I entered the Schengen zone on Sept. 12, 2007. Unfortunately, I did not register for my Anmeldung (proof of address) until Nov. 28. A tourist’s visa lasts three months — after that you are violating the Schengen Treaty if you remain in the EU without a visa. So I was officially illegal and would remain so until the appointment for my German visa on Feb. 28, 2008.

But enough with the numbers and dates. The main problems I faced were fear and limited mastery of the German language. The people that issue visas at the Ausländerbehörde (visa administration agency) are notorious for being evil petty bureaucrats with bad attitudes and a masochistic pleasure for punishing foreigners. Though some of them do speak English, they are loathe to use it so it was decided that my boyfriend (fluent in German) would accompany me to my visa appointment and speak, more or less, on my behalf.

The problem was that Brendan, who was a boy scout for an unnaturally long time, is terrified of lying to authorities. He knew we would have to make up a story about my two-month lapse and that made him white knuckled and nauseous. I am a terrific liar, on the other hand, but my effortless weaving of stories and exaggeration of the truth would do us no good this time around.

On the day of the appointment, we were bundles of nervous energy but the atmosphere of the Ausländerbehörde sucks the moxie from you almost instantaneously. You know these places, the American DMV for example, is like this. Somehow these places make you envision humanity as an earwax clogged, pimpled, scarred, vacant-eyed race. And then there is the waiting. We lined up, we congregated in small waiting rooms with chairs bolted to the floor. We flipped through books and magazines and listened to babies scream and mothers’ scold them in exasperation.

Our wait was approximately 4 and a half hours. When we were finally called in to face a bureaucrat, they scarcely had time to mention that the office was closing and we would have to return in a week to go through it all again. Brendan would be in Cologne for an art conference then so that meant I had to face this ordeal alone, with my schiki-mickey German.

Fast-forward to the next attempt. I am applying as an “artist” rather than a student. I am someone who is writing a book about German food culture from the standpoint of a Jew who grew up eating many German-style recipes as well as the usual bagel and cream-cheese fare. I feel certain that if I drive home the Jewish-angle then these people will not throw me out of the country. What with history and Hitler and all that.

I went so far as to purchase a Jewish star necklace to wear for the big event. This is no small feat in Berlin. The typical jewelry store just doesn’t have them. And if you ask for a “Judische Stern” necklace, the salesperson looks at you with a pained expression before launching into a series of “tut mir lieds” (sorry) as if they will give you the contents of the store to assuage their guilt. Finally I found one at the Judische Museum, of course, and it was sort of a special moment for me because I haven’t worn one since I proclaimed myself an atheist in 1993.

So there I am wearing my necklace and basic black. I carefully knock on the door where my appointment is and am led into a room with a large desk, a lot of office plants and kitten posters on the walls. My visa officer was a thin wiry man with possibly the worst teeth I’ve ever seen. “Just tear them all out and start again,” I wanted to tell him. But I restrained myself and handed over documents and talked about my book and my work and my Judaism.

Herr Visa seemed baffled by my intentions. “So you are a cook and you want to work in the restaurants and then write a book about it?” The way he phrased it made me sound like such an amateur. It was as if he were saying, so you sing in the shower and you would like to try your luck soon at a karaoke bar. Eventually he leveled with me. He took out his official visa book and pointed to it: “Book author, freelance is not a reason to stay in this country. You must give me another reason.”

“I’m also learning German,” I offer dejectedly. “Ok,” Herr Visa says brightly. “I can give you one year.” Then he shoos me out of the office and takes my passport and my picture and I go down to a special automated machine that takes the 50 euros and gives me a receipt. Then I am done. I am exiting the awful building with a visa in hand and I never had to explain about the two month overstay or the fact that my passport expires in June. I feel like Marla Thomas in That Girl. I can hear a jazzy 1960’s riff around me and I feel like babies are smiling at me and construction workers are winking and we’ll all burst into song any moment now. Now all I need is a job!