It’s a weird sort of a day today. For one thing the Wellington weather is drizzly but bright, the thick mist lending the city a surreal glow. And for another, it’s a long-awaited day, and those days always seem strange to me when they finally arrive.

I’m in Wellington to visit the German Embassy, in the hopes that they’ll grant me a Working Holiday visa. After a lot of research, I decided this was the easiest and most cost-effective way I could stay in the Schengen area for more than the designated 3 months allowed by the tourist visa. Even including the flights, the cost has come to less than $300. There’s an added bonus to flying up here so close to my departure from New Zealand – I’ve been able to bring over 30kg of books, knick-knacks and winter clothes that I won’t be needing while René and I chase summers.

My documents and passport are laid out on the desk; the outfit I’ve carefully chosen for the appointment is arranged on the couch. I consider ironing the blouse, but as it has no obvious wrinkles decide that it’s probably not necessary. To try and assuage my jangling nerves, I bring up the German Embassy’s website on my phone. I had gone through the checklist of forms, official documents, and proofs of bank accounts and insurance required for the Working Holiday visa just two days previously, and I knew I had everything in order, but maybe going through it again, marking each item off the list, would make me feel a little more certain that my visa would be approved.

I open the document, and a jolt of complete horror goes through me. Where it used to say “Updated September 2018” it now proclaims March 2019, and the list looks a bit different. Most of it is the same, but where it used to require proof of €750 Euros in NZD, it now requires proof of €2000. I only have $3300 and as far as I can remember the Euro is worth almost twice the New Zealand Dollar. Hardly breathing, feeling as though my stomach has dropped out of my body and through the floor, I put the conversion into Google. I’m in the clear, but only just – by about €100. Thankfully, the previous requirement of having either a return ticket or a one-way ticket with an additional €1000 (to buy a return ticket later), has been replaced with a simple requirement to present evidence of either a return or a one-way ticket. I’m still uneasy but there’s nothing I can do to make my case more compelling at this stage – there’s just an hour to go until my appointment.

I leave home early, driving to Mum’s work to pick up a printed confirmation of my appointment just in case I need it – mobile phones aren’t permitted to be used inside the Embassy grounds. A few minutes and one very shoddy parallel park later, I’m standing opposite the Embassy building on Hobson Street. It’s classic 70’s architecture, all aluminium framed windows and large sections made from what appears to be opaque brown glass, and surrounded by an imposing looking fence. I’m early, and the appointment confirmation says I won’t be allowed into the Embassy until 5 minutes before my stated appointment time. After several minutes of dawdling on the sidewalk across the road a security guard approaches the fence, and after a short conversation tells me to ring the bell and come in. I’m buzzed through the impressive looking gate, then through the equally impressive looking front door, where a man in a kiosk behind what looks like bulletproof glass directs me through a third door to an empty waiting area.

I sit in silence for several minutes. Usually I’d use my phone to distract myself, but there are big signs throughout the waiting room proclaiming the Embassy’s strict no-mobiles policy. There are no books, no magazines, just half a dozen plain black chairs in an orderly row facing towards another kiosk protected by thick glass. There’s a noticeboard at one end but all the notices are in German and there are no translations offered. One of the notices is about the Embassy’s requirements for a proper biometric photo. I compare the photo I’ve brought to the examples shown and am just deciding that my head doesn’t make up the proper proportion of space when a man enters the kiosk.

I have all sorts of answers ready for the questions he’s going to ask – why do I want to go to Germany? What are my plans once I get there? – but he doesn’t ask any of them. I put my documents in an opening on the desk which he slides to his side of the thick glass window, and he tells me to take a seat. After a couple of minutes he asks me to scan my fingerprints using a device on the desk, then he thanks me and says a decision should be reached within a week. A buzzer sounds and the door back to the lobby opens; collecting my things I thank him and leave. The door closes; another buzzer, and the main door opens. The security guard escorts me for the 10 metre walk towards the street. The third buzzer, and I’m back on Hobson Street as the gate closes with a metallic finality behind me. It’s 9:45, just 5 minutes into my 20 minute appointment slot. Although I wanted it to be a simple appointment, it was over so quickly that I’m momentarily slightly stunned. All that build-up, all the planning and printing and getting documents certified by lawyers, for a 5 minute appointment.

It’s hot and humid and the mist is still shimmering when I reach the car. As I pull away from the kerb I notice a rainbow shining against the hill. I think it’s a good omen.