New arrivals, a number and the state as a service point

You do have certain expectations when you move to a new country.
In our case: two major narratives.

Firstly: bicycles everywhere.
Secondly: a digital infrastructure that supposedly works.

We’ve already talked about the bikes several times – and yes, we’re still working through the issue therapeutically. Today we’re looking at the second myth: the digital state.

And the question of how this state deals with part-time immigrants like us.

Since we couldn’t think of a suitable image of ourselves that didn’t involve data, a picture of a hamster adorns this episode.

The first attempt – or: forms with a backlash

A few months before our move, we’d already made contact with the immigration system. Digitally, of course.

The forms weren’t exactly a walk in the park, but at least they were understandable, clearly explained and – believe it or not – multilingual.

Nevertheless, we failed.

The reason was a classic one: we’d overlooked the fact that you can apply too early. That, too, is an interesting bureaucratic experience. Usually, you tend to be too late.

So: back to square one.

Preparation is everything (almost)

We were better prepared for our next attempt in February.

All documents uploaded digitally. Birth certificates, supporting documents, the whole lot.
Plus: a well-stocked bank account. Because we’re coming without a Danish job and have to prove we can support ourselves.

So we walk into the immigration office.
We take a number – having, of course, already registered online beforehand.

Everything seems so efficient that we think:
This will take five minutes.

The longest efficient appointment of our lives

We were wrong.

When our number is called, something happens that rarely occurs during visits to government offices:
We are treated kindly.

Not just briefly polite. But genuinely attentive.
And at the same time very thorough.

The documents are carefully checked. Further evidence is requested. A figure has changed – which we scatterbrains, of course, hadn’t noticed.

So we have to submit some additional documents.

Luckily, we’re able to sort it out right there and then:
Phone out, open the document, email it to the case worker.

After 45 minutes, we leave the office.

Not frustrated.
More with the feeling that someone takes their job seriously.

The magic number

At our next appointment at International House Copenhagen, things actually move quickly.

A few minutes later, we have it: our CPR number.

In Denmark, this number is something like a master key to the state system. Without it, nothing works. With it, an astonishing amount works.

Later, we set up MitID – a digital signature that acts as an access key to government digital services.

On top of that, there are two apps.

And suddenly something happens that, as a German, takes a moment to process:
The state writes to us.

Digitally.

Mail from the state

Shortly after our arrival, the first messages appear.

One government agency welcomes us.
Another asks us to provide a bank account – in case the state ever wants to transfer money to us.

We’re pleased that this works straight away.

We’ll set up the account later. Realistically speaking, we’re unlikely to receive much money from the Danish state.

But who knows.

The Surprising Return of Letters

One thing had puzzled us when we registered.

We had to state that we were reachable by post.

Yet we’d learnt that the state postal service in Denmark had been abolished.

Nevertheless, just to be on the safe side, we stick our name on the letterbox.

A good decision.

In the first week, six letters arrive.

Among them:
a written confirmation of our CPR numbers. Our health cards.

A request asking where the children go to school. We answer the school question digitally. We’re supposed to. We do so with a touch of nervousness.
Have we picked the right authority? The right category? The right button? You quickly develop a certain awe of digital forms.

And then – somewhat unexpectedly – a colorectal cancer screening kit arrives, because one member of our family falls within the age range for screening.

Welcome to the Danish healthcare system.

Customers, not supplicants

At International House Copenhagen, we’re also given information about the city.

Tips on finding accommodation.
Advice on looking for work.
And a newspaper with political news.

Everything is very friendly and welcoming.

At no point do you feel like a supplicant.
More like a customer.

Perhaps that’s because we represent a straightforward form of immigration: part-time immigrants from a neighbouring country without much administrative hassle.

But perhaps everyone is actually treated this way here. It seems that way at first glance, but we’ve also heard otherwise.

And then there’s Danish

Finally, we learn something else:

The state offers free Danish language courses.

That wasn’t originally part of our plan.
We thought: a few months here, a bit of English, that’ll do.

But now a certain curiosity is growing.

Perhaps we should learn the language after all.

After all, we now have a CPR number, a digital government account and a postbox that’s surprisingly active.

So it would only be logical to understand what people are saying in the local language too. Even if English isn’t a problem anywhere.