FORMS (which are all online here)
For me:
-Application to Sponsor and Undertaking CHECK
-Sponsorship agreement CHECK
-Sponsorship evaluation CHECK
For him:
-In-Canada Application for Permanent Residence and Schedule 1
-Spouse/common-law partner questionnaire
For both of us:
-Document checklist
PHOTOCOPIES (not certified)
For me:
-proof of Canadian citizenship, i.e. passport or birth certificate
For him:
-passport (photo page and page with stamp of most recent entry to Canada)
-indication of status in Canada (i.e. work visa)
-birth certificate
-original police certificates (i.e. not photocopies) CHECK
-proof of medical examination (copy of receipt) CHECK
For both:
-photocopy of marriage certificate
-photographs of the marriage, if applicable (huh?)
PHOTOS
-2 of him
PROOF OF INCOME
-a letter from my employer
-an original Option C printout of my last notice of Assessment for the most recent taxation year along with printouts of all income slips (T4, etc.) *this one will be tricky as I haven't been living in Canada, will call the Canada Revenue Agency and get back to you...
Okay, so we're not actually almost ready to go. Good thing I checked the checklist...
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Doctor doctor
Mr. O went for his official government medical examination yesterday, as required by the CIC. When he booked the appointment, the clerk asked him to be sure to bring the right form (which, though it's labelled correctly, somehow doesn't seem to be the right form, but anyway), as well as ID (which nowadays means passport plus one of several official pieces of paper with address, just in case), his work visa, his glasses and/or contact lenses, and three passport photos (the CIC site says four, the clerk says three, you decide). Oh yeah, and 150 bucks.
The place was one of a list of sanctioned offices here in TO, but that didn't mean it wasn't a bit sketchy. First of all, and this is a minor thing, but speaks to the level of infrastructure in general, the place only accepts cash – no credit or debt card reader in sight. In general the overhead was a bit low, especially the X-ray lab, where he wasn't given a protective vest and the machine looked about 30 years out of date. The worst bit, though, was the lab tech who kinda missed his vein, causing his arm to swell up somewhat ominously – albeit temporarily – on the way out.
The doc keeps the form and mails it to the CIC office in Vegreville, AB, where all in-Canada spousal apps are sent. Mr. O was given a receipt, which, as we understand it, will be enough proof to include with our application, which is otherwise pretty much ready to go, except for the fees, which we'll pay just before we send it (you never know). Otherwise, we would have to wait at least three weeks, which is the time it takes for the medical exam to be processed - this from the doctor, who asked my O to call back after that period of time to get his very own case file number to confirm that the medical information had been successfully processed. Why this goes through the doctors offices, instead of directly from the CIC to the applicant, is unclear.
The place was one of a list of sanctioned offices here in TO, but that didn't mean it wasn't a bit sketchy. First of all, and this is a minor thing, but speaks to the level of infrastructure in general, the place only accepts cash – no credit or debt card reader in sight. In general the overhead was a bit low, especially the X-ray lab, where he wasn't given a protective vest and the machine looked about 30 years out of date. The worst bit, though, was the lab tech who kinda missed his vein, causing his arm to swell up somewhat ominously – albeit temporarily – on the way out.
The doc keeps the form and mails it to the CIC office in Vegreville, AB, where all in-Canada spousal apps are sent. Mr. O was given a receipt, which, as we understand it, will be enough proof to include with our application, which is otherwise pretty much ready to go, except for the fees, which we'll pay just before we send it (you never know). Otherwise, we would have to wait at least three weeks, which is the time it takes for the medical exam to be processed - this from the doctor, who asked my O to call back after that period of time to get his very own case file number to confirm that the medical information had been successfully processed. Why this goes through the doctors offices, instead of directly from the CIC to the applicant, is unclear.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Moyo and the cucumber (OT)
Moyo is our cat. The first night she arrived she caught a tiny little mouse, scaring away the rest of the mice forever. Since then she has been forced to hunt other, more easily available prey, such as cucumbers.
From sOHIP to nOHIP
I haven't posted in ages, but not for lack of things to be ungrateful about. Just as Mr. O was scheming ways to make the most of his time "off" and endear himself to the local industry (take on graphic and web design projects for free and hence legally without a permit, take a professional development course to get something local on his CV), the one-month culture shock kicked in – big time. Two weeks ago on our way to work Mr. O crashed his bike, doing a somersault over the handlebars and landing on his arm and head (with helmet, luckily). Acting on impulse (and knowledge of head injuries) I hauled him bleeding and dizzy into a cab to the emergency at the nearest hospital. We arrived to an empty waiting room, and a nurse who took his credit card information and had him sign forms before receiving any medical attention. Of course, our nOHIP doesn't kick in for three months from the time of application, which means some time at the end of November. In the meantime, we had assumed that our respective work insurance policies would cover any emergencies; nope, they also carry a three-month probationary clause. So Mr. O forked over 430$ for a three-and-a-half hour wait, a blood-pressure check, and a bandaid and headrub from a medical student. By the time I tracked him down on the phone he was ready to leave, not only from the pain (he had been given no painkiller and had seen no doctor), but also because the people who were already waiting before him had also not been treated, including one woman who started to cry, and because he hadn't had any food or water since arriving at the hospital.
I remember feeling rather haughty watching Morgan Spurlock trying to get basic medical treatment in the US (after all, Mr. O's injuries were non-life threatening) but I can do so no longer. The Canadian "social welfare" system is all but non-existent for new Canadians. For those of you who raise their eyebrows at my claims, try to imagine moving to a country with no police force. That's how it strikes someone coming from a functional social welfare system into Canada.
To be fair, we were warned to buy health insurance before coming to Canada. The main reason we didn't was because we thought our work insurance would cover us. At that point Mr. O already had the job, although had not yet laid eyes on his contract nor on his insurance policy – but he did know that there was one. It's surprising to me that a company that brings in foreign workers doesn't provide for their welfare once they arrive. It is also of note that we are paying taxes during this period, though for what, I've yet to see with my own eyes.
So this was Mr. O's entree into "culture shock." I talked to a fellow importer of foreign men (read: man) and she said her import was experiencing a similar tendency to hide away and just flat out hate this new place for a little while. As for me, I am only slightly better off, having shelled out another 450$, this time to Manulife, for "Visitors to Canada insurance" a variation on travel insurance designed for liminal folks like us. Word to the wise: get it before it gets you. This, and a verbal agreement with Mr. O that we are not committed to staying here for any length of time, is the compromise we've arrived at. The idea that we had made a mistake coming here at all crossed my mind for the first time.
After disappearing into our little house of a hole for a week or so (coming out for work and food only) we were feeling better. Mr. O has a scar in the shape of a guy driving a tractor on his left elbow, and a bruise the size of a field underneath. But he has also completed a rite of passage: he has tasted the wrath of Toronto's viciously slippery and cruel streetcar tracks, which means he is officially a Local Cyclist.
I remember feeling rather haughty watching Morgan Spurlock trying to get basic medical treatment in the US (after all, Mr. O's injuries were non-life threatening) but I can do so no longer. The Canadian "social welfare" system is all but non-existent for new Canadians. For those of you who raise their eyebrows at my claims, try to imagine moving to a country with no police force. That's how it strikes someone coming from a functional social welfare system into Canada.
To be fair, we were warned to buy health insurance before coming to Canada. The main reason we didn't was because we thought our work insurance would cover us. At that point Mr. O already had the job, although had not yet laid eyes on his contract nor on his insurance policy – but he did know that there was one. It's surprising to me that a company that brings in foreign workers doesn't provide for their welfare once they arrive. It is also of note that we are paying taxes during this period, though for what, I've yet to see with my own eyes.
So this was Mr. O's entree into "culture shock." I talked to a fellow importer of foreign men (read: man) and she said her import was experiencing a similar tendency to hide away and just flat out hate this new place for a little while. As for me, I am only slightly better off, having shelled out another 450$, this time to Manulife, for "Visitors to Canada insurance" a variation on travel insurance designed for liminal folks like us. Word to the wise: get it before it gets you. This, and a verbal agreement with Mr. O that we are not committed to staying here for any length of time, is the compromise we've arrived at. The idea that we had made a mistake coming here at all crossed my mind for the first time.
After disappearing into our little house of a hole for a week or so (coming out for work and food only) we were feeling better. Mr. O has a scar in the shape of a guy driving a tractor on his left elbow, and a bruise the size of a field underneath. But he has also completed a rite of passage: he has tasted the wrath of Toronto's viciously slippery and cruel streetcar tracks, which means he is officially a Local Cyclist.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Service Ontario rules
No, that's not a typo, nor a sarcastic headline. I have nothing to complain about today. Yesterday we went to College Park to apply for sOHIP and it was fast and easy.
Okay, I might complain that it was my second trip there, after an aborted attempt on Friday afternoon before which I failed to RTFM and double check the required docs, so came with a VISA statement from the bank instead of a chequing or savings account statement, lease, or other proof of address (arbitrary, yes; negotiable, no) and was sent packing – but for that I have nobody to blame but myself. To add insult to my personal injury (surely it was personal) I witnessed a gentleman urinating into the recycling bin on our way out. Oh shit, I thought, the wait times must be brutal. Poor guy's been here for hours and is so terrified of missing his turn that he just pissed in the garbage can.
So I came back yesterday with low expectations. But the system works quite well, if you speak English, at least. They have hired some interns to stand at the door and direct people to various reception desks, at which they do a preliminary check of your documents (at which point I was rejected last Friday) and give you a number. According to the sOHIP site: "Your eligibility for Ontario health coverage is not determined by whether you have a job or are unemployed, or where you pay your income tax. It is based solely on your meeting one of the above citizenship or immigration categories and on you making your permanent and principal home in Ontario." Then you go sit in a big room of chairs and wait. The place is clean, cooled, and relatively quiet, compared at least to the zoo up the street at 900 Bay where we spent three sweltering days before and after our wedding to get a fast-track marriage certificate back in the day (full disclosure: without checking the address I went there first on Friday, only to find they had moved). This room is much bigger, and you don't have to line up in the hallway (bonus!). We waited for about 30 minutes on a Monday afternoon. The clerk was friendly and jokey and they seem to have a good working system for taking your photo, etc. It was all over before we knew it.
Now, the real wait is for three months before the sOHIP kicks in. I can't figure out why they impose this little quarantine period (the site doesn't elaborate), but it requires you to either buy private insurance or keep your fingers crossed. We both have medical coverage from our employers, so we're okay, but I'm sure plenty of other people are left without anything but luck for the first 90 days. Which sucks. There, something to complain about, finally.
Okay, I might complain that it was my second trip there, after an aborted attempt on Friday afternoon before which I failed to RTFM and double check the required docs, so came with a VISA statement from the bank instead of a chequing or savings account statement, lease, or other proof of address (arbitrary, yes; negotiable, no) and was sent packing – but for that I have nobody to blame but myself. To add insult to my personal injury (surely it was personal) I witnessed a gentleman urinating into the recycling bin on our way out. Oh shit, I thought, the wait times must be brutal. Poor guy's been here for hours and is so terrified of missing his turn that he just pissed in the garbage can.
So I came back yesterday with low expectations. But the system works quite well, if you speak English, at least. They have hired some interns to stand at the door and direct people to various reception desks, at which they do a preliminary check of your documents (at which point I was rejected last Friday) and give you a number. According to the sOHIP site: "Your eligibility for Ontario health coverage is not determined by whether you have a job or are unemployed, or where you pay your income tax. It is based solely on your meeting one of the above citizenship or immigration categories and on you making your permanent and principal home in Ontario." Then you go sit in a big room of chairs and wait. The place is clean, cooled, and relatively quiet, compared at least to the zoo up the street at 900 Bay where we spent three sweltering days before and after our wedding to get a fast-track marriage certificate back in the day (full disclosure: without checking the address I went there first on Friday, only to find they had moved). This room is much bigger, and you don't have to line up in the hallway (bonus!). We waited for about 30 minutes on a Monday afternoon. The clerk was friendly and jokey and they seem to have a good working system for taking your photo, etc. It was all over before we knew it.
Now, the real wait is for three months before the sOHIP kicks in. I can't figure out why they impose this little quarantine period (the site doesn't elaborate), but it requires you to either buy private insurance or keep your fingers crossed. We both have medical coverage from our employers, so we're okay, but I'm sure plenty of other people are left without anything but luck for the first 90 days. Which sucks. There, something to complain about, finally.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Mistake?
So after a little run-in with our new Canadian bank last night (nota bene: don't online/telephone bank when tired and a wee bit drunk) I think we had our first moment of Movers Regret. Actually it started earlier in the day, as Mr. O read through his contract and came to the conclusion that labour law in Canada favours businesses over workers, a depressing thought when your presence in the country is largely dependent on your employer.
Then we had a bit of a scrap over nothing as we walked all the way up my new favourite street, carrying a bedside table, over just how much Mr. O can vent about his new homeland and just how much I can take before I have to take the defensive on its behalf. Actually, it might sound like I'm defending my country (such a tough phrase) but really I'm defending our decision to move here, which, really, given the late night attack of MR I'm obviously still not 100 percent in favour of. Which, if I run with it, makes me wonder what the hell we're doing amassing furniture and adopting cats (who insist on kicking their litter boxes all over the floor, but that's veering off topic a bit).
I'm willing to chalk at least half of this rotten moody mood to the fact that it's gray and about 99 percent humidity today. My shirt was soaked just walking to the (closed till 2 pm) movie store. But I am obliged to mention that said movie store is quite possibly the most fantastic movie store next to which I've ever had the privilege of living, and without a doubt beats the hell out of any Makuuni. I love that everything in my new hood is open on Sunday and closed on Monday (who doesn't feel that way?) and that I can get organic Bronto Burgers and fresh raisin bread from the bakery and the lady at the Polish butcher with the broken Interac machine just offered to let me pay her next time. I love the 125 year old houses and jaywalking and how everybody is from some place else. I remember why Finland felt so barren when I first arrived there. And everybody knows the Big 5 banks suck anyway, so fuck it, we're going to the Finnish Credit Union.
Then we had a bit of a scrap over nothing as we walked all the way up my new favourite street, carrying a bedside table, over just how much Mr. O can vent about his new homeland and just how much I can take before I have to take the defensive on its behalf. Actually, it might sound like I'm defending my country (such a tough phrase) but really I'm defending our decision to move here, which, really, given the late night attack of MR I'm obviously still not 100 percent in favour of. Which, if I run with it, makes me wonder what the hell we're doing amassing furniture and adopting cats (who insist on kicking their litter boxes all over the floor, but that's veering off topic a bit).
I'm willing to chalk at least half of this rotten moody mood to the fact that it's gray and about 99 percent humidity today. My shirt was soaked just walking to the (closed till 2 pm) movie store. But I am obliged to mention that said movie store is quite possibly the most fantastic movie store next to which I've ever had the privilege of living, and without a doubt beats the hell out of any Makuuni. I love that everything in my new hood is open on Sunday and closed on Monday (who doesn't feel that way?) and that I can get organic Bronto Burgers and fresh raisin bread from the bakery and the lady at the Polish butcher with the broken Interac machine just offered to let me pay her next time. I love the 125 year old houses and jaywalking and how everybody is from some place else. I remember why Finland felt so barren when I first arrived there. And everybody knows the Big 5 banks suck anyway, so fuck it, we're going to the Finnish Credit Union.
New view
The view from Church and Wellesley (19th floor) tonight. Note that most of the traditional skyline (CN Tower, etc) is totally obscured by clouds.
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