What's the immigration office like?

I am now the proud owner of a passport stamp that says I can stay in Ireland until next June.

That was a productive quick trip to Dublin (about 2 hours by train). 

Loughmore Castle, as seen from the window of the Iarnród Éireann train. (Technically this was on my way back from Dublin.)

For a lot of people with United States experience, "immigration" is a negatively loaded word. People who have immigrated to the U.S. are scapegoated for everything from violence to economic insecurity. The government agency Immigration and Customs Enforcement, only created in 2002 in the wake of the September 11 attacks, now functions as ICE, Trump's nefarious secret police, terrorizing American communities and killing with apparent impunity. When we traveled to Iceland last summer, our homestay host even commented on how scared we all must be of "the ICE guys" who can come into your home for no reason. 

In large part because of these connotations, I want to write about the entirely pleasant experience I had at Ireland's Immigration Service Delivery office yesterday. 

**Nota bene: I am a white, English-speaking person who holds a doctorate and a critical skills employment permit. I acknowledge that racism exists in Ireland, and my experience is not representative of everyone's.**

The prequel to this story is that once I arrived, I had to go online to schedule a registration appointment within my first 90 days in Ireland. You cannot make this appointment before you have a landing stamp in your passport. That meant my original plan to register with Immigration on my first or second day in the country didn't happen, and I had to plan an extra trip to Dublin.

The most frustrating part of the whole experience was that I showed up about an hour early for my appointment, and the security officer at the door told me I couldn't come in until half an hour before my appointment time. So I went to the cafe next door, stole the pastry my spouse had just bought to eat while waiting for me, and sat outside in the absence of rain for a while.

When it was time, I showed my passport to the security officer and used my appointment confirmation number to check in at a kiosk in the front of the building. It printed me a little ticket with a number like you'd get if you were waiting to order meat at the deli. I sat in a big waiting area that reminded me of the Motor Vehicle Administration in Maryland, and it probably took about 20 minutes for my number to come up. (I wasn't really paying attention, and I didn't have enough time to get impatient.)

When my number was called, I met a clerk who was sitting behind a glass pane. I passed through my passport, a form with the address where they will send my residence permit card, my work permit, and proof of employment (my contract, along with a letter from my employer--I think just one would have sufficed). The clerk asked a few questions about my personal information ("the nationality of your spouse?" etc.), typed a lot of characters into her computer, handed back everything but the address form and my passport, and told me to take a seat in the waiting area; someone else would call me shortly.

After about enough time to sit down and take my backpack off my shoulder, I heard my name called from the end of the row of windows, and another worker brought me into a back room to take my fingerprints. It was a digital machine that followed a sequence I've gotten used to after years of criminal background checks for my work with children: each thumb, each set of four fingers, each individual finger rolled from one edge of its nail to the other. After multiple tries, I think only about 4 of my digits produced a print that satisfied the machine; the staff member basically said "Eh, it's good enough" and clicked "Bypass" on each of the others. Throughout this process, we had a lovely chat about where I'm from (still figuring out how to answer that question--everybody has a different frame of reference), what I'm doing for work, and the city I'm living in. He complimented my "good Irish name," which I'm getting used to hearing. (Somebody else clarified recently that my given name is a good Irish surname.)

While I was getting my fingerprints taken, the clerk who initially helped me had left for lunch. Instead of making me wait until she returned, the fingerprinter found another clerk who was between customers, and that person finished the process for me. He doublechecked everything in the computer, wrote my Irish residence permit number on the last page of my passport, and added the two stamps that allow me to stay legally in the country for a year.

Then I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I thanked the clerk, gathered my things, and walked out into the Dublin sunshine.

Here are some bonus pictures from yesterday's walk in the city:

Batman and the Grim Reaper guard the Wax Museum.

It was ok for me to blink around these two angels, because they are staring at each other.

Palm trees: I told you they grow here!

Waterfall/fountain in St. Stephen's Green.