Did you hear the news? We’re moving to New Zealand. Of course, you did. Because I won’t shut up about it. And if you follow this blog, you probably read about it here.
I’m so excited for this move that I dug up three pics of me jumping for joy in my new country of residence. From circa 2013. When our love affair began.
The process of getting a Permanent Resident Visa was long and tedious. A lot of waiting, making appointments, and then waiting again. I mean, I get it. New Zealand is like bomb.com and they don’t just let anyone in.
I officially started printing and gathering stuff for my 50+ page application on July 26. I remember that date because I posted a pic to Instagram as proof. Thank you, time stamps.
Gather. All. The. Things. Original birth certificates, check. Original marriage certificate, check. Passports, check. Then the fun part. Appointments. In order to submit an application, you need to have a medical exam and background check. For both of these requirements, you need to find peeps that INZ (Immigration New Zealand) has deemed legit. Turns out for my medical exam, there’s ONE doctor for all of Northern California. And lucky for me, his office was in Berkeley, only a few miles away. Praise be, Immigration Gods.
So I made an appointment, but couldn’t get in for like 3 weeks since this doc is busy. It cost $300 for a 10-minute chat, a nurse to take a few vials of my blood…and to get a chest x-ray. Yes. A chest x-ray. New Zealand doesn’t want you bringing any TB into their country and taking advantage of their universal healthcare system. Noted. And guess what? I passed with flying colors. I was informed my “lungs are well expanded with no findings of active TB” and that my “cardiac silhouette is unremarkable.”
Turns out ‘unremarkable’ is a good thing in the medical world. Phew.
Next, we both had to get background checks, aka getting our fingerprints digitally scanned so the FBI can do their damn thing. Again, one place in San Francisco. So we made appointments and got fingered.
Turns out, I’m a badass. Sorry, Grandma and Grandpa. But your favorite granddaughter has a record. My first job out of college was at a bar. Go figure. I also managed to serve a minor during a sting operation. Which is not really cool. So, I was fired. Obvi. Then had to go to court. Long story short, since I didn’t have a record (not even a damn speeding ticket), they would expunge the charge from my record if I have no similar incidence over the next year. Which I didn’t. But you know what didn’t get magically expunged? My charge. It’s still there. Turns out you have to file for expungement in the state of Minnesota. Don’t cha know? Whatever the case, it shows up as dismissed with the ol’ FBI.
Craig had not one, but three background checks from places he has lived (US, UK, and New Zealand). And he is clean as a damn whistle. Show. Off.
I also had to submit four photos where I look like a serial killer because they won’t let you smile. So I went to Walgreens and paid a million dollars for four passport photos. I brought them home and went to staple to my application and realized the size was wrong. Fuck. Turns out New Zealand has a slightly smaller passport photo size. After doing some research I found some random dude that pretty much works out of a walk-in closet downtown (hey, rent is expensive in SF) and takes random-sized passport/visa pics. And he was right across the street from my work. He managed to really capture my serial-killer persona. I’m thinking I’ll audition for New Zealand’s Next Top Model when I arrive. Does Tyra host that one, too?
Ok. I must be SO close to completing the application. I HAVE to have everything by now. Right? I went over every damn page so many times I lost track. Did I sign it? Did I miss anything? Nope. Because I’m a fucking visa-application rockstar. Spoiler alert, I’m more of a fucking visa-application newbie that plays in the food court at your mall. Because I did forget something. But more on that later.
So I mailed everything on August 28. And paid nearly $75 to mail an envelope. Please don’t lose my passport and life, USPS. K? Thanks. Cheers. We should probably drink.
Oh, and wouldn’t you know. More waiting. According to INZ, the processing time for a resident visa is 4 months. Just call me Mrs. Patience. I got this. Play it cool, Feder.
Fast forward like three days and I’m all ‘are we there yet?’ It was the feeling you get when you like totally want to text that dude or chick you went on a date with. But you also wanna not smother them. Because. Immigration.
And then one day, I got an email. I was approved in principle.
I was so damn excited. Even if it was OVER the four mouth processing time. I forgive you INZ. I may have even got teary-eyed. Oh no, wait. That’s just something in my eye.
It seemed to take ages. Yet not really. Ok, I’m lying. Here’s a lovely timeline of the longest time in my life.
12 September: Application lodged
6 October: Original docs mailed back and requested to fill in a few pages where I missed N/As on spots where they totally didn’t tell you to put N/As. Goddamn it. Oh, and they wanted it back in like a week. Here’s $75 more, USPS. Enjoy your three pieces of paper.
13 October: Forms received on the EXACT date they were due. Suck it.
6 December: Case Officer assigned and requested original leases to prove we’ve lived together for 5 years (1.5 of which were living in sin)
12 December: Emailed digital copies of leases since I was unable to obtain physical copies. Hello, 2017. Does anyone have physical anything anymore?
14 January: Received my AIP (approval in principle) by email with instructions to mail my passport to DC
16 January: Mailed passport!
And boom. My passport arrived a week later. Wanna take a guess how we celebrated?
You know me so well.
And now, as our time in the States is coming to end (for real this time), I find myself in a weird state of limbo and asking a lot of questions. Can it really be that we are about to start the process of buying our first home?! Is it possible that after 2+ years of living without furniture and only owning things that fit in three backpacks, that we are going to have our very own stuff? Did I actually forget how to drive since I haven’t owned a car in 6 years? Will I pick up kiwi-isms like ‘sweet as’ and ‘keen’? Are friends and family lying when they say ‘we will totally come and visit you?’ And just how much will I miss those said friends and family when I’m in a different hemisphere? The answer to the last question is clearly a shit ton.
But endless questions aside, I’m so beyond happy for what the future holds in NZ. Like living in a country where Trump isn’t President. And I totally apologize if I squealed or couldn’t wipe that annoying smile off my face when I talked about this move. On second thought, I don’t. Sorry, not sorry.
Do me a favor though. Just remember that face. My face. That annoying smile. And then get on a fucking 12-hour plane ride (if you’re lucky) and come fucking visit us.
Until then. T-minus less than one month until we are back here-ish. That’s right. Because we just booked our one-way ticket back to the new motherland. We leave Saturday, February 24. I’m not crying. You’re crying.
Roam Mode 