was likely to be little more than a rubber-stamping exercise. She told me she would ring me to let me know the outcome, at which I admitted I might have trouble understanding her, as my level of Spanish wasn't very high.
"That's all right, nor is my English", she said (in Spanish) - which was supposed to be reassuring, I think.
So, all being well, in the next day or two I should be officially entitled to receive 100% of my salary from the state until the day our baby is born and I start my four months maternity leave. And my boss will get a bit of help paying for my replacement, which I think he more than deserves after all his (and his wife's) efforts navigating through the swamp of Spanish bureaucracy. Possibly, they should be awarded some sort of medal as well.
In celebration of our achievement, Marina and I headed gratefully to a nearby cafe and shared a mixed salad (which we requested to have without tuna, given that I'm a vegetarian - they obliged and brought one sprinkled with cubes of ham instead) followed by French omelette and chips. I was so hungry I had practically wolfed the lot before I realised the omelette was still very runny in the middle - pregnant women are supposed to avoid undercooked eggs at all costs because of the risk of listeria. Out of the fire and into the frying pan.
Thursday, 21 May 2009
legally resident
I am finally legally resident in Spain, having procured my NIE - Numero de Identidad de Extranjero - this week after many Catch-22 style antics. Well, not that many, but enough to stress me out.
Getting the number is free and easy, but getting the appointment is not - there's a 6 month wait which is why I only just got mine. You need it to pay taxes, get a bank account and so on. There's a 10 euro administration charge which you have to pay at a bank beforehand and take the receipt with you. After getting Nataly to help me fill in the forms, this bit was easy: 8.30am (my appointment was at 10pm) at the bank, queue for 10 minutes, pay, on the metro to the address on the form. I arrive in good time, just after 9am, and join the back of the queue that snakes its way out of the building along the pavement and across the road. I'd taken some marking with me to keep me busy. The line moves fairly quickly and as I approach the door a policeman asks to see my form. Noting I'm English he tries to be helpful: "You need line 5." Anyway, either he got his numbers confused or was just plain wrong, because after 15 minutes of queuing in line 5 I finally get my turn and am directed to line 7. I queue again. Finally I am summoned to line 9, to be told I'm in the wrong place altogether. "Donde de Reino Undido? Vale, debes ir a Puerta de Toledo," says the man at the desk, giving me an address. I'm a bit pissed off; not only is the address he's given me not on the form but I recognise it: I've been there before, with Kate when she wanted to change the address on her NIE - there (at Puerta de Toledo) we were told to go to a different office - the one I was currently in, in fact! I explain this to the man, and he bumbles off with my forms into a back office. Ten minutes later he comes back.
I still need to go to Puerta de Toledo.
Which is on the other side of town.
I just made it. Funnily enough when I finally got there, there was no wait and no awkward questions (just when I was really psyched up to get argumentative in my limited Spanish). Instead a nice woman checked the spelling of my name, stamped my forms, gave me a certificate and welcomed me to Spain.
I now feel truly at home.
Getting the number is free and easy, but getting the appointment is not - there's a 6 month wait which is why I only just got mine. You need it to pay taxes, get a bank account and so on. There's a 10 euro administration charge which you have to pay at a bank beforehand and take the receipt with you. After getting Nataly to help me fill in the forms, this bit was easy: 8.30am (my appointment was at 10pm) at the bank, queue for 10 minutes, pay, on the metro to the address on the form. I arrive in good time, just after 9am, and join the back of the queue that snakes its way out of the building along the pavement and across the road. I'd taken some marking with me to keep me busy. The line moves fairly quickly and as I approach the door a policeman asks to see my form. Noting I'm English he tries to be helpful: "You need line 5." Anyway, either he got his numbers confused or was just plain wrong, because after 15 minutes of queuing in line 5 I finally get my turn and am directed to line 7. I queue again. Finally I am summoned to line 9, to be told I'm in the wrong place altogether. "Donde de Reino Undido? Vale, debes ir a Puerta de Toledo," says the man at the desk, giving me an address. I'm a bit pissed off; not only is the address he's given me not on the form but I recognise it: I've been there before, with Kate when she wanted to change the address on her NIE - there (at Puerta de Toledo) we were told to go to a different office - the one I was currently in, in fact! I explain this to the man, and he bumbles off with my forms into a back office. Ten minutes later he comes back.
I still need to go to Puerta de Toledo.
Which is on the other side of town.
I just made it. Funnily enough when I finally got there, there was no wait and no awkward questions (just when I was really psyched up to get argumentative in my limited Spanish). Instead a nice woman checked the spelling of my name, stamped my forms, gave me a certificate and welcomed me to Spain.
I now feel truly at home.
Saturday, 7 February 2009
The Business Empire Begins...
I am now officially self-employed. For the first time in my life, I am my own business. I quite like it so far - my home is my office and I don't have a boss telling me what time to come in and go home everyday.
That said, I have to keep my clients satisfied, my main one being the language organisation that sorts out my classes. Two of my classes involve an 0830 start on the other side of the city, which involves an 0630 get up time that is a good hour or so earlier than my natural preference. But it's also almost two hours later than the alarm-time for early shifts at my former job, so I console myself with that.
Despite my misgivings about doing the red tape thing at the Social Security office to complete my registration as a freelance English teacher, it was a breeze. I had correctly puzzled out the form, so didn't have to face any awkward questions beyond what I took to mean: "do you have a separate office address?" and "would you like to pay by direct debit?"
Being self-employed in Spain means you pay a base level (you can choose to pay more if you wish) of 244 Euros per month for your social security contributions and 15% income tax. Some of that could be refunded at the end of the year. With my current number of teaching hours it translates as working one week per month for the Social Security office and the other three for myself. I figure three out of four ain't bad.
That said, I have to keep my clients satisfied, my main one being the language organisation that sorts out my classes. Two of my classes involve an 0830 start on the other side of the city, which involves an 0630 get up time that is a good hour or so earlier than my natural preference. But it's also almost two hours later than the alarm-time for early shifts at my former job, so I console myself with that.
Despite my misgivings about doing the red tape thing at the Social Security office to complete my registration as a freelance English teacher, it was a breeze. I had correctly puzzled out the form, so didn't have to face any awkward questions beyond what I took to mean: "do you have a separate office address?" and "would you like to pay by direct debit?"
Being self-employed in Spain means you pay a base level (you can choose to pay more if you wish) of 244 Euros per month for your social security contributions and 15% income tax. Some of that could be refunded at the end of the year. With my current number of teaching hours it translates as working one week per month for the Social Security office and the other three for myself. I figure three out of four ain't bad.
Monday, 26 January 2009
Spanish bureaucracy
It's a Catch 22. I can't get a Resident's bank account without an NIE (Numero de Indentidad de Extranjero) and I can't get a non-Resident's bank account without proof of income; unfortunately my only proof of income is my contract at the language school which proves that I AM resident in Spain and therefore am ineligible for a non-Resident's bank account. I need a Resident's bank account which I can't get until.....
You get the picture.
So now you're asking "Is it hard to get an NIE?" Well, no. You just go along to a police station, fill in a form, hand over a photocopy of your passport, show the original, pay a 10 euro administration charge and you are issued with the number. The tricky part is getting an appointment at a police station; such are the numbers of foreign nationals in Madrid that the earliest my employers could secure me an appointment for was May. I guess I should be thankful that's May this year!
Happily though, Kate's employers - who pay their staff on a freelance basis and therefore need them to get their NIE's as soon as possible - have a handy little wheeze to get around this. As they have an office in the beautiful nearby provincial town of Segovia, they issue their teachers with a Segovia address and get them an appointment there. Hence Kate and I got up at 5.45am this morning to catch a bus to Segovia (where it was snowing) to get her NIE. We were back in Madrid by 11am and immediately went to the bank so Kate could open an account.
Of course I'm not allowed my own debit card (residents and non-residents can't share accounts) so I'm going to have to hand over my entire salary to Kate and live on cash handouts from her until May.
So no change there then!
You get the picture.
So now you're asking "Is it hard to get an NIE?" Well, no. You just go along to a police station, fill in a form, hand over a photocopy of your passport, show the original, pay a 10 euro administration charge and you are issued with the number. The tricky part is getting an appointment at a police station; such are the numbers of foreign nationals in Madrid that the earliest my employers could secure me an appointment for was May. I guess I should be thankful that's May this year!
Happily though, Kate's employers - who pay their staff on a freelance basis and therefore need them to get their NIE's as soon as possible - have a handy little wheeze to get around this. As they have an office in the beautiful nearby provincial town of Segovia, they issue their teachers with a Segovia address and get them an appointment there. Hence Kate and I got up at 5.45am this morning to catch a bus to Segovia (where it was snowing) to get her NIE. We were back in Madrid by 11am and immediately went to the bank so Kate could open an account.
Of course I'm not allowed my own debit card (residents and non-residents can't share accounts) so I'm going to have to hand over my entire salary to Kate and live on cash handouts from her until May.
So no change there then!
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