Bureaucracy: A Tragic Comedy in Three Acts, with a Touch of Caragiale
Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to tell you a tale from our modern days, imbued with the unmistakable charm of Uncle Iancu Caragiale, for Romanian bureaucracy is an eternal spectacle where laughter and tears dance together like lovers at a village fair. My true love story with an American citizen, which began in the year of grace 2022, found itself ensnared in the bureaucratic web of my homeland, where “it cannot be done” is holier than the Constitution, and documents are more precious than the gold of the Carpathians. Prepare yourselves for an epic filled with paperwork, queues, and officials who seem to have learned their trade straight from Mitică of Caragiale!
Act I: Marriage and the Phantom Celibacy Certificate
When I met my husband, a man with a heart as big as the Statue of Liberty, I thought love would carry us on its wings. But lo and behold! The Romanian state, like a bureaucratic Mitică, threw a monumental demand our way: a celibacy certificate to prove my chosen one wasn’t married elsewhere. Simple, you say? Hardly! California, where he lived, had waved goodbye to such papers, deeming them relics fit for the Museum of Bureaucracy. Yet in Romania, without it, it was as if I were asking to move the Danube with a leaky bucket.
We wandered through town halls, embassies, notaries, and counters, armed with stacks of documents, letters, and oaths that California no longer issues such certificates. The officials, with the gravity of a Greek tragedy, shrugged and chanted their sacred mantra: “It cannot be done, madam!” It felt like being in “A Lost Letter,” but without the letter or any hope. I pleaded, explained, brought evidence, yet the answer remained the same, like a tired refrain from a gypsy band. Finally, through a miracle worthy of a Caragiale play, with luck and a cosmic alignment of the planets, we married—but, of course, not in Romania 🇷🇴. Don’t think the comedy ended there!
For what is love without legalized papers, without queues at the counter, and without an official who says “it cannot be done” with the air of having discovered the theory of relativity?
Act II: Citizenship, a Dream Lost in the Homeland’s Drawers
Naively, we believed that once married, our path would be as smooth as a boulevard in old Bucharest. But no! We applied for my husband’s Romanian citizenship in 2023, with solemn promises that “in a year and a half” we’d be happy citizens. Ha! In 2025, our file languishes somewhere in a dusty drawer, like a love letter forgotten by Zoe in “A Stormy Night.” We call, we ask, and the answer is always the same: “It’s in process, madam!” In process, you say? It’s as if Brâncuși himself were sculpting a masterpiece, with no hope of it ever being finished.
Citizenship, gentlemen, is like a politician’s promise: it sounds lovely, but you end up waiting until Saint Wait-a-Lot! Our files, like Cațavencu’s letters, are “in process” forever, and we, like modern Pristandas, count the months and marvel at the state’s efficiency.
Act III: The Company, the Residence Permit, and the “Over-Over-Legalized” Fees
To keep my husband in the land of Eliade, we decided to open a company. A simple idea, like a coffee at Capșa, right? Hardly! Setting up the company was just the first act in a bureaucratic comedy worthy of “Carnival Scenes.” For the residence permit, we must renew a file annually, involving fees of 1500 lei, documents legalized, over-legalized, translated, authenticated, and perhaps even sprinkled with holy water. Each visit to the counter is like a scene with Farfuridi: “Let it be revised, I agree, but let nothing change!” There’s always a missing document, always a new fee, and the officials seem to invent rules with the creativity of a playwright.
Bureaucracy, dear sirs, is like a hydra with a hundred heads: cut one off, and three more sprout, each demanding a fiscal stamp and a legalized copy! But never mind, at least it keeps us busy, for what is life without a form to fill out and a queue to stand in?
Your Story, Citizen, What’s It Up To?
Now that I’ve entertained you with this bureaucratic comedy, I ask you, like a modern Cațavencu: what adventures have you faced in the maze of counters? Have you met an official who seems to have learned his trade from Tipătescu? Or have you stood in endless queues for a document that turned out to be more useless than Farfuridi’s speeches? Leave a comment, for in the face of bureaucracy, we are all like Leonida: brothers in suffering, with a coffee in hand and a story to tell!
Conclusion à la Caragiale: Romanian bureaucracy, gentlemen, is like a poorly directed play: full of intrigue, with no clear ending, but with actors who play the role of “it cannot be done” with a passion worthy of applause. Love may move mountains, but let’s see if it can convince an official to say “it can be done.” Until then, we arm ourselves with patience, coffee, and an ironic smile, for, as Uncle Iancu would say, “purely constitutional".
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