How I Got My Residency

I've been reminscing on life in general lately, and I thought it might be a good time to tell the interesting story of how I became a legal resident of this country. Argentina is wonderful; after two years of living here somewhat illegally (that is, I had not gone to renew my visa since Floppy was born in 2007), last year I finally received my permanent residency.
It was sort of funny, actually, because twice my application was ignored or denied, even though I was applying on the grounds of being the parent of an underage Argentine citizen--which here means that nobody can throw you out of the country, heh.
But I had thought that the reasonable thing to do would be to apply for permanent residency, and eventual citizenship. The first time I applied, I waited for about a year and never heard anything about it, and when I went to inquire, nobody had heard anything, and I figured my paperwork must have gotten lost in some dusty pile someplace. And so I applied again. It was denied immediately, on the grounds that I had declared myself financially insolvent right from the start (at the time we simply didn't have the money to pay the fee--I think it was a bit of a lack of faith on my part, really) and so the officials apparently didn't relish the thought of my being another leech on the Argentine society.
I received an official letter asking me to bring another letter stating my reasons for desiring a permanent residency. I got upset then, as I had already written a beautifully proof-read letter in grammatically perfect Spanish; and I decided to write a straight-forward letter in unofficial language, stating in plain terms (and less-than-excellent Spanish, ha) why I was so determined.
And I took it to the Ministry personally instead of sending it, and waited two hours for an interview with the official presiding over my case. When he condescended to receive me, I looked him square in the eye (I was about 3 months pregnant, you know), and informed him that besides deeply loving the country and being the mother of soon-to-be two little Argentines, I was a very talented individual, who unfortunately could not get a proper tax-paying job without a lawful residency; and I had to depend on the generosity of my groom's family to house, feed and clothe my children and myself, even though they didn't have much for themselves.
He frowned disapprovingly, and remarked that since my passport showed I had traveled recently, I must be able to pay the 200 dollar fee. In truth, I had recently gone to Brazil to see my sister and dad for a mini-family-reunion. I went into an angry rage then (ahhh! for once my well-practiced angry-mother-face came into handy) and I really let the guy have it. I somewhat tearfully and dramatically recounted how I hadn't seen my dear father in many, many years, and how my elder sisters kindly paid for a round-trip visit to see him, out of the kindness of their hearts, because I couldn't afford the trip myself. This was, of course, absolutely true, and even the man became a little softer. Here the rule is to treat pregnant mothers with the utmost respect, and so he was a little distressed to see tears in my eyes. Then he asked me why I didn't ask my sisters to pay for my residency, since they were so generous. I silently allowed my eyes to bulge balefully at the man, and he sort of backed out of that question and I remember he cleared his throat right around then. "I'm afraid I still can't grant your residency, ma'am," he said.
(I actually did this) I shook my finger and informed him that, like it or not, and whether he approved the residency or not, I was STAYING. And the only way I would ever be able to be a useful addition to Argentine society would be if he gave me my residency, so I could get a proper job. I put on my most worthy airs right then, and even though I don't actually intend to get a local job anytime soon, you have to agree that my argument was very sound. Even he seemed to see the logic of it. After all, I'm an intelligent and educated woman, and if I were a registered citizen I could be a respectable addition to society AND I would pay taxes, but as it was, nobody could kick me out of the country, I couldn't get a job, I didn't pay taxes, and I was STILL eligible for the abundant free services provided by the state. Hmmm. I could see the wheels in his little head turning. At last, he let me off with a disapproving nod. "We'll see, ma'am. I really don't think there's anything I can do, but send another letter stating your reasons for applying for citizenship." I pulled the letter out of my purse and slapped it on the desk in front of him, with aplomb. Then with my favorite charming and innocent smile, I rose and left his office, making sure to turn my head and smile demurely at him one more time before disappearing from his view.
My visit to the police-records office was more rewarding. As I waited in line I prayed that I would meet someone who could walk me easily through the gobbledegook of paperwork there. My number was called, and I went to one of the desks, and fortunately the smiling elderly man decided to adopt me as a protege. He not only processed my paperwork for me in a flash, but he amiably offered to verbally walk me through each of the steps remaining towards acheiving my residency and eventual citizenship. He did so concisely and clearly; even I understood the process crystal-clearly. I explained to him my woes, and he clucked sympathetically. He had worked at the Ministry for 8 years, he said, and said he would help me go around some of the red tape.
Ordinarily I would have had to get another appointment for another day to visit the office upstairs and bring an extra copy of all my papers, but when I asked him what day I should come back, he shook his head. "I'll do that now," he said with a wink, and photocopied all my papers right there. Then he led me upstairs to the record offices, ignored the lengthy waiting line, settled me onto a comfortable chair, and tapped on one of the office doors. He walked inside with my dossier, gave the copies of my papers to the lady at the desk, who processed them right there and returned them to him, and then he was sailing back out towards me with a smug smile on his face. "I'll just take these and get them stamped," he said, and he disappeared again. He returned in a while and escorted me back down the stairs. "Come back in two weeks to pick up your papers," he said. I thanked him profusely for his help, but he shook his head. Earlier I had told him the reason I had come to Argentina, and all about our volunteer training program and educational shows in impoverished schools all over the city. I had also showed him the brochure of our local work and charities. "It's a pleasure to help people like you," he replied to my thanks, "We need more people like you in our country."
Two weeks later I went back and picked up one priceless paper: my permanent residency and ID number. With this paper I can apply for a national ID card, and eventually a passport, and still retain my native citizenship.
And here ends the happy tale of my battle with the Argentine Ministerial RedTape, Incorporated. Cheerio!