As someone from the European union if you stay in Germany for more than 3 months, by law you have to register with the local authorities. It helps them keep tabs on who they've got in the country and to make sure you're not an illegal immigrant or terrorist.
I was warned that German bureaucracy often requires many documents and so I came well prepared; get ready for stereotypically long German words. I took along a Einladungbestätigung which was essentially a proof of residence but translates as 'invitation confirmation' as if my landlord had 'invited' me to live with him. Next was a 'Praktikumsbestätigung' which was a document my employer drafted up to confirm I am indeed working and not just bumming around. Finally just to make sure I had documentary proof of almost every facet of my existence I brought along my passport, student card and a 'Immatrikulationsbescheinigung' which shows that I'm currently a student.
With all this proudly tucked under my arm I made my way towards the Anmeldeamt or registration office of my district, Mitte, past the unmissable main square of the former DDR, Alexanderplatz. The feature that is most recognisable that has become an icon of the city is the Fernsehturm or TV tower, whose profile is reminiscent of a space ship that rises high above the concrete tangle. The site itself however has been important since the 1800s as a cattle market
although it gets its name from the occasion when Russian Emperor Alexander I visited in 1805. Its current form is due to the pedestrianisation in the 1960s under the DDR which also saw a renaming of streets and the construction of huge, non-descript buildings for office and residential use. The conspicuously Communist-named Karl-Marx-Allee is an extremely broad road that seems to have been lined with grey Plattenbauten just to make you feel small and insignificant.
It was a 3-hour wait to get signed on. You queue up to get a form to fill out, take a number and then wait. After staring at my form blankly for some time, without the foggiest how to fill it out, a kindly lady showed me how. She looked bewildered and mildly disapproving when I informed her I belonged to neither the evangelical or the Roman Catholic church. Three hours passed surprisingly quickly as I struck up a conversation with an Iranian woman who was telling me all about her country. Amusingly her passport refers to Israel as 'occupied Palestine'.
In the end all of my proudly presented documents were cheerily dismissed as 'nicht nötig' (not necessary) by the man behind the desk and after he'd taken down my address and passport number I was done. Watch out Berlin, here comes a gemeldet George.
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