Michael And here we are again -- your intrepid newsletter reporters Angelika and Michael, who have been living in one of the most exciting cities in the USA for more than five years now, studying the country and its people, and still earnestly trying not to become completely Americanized! And I'm bursting to share the sensational news: We recently, after years of hoping and worrying, finally received our Green Card in the mail! Angelika will describe in detail how the final steps went -- but first, a few local news updates:

Addendum to the Soccer World Cup

Except for our Mexican neighbor, of course, who was watching enthusiastically. And suffered along when Mexico lost to the USA. Mexicans are not highly regarded in the USA, as most have to work in minimum-wage jobs due to a lack of alternatives, and very few manage to escape the vicious cycle.

In California, Mexicans harvest citrus fruits and grapes, cover roofs, and carry out private demolition work, clean cars, mow lawns, and wash dishes in restaurants.

Without Mexicans, the Californian economy would immediately collapse. On Cesar Chavez Street in San Francisco, which ironically bears the name of a man who advocated for fairer wages for low-wage workers, hundreds of Mexicans stand every day waiting for a wealthy homeowner in a pickup truck to drive by and pick up three or four people so they can do jobs for five or six dollars an hour that no one else wants to do. But in soccer, they had been ahead so far -- and then the overlord USA comes and wins, which was bitter and was discussed as such here and in Mexico.

What I actually wanted to say: The Mexicans here are absolutely passionate about soccer and speak very highly of the German team. Our neighbor recently told me that the German superstar goalkeeper Oliver Kahn is called "el gato volador" on the Spanish channel in San Francisco -- the "flying cat," who pounces like a predator and deflects the balls. Recently, the Mexican commentators on TV have not only been extending the word "Gooooool" for 20 seconds (no joke, I timed it), but the latest trend is to chant "Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol Gol," which sounds like an American police siren. By the way, it doesn't matter which team scores the goal, the "goool!" celebration happens in any case.

And in San Francisco, as is well known, there are more foreigners than Americans, and that's why some bars were even open in the early morning hours to give soccer fans the opportunity to watch the games live. However, there was no beer, because there is a ban on alcohol sales between 2 and 6 AM in San Francisco, which is strictly enforced.

Personalized tickets

Michael Recently, I thought to myself: It would be nice if we got a parking ticket as a memento of our time in San Francisco, with "PERL MAN" on it -- the personalized police license plate of our car (Rundbrief 03/2000). On Sunday afternoon, it finally happened: I came home from the supermarket and boldly parked the trusty "PERL MAN" on the sidewalk to unload it. Upstairs in the apartment, Angelika signaled to me that she was on the phone with Oldenburg and that we could set off to an outing in two minutes. In high spirits, I turned on the TV. An hour later, it happened, and we had a parking ticket on the car, hooray! At $25, it wasn't exactly cheap, but it's a unique souvenir, as you can see in illustration 5!

You can also see that it costs $250 if you park at a bus stop or $275 if you park a car without a disabled permit in a disabled parking space -- or come within three feet (about one meter) of a ramp for the disabled! Similarly draconian penalties are imposed for driving in the carpool lane (Rundbrief 07/2001), a fine of $274 is imposed if you are driving by yourself instead of carrying the mandatory passenger. "Parking within 18 inches of curb" costs 23 dollars--I assume this means that you must not park more than 18 inches (45.54 cm) away from the curb. And parking in front of a hydrant costs only the everyday low price of $33--I can afford that, just wait, maybe soon in the newsletter!

By the way, all of the absurd numerical values that every Californian driver must know when applying for a driver's license are listed on a Website by Søren F. Ragsdale: For example, you may only park 7.5 feet away from railroad tracks, 15 feet from a fire hydrant, and 3 feet from a curb ramp.

The Raging PERL MAN

The Newsletter Top Product

Michael Today: The Garbage Disposer E20 by Emerson. I have previously written that it is common in American kitchens to have a so-called garbage disposer installed under the sink. Between the drain and the drainpipe, there is a small grinding mechanism that starts at the push of a button and grinds waste that could clog the pipes into pieces small enough to pass through the drainpipe. Whatever you chop up in the kitchen, you simply dump into the sink, turn on the water and the grinding mechanism--and whoosh, it goes down the drain!

Figure 6 shows how I poured fruit waste into the sink, and in Figure 7 you can see the resulting moderate pipe blockage. However, a solid half horsepower in the Emerson engine mercilessly eliminates even stubborn waste (Figure 8). Powerful. Reliable. Emerson.

Some time ago, I overdid it and dumped too much waste in, and Emerson promptly stopped working. Oh no, I thought, now I have to call the landlord and wait for a garbagge disposer specialist to kindly come by. However, a look under the sink revealed that the Emerson E20 comes with a small Allen wrench, which you just insert at the bottom, turn it around once to manually reduce the waste, and it works again! What a great product!

The CD of the Month

Michael Eagerly anticipated, but recently absent: There just haven't been any compelling new records. But today it happened: I bought the album "This Is It" by "The Strokes," which was released half a year ago! I already knew the song "Last Nite" from the radio, but I had no idea that "Hard to Explain" and "SOMA" were also on it -- for both songs, the best way to listen is on a hot day in San Francisco in an 11-year-old Acura Integra without air conditioning, with the windows rolled down, wearing shorts and barefoot, speeding up the hill trio on Church Street between 17th and 22nd Street. Then it sounds as if the music was invented in California, even though it comes from New York City. Buy it immediately and listen to it nonstop! Until we discuss the new one from the "Red Hot Chili Peppers," my favorite band, in the next newsletter.

The Osbournes on TV

The Osbournes are British, but they live in an ugly mansion for the nouveau riche in the upscale suburb of Beverly Hills in Los Angeles. Ozzy Osbourne is now 53 years old and a total wreck. With "Black Sabbath"--absolute superstars of the hard rock scene in the seventies--it was wild: Ozzy consumed drugs like a centrifugal pump. Today, he shuffles around the house like a zombie, mutters incoherent things, and yells for his wife (Sharon! Shaarooooon!!) when he can't find something, the TV is acting up, or the dog has pooped on the carpet again.

Parents and children constantly use terrible swear words that wouldn't even go unpunished in a ghetto family. However, with the Osbournes, it's completely normal to use the so-called F-word. Because of this, US television stations have to bleep it. (reported previously in Rundbrief 12/2000) Ozzy: "What the --BLEEP-- is that?" Daughter Kelly: "The --BLEEP--ing dog --BLEEP-- on the --BLEEP-ing carpet again!".

It gets interesting when the completely tattooed Ozzy presents himself to his offspring as the responsible father and insists, for example, that the children come home from a party at a certain time. Or when he confesses to his lovely wife in a Midlands English working-class dialect: "Sharon, I love you more than life itself...". That's what makes the show so charming.

MTV produced it with a small budget and did not expect it to be successful at all. However, it was a huge hit and even surpassed the mega-million productions on other channels in the ratings. MTV recently extended the contract with the Osbournes for a second season. The people in charge reported that the negotiations were utterly chaotic, with Ozzy's wife Sharon repeatedly stalling the MTV people and making wild back-and-forth decisions. Ozzy himself only catches half of what's going on anyway and will surely be satisfied with the negotiated fee. You will find more about this unusual family here.

Clear the way for Angelika!

Finally, the Green Card

Some time ago, I announced that I would report on our third and final - extremely nerve-wracking - Green Card step. If anyone would like to read my previous explanations about the Green Card again, they can do so here: Rundbrief 09/2001.

And since I don't want to be difficult, here's a quick summary of steps one and two: We were allowed to apply for the Green Card because Michael's professional qualifications are beneficial to the American economy, as there is (or was) a shortage of American software engineers, which they sought to address with well-educated foreigners--this is known as immigration for employment reasons ("green card through employment").

AOL applied for Michael's Green Card. The first step was to prove to the relevant labor authorities that Michael was not taking a job away from any Americans, meaning that there was indeed a labor shortage in his field. The authorities issued the highly sought-after "Labor Certificate," which is needed to proceed to the second step. By the way, it has become significantly more difficult to obtain a Labor Certificate. Due to the weakened American economy, there have been many layoffs, which have eliminated the shortage, meaning that there are now enough Americans entering the job market.

In the second step, the American immigration authorities checked whether Michael really had the necessary qualifications to fill the position at AOL. The third and final step was to transition from non-immigrant status (people with visa status) to immigrant status (people with green cards). The application is usually submitted to the relevant immigration authority in America and is called "Adjustment of Status." Throughout this process, I once again played the "apron strings card" (original quote from Michael). By this, Michael means that I only got the green card because I am married to him. Family is a big deal in America.

Even at the last step, it was all about filling out form after form. If you woke me from a deep sleep, I could still recite off the top of my head the exact dates of Michael's military service, the companies he has worked for and for how long, including the corresponding company mailing addresses, how long we've lived at each address, and so on. But don't panic, I won't write about every single form required in the third step. I'll just share the milestones with you.

Priority Date

Medical Examination For the Green Card

I quickly looked for a doctor in our immediate vicinity and ended up in the heart of the Mission, the Latin American neighborhood that is, as you know, just around the corner from us. We went separately, and each of us told the same story afterward: In the waiting room, no one spoke English except for the receptionist, but the doctor, who was from the Philippines, spoke it quite well and seemed experienced.

He first underwent a very general examination. You know: looking in the throat, listening to the chest, measuring blood pressure, determining height and weight, etc. Then he injected us with the substance for the tuberculosis test and inquired in detail which vaccinations we had received in our childhood and adulthood, as well as which childhood diseases we had gone through. On his list for our age group were: mumps, measles, rubella, tetanus, diphtheria, polio, whooping cough, chickenpox. Oh, how pleased we were that, as an organized person, I could present all the vaccination records (even those from childhood). However, Michael had to bite the bullet: he had skipped rubella as a child and therefore had to get a vaccination. We paid $125 for my examination, and $175 for Michael's due to the additional vaccination.

Then it was off to the AIDS test. In the USA, by the way, the doctor sends you to special labs for blood tests. It's a bit inconvenient, but the people there are blood-drawing professionals since they do nothing else all day long. Our doctor sent us to a branch of St. Luke's Hospital right on Mission Street. When I arrived there, I initially thought something was off. I had to pass by shop windows that, in typical Mission tradition, advertised cheap, colorful goods with a South American flair, walk down a dark hallway, and finally stood in front of an office door. It didn't look like a lab at all. However, the sign on the door indicated that I was in the right place. Bravely, I entered and found myself in a tiny room containing a desk, a table with blood-drawing equipment, a chair, and a person in a white coat. The first thought that crossed my mind was: Oh dear, I hope they work diligently here and I don't catch anything (Michael had the same concerns). Don't think we're arrogant, but the American healthcare system is really in such a bad state, you have no idea what I've experienced, but maybe more on that some other time.

Before the medical assistant started drawing blood, I signed a form stating that I understood it was for an HIV test. By the way, everyone signs this, not just Green Card applicants. In general, it's questionable to undergo such a potentially life-changing test just because it's required for the Green Card. Just imagine the scenario of testing positive for HIV. Of course, we also had to pay in advance. The whole thing cost $126.90 per person, with $77 of that amount being for the HIV test alone. The rest was for the test that detects syphilis and some other unclear items. In typical American fashion, there was a discount if we paid in cash or by check, a hefty 40%. Naturally, we did that. "HIV test on sale!"

A few days later, we set off again to see the doctor so he could tell us the results of our tuberculosis skin test. Naturally, we were also interested in the results of the blood test. When we arrived at the doctor's office, I asked the receptionist about the results. She rummaged through our file and cheerfully said that they hadn't received anything in writing yet, but she would call St. Luke's Hospital to inquire about the results. She then made a phone call. I turned a bit pale when she put the call on speakerphone, we were located at a waiting room filled with patients. However, she reconsidered and turned off the speaker when someone answered on the other end. Unfortunately, it took forever for the person to find the results, and I felt a chill run down my spine--you never know.

Finally, the receptionist ended the call but didn't bother to tell me the results. I shyly asked, and she shrugged nonchalantly, saying everything was okay. Unbelievable! The rest was quick and painless: the doctor read the TB test and filled out the form for the immigration office with shaky hands, with the receptionist occasionally correcting him. We still wonder today if everything was handled correctly.

We had already read one or two horror stories on the internet about how the immigration office, upon later reviewing the form, had vetoed such reports as being submitted incorrectly, which as a Green Card applicant this means you'd have to repeat the medical examination, but also that the process was further prolonged. What happens is that the results form is placed in an envelope, and the doctor seals the envelope with a stamp. Only the honorable immigration office is allowed to open the envelope later.

By the way, not every detection of an illness leads to the Green Card applicant being disqualified. If it is a curable disease, it must be proven that the person is healthy again, which, however, means: paperwork, paperwork, paperwork.

Passport Photos

Affidavit of Support

Finger Prints

Processing Fee and Passport Stamp

After 10 minutes, I decide to wander over to the other entrance, hoping to find someone competent who can solve the line puzzle for us, even though the doors for the general public are still closed (Did I mention that there are no signs anywhere providing guidance?). I encounter security personnel standing at the entrance. Patiently, I explain that the immigration office has approved our I-485 (people always throw around form abbreviations; it makes it seem like you know what you're talking about) and that we are here to get our stamp in our passport. Prompt response: "Do you have an appointment?" Somewhat desperate reply: "No, not really," because the letter we are holding does not specify a concrete date or time for our appearance. Expected response: "Then you have to line up with everyone else!" And just like that, I'm back in line next to Michael, which is steadily growing. While we wait patiently, I wonder why no one has thought of selling coffee and bagels (something like a roll with a hole) to those waiting. A real market gap. Behind our Indian fellow stands another Indian compatriot with his family and child--everyone must appear in person at the INS. Once again, the line problem arises, someone else wanders to the other entrance, asks the questions I had already asked, and returns with the same answer. Slowly, our skepticism fades, and we begin to believe that we are indeed in the right line.

At 6:45 AM, the crowd of people starts to stir. The doors open. About 10 people are allowed into the building at a time. Everyone must show identification, bags are scanned, and you go through the metal detector. The line moves at a snail's pace because there is only one metal detector and one scanning machine. Hooray, at 7:30 AM, we enter the hallowed halls. The security personnel confiscate Michael's digital camera (don't worry, he got it back when we left the building), and we navigate through a maze of barriers, eventually reaching three counters. We hand our papers to the man behind the counter. He initially looks a bit confused but then wants to direct us to the next counter, where there apparently are waiting numbers. Suddenly, another INS officer (apparently a supervisor) next to him intervenes and informs him that we could go directly to office 200-B, as our positive notice is equivalent to an appointment. You can guess what that means: we had been standing in the wrong line. After a few quiet sighs, we make our way through the maze of corridors and stand in front of office door 200-B. It is now 7:50 AM. A sign on the office door instructs us to drop the letter indicating our appointment through the designated slot in the door. The only problem: we don't have a set appointment. By now, many people are sitting in the waiting area--some with appointments, some without--and the discussion begins about what those without a fixed appointment should drop in the slot, because how else will the responsible officers know that we are waiting outside the door? The only option is to drop the original (!) of the positive notice we are holding. However, many are distressed about this because the notice is the only proof that the immigration office approved the Green Card application. Naturally, Michael makes silly jokes about a shredder being behind the slot, destroying all the papers.

Shortly before 8 o'clock, a female officer slips out of one of the back doors, and although there are signs everywhere with the inscription "NO QUESTIONS, NO INFORMATION," I bravely approach her to find out what we are supposed to drop into the slot. At first, she remains silent, but after I look at her desperately, she shows her generous side -- the official notice is to be dropped in. At 8 o'clock, the office door opens, and INS officers call the first people in for interviews, just like in the movie "Green Card." Those waiting not only have family photo albums ready to prove, for example, that the marriage to an American citizen truly exists, but they also usually have a lawyer in tow. If you apply for a Green Card with the help of an employer, the interview is generally waived, as was the case with us.

At 8:05, another officer directs all individuals who already have a positive Green Card notice (including us) to the waiting area of another counter and begins his work. At 8:30, he calls us up. We hand over our passports and photos, a fingerprint from a single finger is taken twice (this time with ink), and we sign a designated form twice. The fingerprint, signature, and photo will later appear on the actual Green Card. The officer also confirms our address, to which the Green Card should be sent, and then we take a seat in the waiting area again. By the way, it's better not to move between residences until the Green Card arrives in the mailbox, as the postal service is not allowed to forward Green Cards to a different address. Although there is an option to notify the immigration authorities of an address change, based on our experiences, we wouldn't dream of taking that risk--who knows where the notifications might end up at.

At 9:30 AM, another officer calls us. She holds our passports in her hands, shows us the stamp that serves as a temporary Green Card and is valid for one year (with the possibility of extension after the year expires). She also informs us that the actual Green Card will arrive in six to twelve months. Michael later claims that the red stamp looks like a potato print, which is true. Our names are handwritten under the stamp, which is a bit disappointing after all the waiting. At 9:40 AM, we leave the building beaming with joy and go for a royal breakfast to celebrate the day before Michael heads to the office.

In the Same Line With Americans

All's Well That Ends Well