Tag Archives: marriage

Marrying a Spaniard in 7 Easy Steps

Disclaimer: The word “easy” in the title of this post—take it with a grain of salt. A large grain of salt.

Last year (July 7, 2012, to be exact), I got married in Spain. I got married in Spain to a Spaniard. We celebrated our wedding in a Romanesque church with origins in the eleventh century, the beautiful San Cipriano of Zamora.

Source: Turismo de Zamora

Trying to get married in another culture, with all its requisite paperwork and bureaucracy, makes you realize that planning the actual wedding and reception is a lot easier than trying to get the Spanish government to recognize the legality of your upcoming marriage vows. And so I get emails from readers who are in the same situation as I used to be: they’re dating Spaniards; they want to marry them … but how? How indeed.

So You’re Dating a Spaniard … and now you want to say I do / Sí, quiero in the church.

To get married in the church, you have to do all the things for the civil ceremony and a few additional ones for the religious part. I’m going to talk about the Catholic church, because … well, that’s my experience and it’s the most common in Spain. A helpful website for both civil and religious ceremonies can be found here. Also, remember that every region in Spain is different, so be sure to ask your local authorities about any special requirements they may have.

1. Get a copy of your birth certificate.

This is first and foremost. But, ojo, it can’t be a vintage birth certificate. It has to have been issued within the past six months, I believe. Silly? Perhaps, but you don’t want to play with their rules.

For Indiana, my home state (go Hoosiers!), I went through Vital Records and ordered two copies because I’m slightly neurotic. Your state is going to be different. They say it takes 4–6 weeks, but I got it sooner than that. It cost me $10 for the first copy plus a $1.85 identifty-verification fee (and $4 for the additional copy). The “problem” was the shipping. I wasn’t sure whether to insure it or not; in the end, I did. That ended up costing me about $17.

Next you have to get that sucker apostilled. An apostille is an international certification and is comparable to notarization on an international scale. The process for getting an apostille on a document varies from state to state. In Indiana, there’s no fee for the apostille service. I sent in my birth certificate along with the following to the Indiana Secretary of State’s office:

an original signature
a cover letter with the name of the country (Spain), my phone number, and information as to where the documents had to be sent afterward
a postage-paid envelope for them to send it back to me

I hope you are okay with spending some money. Bureaucracy requires paperwork, and paperwork requires money. Yours.

2. Proof of freedom to marry.

So, this document doesn’t exist in the U.S. I know, I know. Whaaaat? How can I be expected to produce a document that doesn’t exist? This will happen in Spain (see: getting your degree recognize by the Spanish government), and you will just have to suck it up and find your way over it, around it, or through it. One of those methods has to work.

In the civil court, you can accomplish by swearing before an American consul. In my case, I did so by swearing in front of my pastor and having him sign a document I found on the Internet. I signed it, and so did he. He stamped it … you know, to make things official-ish and all. Boom, done!

Note: apparently in Madrid, this is different, and the statement has to be made by the parents. What’s with that, Madrid?

3. Baptismal certificate.

We Protestants can be strange. I didn’t get baptized as a baby, because in my denomination this is frowned upon. Instead, I got baptized in my church as an eight year-old. I asked my mom one night before bed, and that was when I got dunked in a lukewarm bathtub in front of 200 blurry strangers. (My vision leaves much to be desired.)

My baptismal certificate was more like this one … not so official looking

But here in Spain, Catholics like to get all strict about baptismal certificates, and the one I got in Sunday School class wasn’t exactly cutting it. Nevertheless, we somehow convinced the 80-year-old bishop that it was indeed legitimate, and off we were.

4. Certificate of consular inscription.

This isn’t hard to do. I just made an appointment with the American embassy in Madrid. I did have to wait a bit, but the process was simple. There is a small fee for the service.

My official translator has two other degrees as well

5. Translate your documents.

Luckily for me, I’ve got a translator for life in Mario. You will need to have your birth certificate, the apostille, baptismal certificate, consular inscription, and proof of freedom to marry translated into Spanish. This must be a legal translation, so you can’t just do it yourself.

6. Application forms.

There are various application forms involved in this process. We filled these out and had them filled out for us. We had to visit the bishopric of Zamora as well as Mario’s dioceses to speak with the bishop and priest of Mario’s district. You could tell that this was a very rare occasion for them, as the paperwork often required us to explain the situation two or three different times in the same meeting.

7. Posting of Banns.

You’re probably asking yourself right now what in the world Banns are. I had the same question. Basically, in Spain, people are required to go through a process called “posting of banns” for a civil ceremony. This is a public declaration of intent to marry. It’s possible that your nearest embassy/consulate can provide a letter saying that this is not required in the U.S. In our case, our names and wedding date were posted outside the door of Mario’s church for weeks before our wedding. You know, just in case someone had an objection to the marriage.

What happens now?

Well, now you’ll be wanting your residency, right?

The libro de familia.

The libro de familia (literally family book), or Spain’s marriage certificate, can be obtained from the civil registry after the wedding takes place.

Get empadronado/a.

Because Mario and I had not yet moved to Madrid, I got empadronada (registered with the census) in Zamora, where we got married. I didn’t do this until after the marriage, but it’s important in order to get your NIE (foreign citizens identification number). Getting registered in Zamora is about 100x easier than in Madrid. That’s why I always advise people to get married in your future spouse’s hometown, if he/she is not from Madrid.

Apply for your NIE.

You can check out the process here. In this case, you are not a student, so you won’t be applying for the same type of NIE as you would have if you were in Spain as a Conversation and Language Assistant or on study abroad. I did this process in Zamora, and like I said earlier, it took much less time than it would have had I done it in Madrid, where foreigners abound and you have to reserve appointments months in advance.

What did I miss? Have you gotten married in Spain or another country? Do you plan to?

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Third Culture

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In our guest room a flag hangs from the wall above the bed. No, not a yellow and red flag; this one is red, white, and blue. You know—the stars and stripes. My dad bought Mario this flag to remind him where he should (eventually) settle down. My dad would like it very much if we moved back to the US, preferably yesterday. It has a prominent place in our home, this flag. Why?

Vacationing in Sevilla

We live in Spain. We carry out the day-to-day of our lives, of our life, in Spain. We speak in Spanish and eat Spanish food. Yes, we do all this, all this Spanish stuff. We are Spanish.

But though we reside in Spain, we dream about living in the States too. We speak in English and watch American TV shows and movies. I make brownies and cookies and other American dishes. So we are also American.

In reality, he is Spanish. Born and raised in the heart of Castilla y León, with family roots that go back centuries, Mario is as Spanish as they come. Zamorano, really. His dark hair and eyes betray him. His telltale accent, his pronunciation of the z and c in the true castellano accent, his love for lentejas and cocido and jamón and tortilla, his concern for his parents never to worry unnecessarily … he is Spanish.

He is Spanish, and I am American. I speak English with the typical accent of many modern Americans, an accent that is almost impossible to pinpoint. I don’t worry about my parents worrying. I like basketball much more than football (soccer), and I don’t really enjoy eating a big meal at two o’clock in the afternoon. It still surprises me when children are out past 9 p.m., especially on weeknights.

Though we feel as Spanish and American as they come, we also love each other and each other’s culture too. So together we make our own culture, a third culture: a Spanish-American culture. We make stupid jokes: “Sweetie foot” (because pie means foot in Spanish) or “Estoy espalda” (literally “I am [a] back”). We eat tortilla for dinner and chocolate-chip cookies for dessert. We watch the Simpsons in Spanish.

We also compromise, just like any other couple, bicultural or not. We decide on the best way to clean the house. We let each other get away with things. We do things that don’t seem logical to us at times, but we do it because it’s important to the other person. I may or may not vacuum an insane amount of times per week.

Just call us the Spanish-American Institute of Couples.

On the Road to Salamanca

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The bus rumbled along the highway, dusk quickly approaching. We sat side by side, our fingers curled together, leaving the day behind us. Weary but content, we sat in silence, the silence of two people who have everything to say to each other, but not necessarily at that moment. It had been a long day: up early to catch a morning bus, a long walk around town as they wind bit at our cheeks and hands, a hearty lunch, and all of the things that go along with meeting someone, someone special, for the very first time. By that point, I was exhausted but we glanced at each other and smiled with a sigh.

The evening sun tinged the horizon amaranth, gold, and orange. I grasped his hand, searching for the words I wanted, needed, to say to him. I hadn’t picked out a special place or time to say them, hadn’t analyzed my feelings, hadn’t thought about his reaction. I only knew that I loved him. And so I told him—there, in the bus, speeding along the A-66 towards Salamanca: “Te quiero.”

I didn’t start learning Spanish for love. I did it out of curiosity, because I needed a language to complete my high-school degree, because it was what was expected of me. But I mastered it for other reasons: it challenged me, it made me think about the world differently, it allowed me to see into the soul of another nation, of another people. I mastered it in the end because of Mario, because for him I stayed here, because for him I made my second home in Spain, because for him I packed up my whole life and changed it forever when I told him, standing in front of our friends and family in a church built in the 13th century, right in the heart of Zamora: “Sí, quiero.”

Yes, I do. I do promise to love you, to be there for you, to remember the important things for you. For you I will overcome the frustration that I sometimes feel when I can’t think of the right word, when I can’t remember the proper phrasing. Yes, I do.

My motivation for learning Spanish has varied over the years, but my one constant has been love. Some may consider it cliché to say that love makes you do crazy things, and it is, a bit. But love can also make you do daring things, things you would never have had the chance to do had you not bitten the bullet, got right back on the horse after it threw you off, and said to life and learning, “Sí, quiero.”

On the day we were married, the priest—a friend of Mario’s—talked to us and all our guests about love. Moving to another country for someone? he said with an intensity shining in his dark-brown eyes. That’s love. That’s love, friends.

Learning a language is frustrating. The first part is enthralling, when you learn by leaps and bounds, huge gulps of knowledge. But then comes the slow part, when you feel as though you’re dreaming about running, desperately trying to move your legs faster, but you just can’t. It’s a slow slog; it can seem fruitless. I know this feeling all too well. I still struggle with fast speech and gender; I still slip up almost every time I open my mouth. But with Mario there, and his family alongside him, I see the purpose. Without him—without them—I’d haven given up already.

Here’s to learning a language for love, whether it be love for a significant other, for a husband or a wife, for the little English-learning children who attend your local elementary schools, for a fellow church member, for the person who lives down your street. Learn a language for a love, and learn it for a lifetime.

This entry is a part of Kaplan’s Inspire Language Learning Blogger Competition. I’m not that interested in winning a Macbook, but I am interested in sharing my story. After October 29, you’ll be able to vote for me on their Facebook page if you so choose. Thanks, readers.

Learn English with Kaplan

Also, please visit Vaya Madrid—I’ve just had my first article published: Tales of a Transplant.

Sí, Quiero—The Spanish Version of “I Do”

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Fueron felices y comieron perdices.

As I wrote previously, planning for my wedding here in Spain wasn’t always enjoyable. But July 7, 2012, was the best day of my life. It started at 8 a.m., in a hotel with my mother: showers, breakfast, and jittery nerves. Next came the hairdresser.

The before short

Next, at 10:30, came the makeup. I’m not really a makeup person, if one can be a makeup person, but I left satisfied, even if I seemed odd to myself (“me extrañaba”). After that, it was back to the hotel to get dressed and try to calm down before leaving for the church. I had a very special ride.

The people loved it

Mario hung around and greeted the guests before I arrived

Dad helping me out of the car

In Spain, the bride can be seen by the guests before the wedding (traditionally), if not the groom. Mario was quickly ushered inside before this moment.

Happy to see Mario at the end of the aisle

Photo credit: José Antonio Fernández Sánchez, Mario’s cousin

Photo credit: José Antonio Fernández Sánchez

Tables were arranged by state names. We were Indiana, of course.

Guests were wearing red bandannas for San Fermín.

Our families at our table, fit for kings

Giving the boquet to Colleen, my future sister(-in-law), who’s getting married in September to my brother, Seth

Parents learning how Spaniards dance

Shouting so he can hear me

Favorite picture!

Dad and daughter, end of the night

I keep looking back on that day, that whole week, as this magical moment, a moment that turned out more perfect than I could have hoped for. I feel so lucky to have these people in my lives, people that will scream, “¡Vivan los novios!” and “¡Que se besen!” until they’re hoarse, people who will dance for hours with you, people who will make you videos with hilarious childhood photos set to the tunes of Que viva España and Born in the USA, who will take enough photos of you to make you swear off photos for a year, who will gift you a trip to Italy, who will accept you into their family like any other person (despite your foreignness), who will do mountains of paperwork for you while you’re on that honeymoon, who will buy you flowers and jewelry, who will cry until their eyes are dry during the ceremony, who will write special essays to read at your wedding … these people, you people if you are reading this, are the reason that day was the best day.

The honeymoon, by the way, was wonderful. And wonderfully hot. I think next time we’ll get married in September; July is way too hot.