Ready, Settle, GO! To the waiting room until your number is called.

"Now serving number 32... number 32?"

I looked down at my ticket and let out a sigh... I still had 140 numbers to be called before I could register as a foreigner in Copenhagen, Denmark.

Copenhagen had been my new home for 48 hours, so it was time to sort out the practicalities - those most boring and mundane of tasks that, when speaking about the excitement and novelty of arriving in a new city, everyone tends to leave out.

Of course the omission is understandable. When discussing the sexiness of discovering new cultures, tastes, sights and sounds, bringing up registering with doctors and the local police is the verbal equivalent to an icy cold shower.

“Now calling number 47…”

With a mass of bodies shoved into a relatively small room, the variety of diet and levels of personal hygiene became painfully obvious the warmer it got.

“Number 68…”

Every part of me wants to leave this sweatbox of odours, languages and crying babies. I want nothing more than to just walk out, hop on the metro to Nyhavn, grab a table along the waterfront and enjoy a nice beer from the comfort of the warm fleece blanket left on every chair. Fresh air, that’s all I wanted. Ok, fresh air and beer, but still not too much to ask. I mean, how badly do I really need a doctor? Or insurance? Or a CPR number enabling me to get a mobile phone, a bank account, a job, or anything else that is usually required when one “adults”?

"Number 108..."

Forget it! It’s not that important! I welcome the risks, including the impending pneumonia from the icy October Nordic winds (which clearly would be made worse by the lack of doctor). I welcome them all just to get out of this damn room!

“Number 157…”

Ok, getting closer. Hang in there. 15 numbers to go...

“Number 172…”

YES! That’s ME! I made my way to the counter and presented my number as if I had just won the lottery and was claiming my winnings.

“What’s the purpose of your visit?”, the woman asked in a surprisingly human tone, given that she’s said the exact same sentence nearly 200 times just today.

I handed over my forms and explained that I was new to Copenhagen and needed to register. Just then, the woman said the most heart-breaking thing, which, I would later learn, was only the beginning:

“Thank you, please take a seat and we will call your number.”

It took every fibre of my being not to reach across the table, grab her by her collar and, through clenched teeth, remind her I’d already been waiting for my number to be called for the last two hours.

But, realising that probably wouldn’t get me very far, I politely thanked her with the most sincere fake smile I could muster. I saw my seat had been taken by a family with a screaming baby. Finding a spare spot along the wall, I wondered if it would be possible to fall asleep standing up; if I could catch some extra REM cycles whilst waiting, at least it wouldn’t be time entirely wasted. Sadly, it didn’t really work so I was left with nothing more than to repeatedly recite the 1989 McDonald’s menu song, which I sadly memorised as a child. This did keep me occupied, but it also made me pretty hungry.

After another hour of waiting, I again heard those magical words: “number 172?”. I (perhaps overexcitedly) waved my hands like a bingo winner to indicate that I, and no one else, was in fact number 172.

“Welcome to Denmark!” the man behind the desk said excitedly. This was a new feeling: to be an unemployed foreigner, who doesn’t speak the local language, and to be welcomed into a new country? I scanned his face and tone for any signs of sarcasm. I couldn’t find any. Could this guy actually be serious?

He went through my paperwork and, seeing that everything was in order, handed me my “bevis for registrering” – or certificate of registration. It read: “You are registered as an EU/EEA citizen or Swiss national with the right to reside in Denmark”.

I was over the moon. This is IT! I’m registered as a resident! I am ready to settle down and start my new life in Copenhagen. WHAT A GLORIOUS DAY!

“So now if you go back to the waiting room, someone will call your number to register you for your CPR number.”

I died a little inside. Then, head hanging low, went back to the waiting room that had become my vision of hell.

After another hour of waiting, I was again called into another room to get my CPR number. As with every government worker I had so far encountered, the woman was very kind and had impeccable English. She went through my paperwork, as well as my newly received certificate, and finally issued me with my CPR number. She also handed me an envelope, proudly explaining, “This is a welcome letter for you… from the mayor of Copenhagen!”. I opened the envelope and inside, sure enough, was a letter from the mayor of Copenhagen addressed to “Dear new citizen”, welcoming me as "a new Copenhanger", to Copenhagen, “…one of the world’s most liveable cities”. Was this place for real?

Just when I thought it was over and I was free to go back to the outside world, the woman said, “You now need to arrange your NemID. We can do that for you here, or you can do it yourself but it could take up to two weeks to process”.

"A Nem-what now?"

She explained that a NemID is a personal id number that enables you to manage your bank account, government documents, and any other paperwork all in one place. I was confused, but too tired to question and agreed to arrange the NemID while I was there.

“Great! Then if you could just go to the other waiting room and wait for your number to be called…”

I would say I died a little inside, but I had already died a thousand deaths from the 4 hour wait I’ve already had.

Defeated, I slowed dragged myself along my own trail of tears to the next waiting room and took a seat. I felt like a modern day Sisyphus of Greek mythology – only instead of pushing a boulder uphill only to watch it roll back down, I was forced to go to a meeting room, hear my number called and think I was done, only to be told to go to another meeting room and wait, repeating this action for all eternity.

Finally, my number was called to sort out my NemID. Early in the process, it became clear that the woman behind the computer was having some technical problems. After 5 hours of waiting with no food or water, and now technical issues causing further delays, I lost it. And I lost it the only way I knew how: by laughing my ass off. Without warning, I burst into belly-hurting-tears-rolling-down-your-face laughter. The woman behind the counter, who I imagine probably had a similar kind of day to I was having, also started to laugh uncontrollably. People began to stare at us as we wiped tears from our red faces and laughed at the situation in which we found ourselves. Gaining control of ourselves, the woman was able to sort out the technical problems (only after letting out a few: “for FANDEN!”, the Danish equivalent of “FFS!”), and my NemID was activated.

After 5 hours, I was an official Danish resident with the ability to now register for free Danish lessons, open a bank account, obtain a mobile phone, and all the other requirements one needs to fulfil in order to feel truly settled. Yes, it was a pain. And yes, it was my vision of hell, but it was also fantastic to feel genuinely welcomed to this new country and given all the tools I needed in order to become an integrated and contributing member of society – and all it cost me was a few hours of my time.

I thanked the woman behind the counter for making my day a little more fun – she said the same – and I headed out into the world once again to see what Copenhagen had in store for me.