How to register a car in Poland — the hard way
(From left) the author with Pawel Koslowski, owner of Mustang Trading, and his trusty customer-service manager, Robert. Without them, he never would have been able to get his 1997 VW Jetta GLX registered in Poland.
Here in Warsaw, I have a corporation that’s more or less the American equivalent of a subchapter S. At the urging of my Polish accountant, I finally decided to register my 1997 Volkswagen Jetta GLX to this company. For some years I’d been skating by with New Jersey tags. Not only did this confer certain advantages I’ll get into below, but I have a somewhat morbid fear of government bureaucracy and red tape. I wanted to steer clear of those potential tangles.
Before making the decision, I overcame my reluctance about the bureaucracy by consulting with Mustang Trading, a U.S. car specialist in Warsaw. They assured me this would be a slam dunk, and they would walk me through the process of converting the car to European Union operating standards and getting it registered.
I committed to this decision in late December when I chose not to renew my New Jersey registration, set to expire the end of January. The Polish conversion and registration was estimated as a one- week job costing $1,500.
Almost immediately I was figuratively sucked into a Salvador Dali painting, from which I barely found my way out a month later. Or maybe it was Dante’s Inferno. If it was the latter, my Virgil was Pawel Koslowski, the owner of Mustang Trading. Here’s that story.
First, there was no easy way to mount European-required headlights on my lovingly maintained Jetta GLX (which has 120,000 miles). After numerous consultations and an additional $300, Mustang worked out a solution. By then it was January 15. That left 15 days to get it registered in Poland before my New Jersey registration expired. Pawel assured the hard part was done.
Because of travel for my job and Pawel’s schedule, we didn’t get around to going to the Polish Customs Office to officially “import the car” until January 28. And that’s where we ran into the branch director, a green-uniformed bureaucrat in charge of one of two customs offices in Warsaw. We’ll call this one Customs Office ‘A.’
Polish Customs uniform patch | Wikimedia Commons
She looked to be in her late 30s and had a short blonde bob. She’s about 5’4”, petite and fit, with icy blue eyes, pronounced cheekbones, and full lips — a classic Slavic beauty. Her demeanor is what was so memorable. She was all business all the time, with a military-like bearing and posture. Normally, she deals with big importers rather than small-fry public. But she also handles non-standard cases like mine. She was the one who delivered the bad news.
She said she needed additional documentation on how the car got to Poland because of a new EU law that says the transportation cost must be included in the excise-tax calculation.
The problem was, my car came through the port of Amsterdam some years ago, and has since lived the life of a gypsy traveling around Europe. Oops! She explained that such a declaration would result in an excise-tax calculation on the value of the car at time of its arrival, plus penalties for every 6-month increment that the car had not been declared. Despite my emotional attachment to the Jetta and the great condition it’s in, that was not going to fly. I would have been better off selling it to a chop-shop. Pawel thanked her and we left.
By the time we got outside he had figured out Plan B. It’s a time-honored re-importation maneuver I had heard about, but was hoping to avoid. I would have to drive to Ukraine, then re-enter Poland and declare my intention to import the car at the border.
It was than 11 a.m. and I had 3 days left to complete the process before my Jersey registration expired. There was no way in hell I could manage this process myself. “No problem!” Pawel said.
He ordered his customer service manager, a guy named Robert, to get into my car so I could take him for a ride to Ukraine. Robert’s jaw dropped. To a Pole being taken for a ride to Ukraine is akin to Jimmy Hoffa being taken for a tour of stadium construction sites in New Jersey.
Internet map sites estimated the trip would take 6 hours, one way. By noon we had our passports and were on the road. It was 20 below zero centigrade (-4, Fahrenheit) and I was driving like a madman on my New Jersey tags. One of the chief advantages they had conferred over the years was virtual immunity from Polish speeding tickets. We got to the enormous Dorohusk II border crossing complex by 3:30 p.m., although by then Robert’s nerves were shot.
Until a recent treaty, crossing in and out of Ukraine could take 48 hours, but now it’s typically a couple of hours if neither country chooses to hassle you and you have nothing to declare. My Jersey license tags and U.S. documents caused quite a stir at the border because they’re so unusual. We were invited to cut to the front of the line.
It took us about an hour. The chief problem we had was explaining on the Ukrainian side why we were coming in with no luggage. With a straight face, Robert told them that he wanted to put some flowers on his ancestor’s grave and I was his driver. With the short northern winter day ending, in the pitch-dark night and bitter cold it seemed like an incredibly lame story — but they let us through. About then is when the blizzard started.
We were driving through the snow, east into Ukraine. We were starving and there were no signs of civilization, let alone the imaginary cemetery with Robert’s imaginary ancestors. All we could see were fields blanketed with waist-deep snow. After about 10 miles, I spotted some lights off the highway. As we turned down a frozen dirt road, security guards stopped us at the gates of “The Euro Café and Club.” They were armed with assault rifles.
“We are here for the lunch!” I announced in Russian to one of the guards. I can only assume the New Jersey tags made an impression on him also, because he waved us through. I drove into the walled-in cobblestone parking lot, where we noticed 10 parked Mercedes, BMWs and Porsches, with drivers waiting in each car. This was going to be interesting, I thought.
(Top) Borscht. (Bottom) Chicken Kiev | Wikimedia Commons
From the outside, The Euro Café and Club looked neat and well-built — a typical block-with- stucco design. Inside the door was a plain and ordinary anteroom, with two tables, florescent lights, tile floors and bare walls. It was clean but lacked any character whatsoever.
Straight ahead from the door was a rudimentary bar, like something in a home basement, but with well-stocked shelves. There were a man and a woman behind it. To the right was a door to a conference room where a very animated meeting — full of chain-smoking tough guys — was happening.
I persuaded the lady in the anteroom to fix us dinner, and Robert and I sat down at one of the tables. In the hour we were there, we saw no other people. They served an excellent borscht, followed by golden and crispy Chicken Kiev which was amazingly good. When we cut into it, buttery juices spurted into a delicious puddle on our plates. For desert we had crepes, one with cottage cheese and the other with poppy. They were superb as well.
As we chowed down our meals, the tough guys ambled in and out of their meeting, always with a cigarette in their lips and a cell phone glued to their ears. Finished, we paid the bill and headed back to the border. We arrived about 7 p.m.
At the entering-Poland side (the EU entrance), a huge line had formed. I chatted up a border guard, who was happy to switch to English, which he had been studying. The New Jersey tags novelty did it again – he escorted us to the front of the line. After 4 hours, 16 different offices, 20 documents, and various fees that totaled $1,000 – success! We were on our way back into Poland around 11 p.m.
If we had stood in all the lines it would have been a 12-hour process. But we seemed like nice folks and the novelty of clearing a New Jersey registered car from Ukraine was too much to resist- we kept being escorted to the front of the next line. We got to know every building in the border crossing complex, while dodging tractor trailers in a blizzard and 20 below temperature.
Wikimedia Commons
Robert and I got back to Warsaw at 4:00 a.m. on January 29th, driving in whiteout conditions, all the while convinced that the problem was solved. Or was it?
At 10:00 a.m., we took the Ukrainian import documents to Warsaw Customs Office B (to avoid Custom Office A where we had told the Amsterdam story 24 hours earlier). We paid an expeditor to walk the documents through. An hour later, we were told nothing-doing. Under new EU rules they want to know how the American-registered car got to Ukraine. And if it had been there a long time, they wanted to see a Ukrainian insurance policy.
Dejected, Robert and I went back to Mustang Trading, half hallucinating after our exhausting Ukraine trip. The business day was almost over, and I had less than 48 hours before my New Jersey registration expires and the car would be un-drivable. With time running out, Pawel quickly devised Plan C.
The next morning, January 30th, Pawel took me to a huge U.S.-Polish import company that’s owned by a friend of his. The company has customs officials on the premise and knows everyone, including the branch director lady at Customs Office A who didn’t accept our documents in the first place. It turned out that in the Polish Customs bureaucracy, she’s known as a legendary ballbuster.
Pawel Koslowski (left) and his trusty customer-service manager, Robert, who accompanied Mark on an exhausting and madcap border run to Ukraine.
After several hours of phone calls and consultation, Pawel’s friend concluded that I was screwed, because the new rule requiring me to produce the transportation cost from the country of registration (to calculate excise tax) was insurmountable.
Worse, now that I had declared the car at the border, I could not drive it back out, nor could I abandon it in Poland. I was now somewhere in between Dante’s hell and purgatory.
Pawel’s friend offered a Plan D, however – a “Hail Mary” pass of sorts. He noted that the blonde ballbuster at Customs Office A had the authority to waive missing documents. My last chance was to throw myself at her mercy.
Pawel and I headed back to the Customs Office A as the afternoon dusk set in. In hindsight, we suspect she got a call from Pawel’s friend, because as soon as she saw us in the corridor, she ordered us to give her the documents, rather than sending us to one of the clerks.
But when she realized that the car’s “imported from Amsterdam some time ago” story had changed to “imported from Ukraine, on Monday” she launched into a verbal dressing down of us in front of the whole office. She was about 5 minutes into her harangue when I interrupted her.
“Is it your goal to make me start crying in public?” I asked her in Polish. “I’m exhausted, I’m broken and I give up!” I meant every word.
Her demeanor changed, as if a light bulb had switched on. She called us in her private office. She dictated to us how to write a plea and request for relief. Then she called a technical test center (the equivalent of a Virginia inspection station) and asked them to keep it open for this American who would be coming for an inspection. She told us to be back at 8:00 a.m. the next day, January 31, the last day my New Jersey registration was valid.
When we got there at 7:55, she sent us to one of the windows where a clerk had our file, and 2 hours later, my 1997 Jetta was officially imported into Poland, with a two-business day grace period to get registration.
After a brief celebration back at Mustang Trading, Pawel told Robert to go with me to wrap things up at the registration office. We were done! Alas, we weren’t.
It turned out that for the type of company I own, the car has to be registered in my name, not the company’s. But it couldn’t be registered in my name because I don’t have a Polish residence card. While I do own a Polish company, pay Polish income tax, own a house in Poland and live in it, I can’t register a car without a residence card. Go figure.
On Monday, February 4th, after visiting 5 offices on opposite sides of Warsaw, with Robert’s help I got a 90-day residence card which allowed me to get a 90-day registration and Polish tags for my 1997 VW. I’ve also started the process to get a 1-year residence card, something I really need only to register my car.
Photoshopped by Dan, based on a sample residency permit on Wikimedia Commons
I was touched by how many total strangers, including government clerks, were kind and helpful. As for my Virgil, Pawel, other than the payment for technical conversion to European headlights, the only thing he accepted from me is a bottle of whiskey – Jack Daniels of course.
Robert the customer service manager refused any money, arguing “he should pay me for this psychedelic experience.” Eventually I managed to stuffed 200 zloty in his pocket.
So now I can deduct gas and other costs for the Jetta while computing my Polish income taxes, hooray! The drawback, of course, is that without my dearly held New Jersey tags and registration, I’ve forever lost the virtual immunity to traffic tickets.
Driving in Europe will never be the same.
February 16, 2013 - 6:00 AM
And the point of this story is….??
JD, the point of the story is to enjoy the story. It’s very funny!
“And the point of this story is….??”
Mark doesn’t know how to bribe.
Good to know that people in other countries suffer DMV woes.
Wow!
I dunno…at 120K miles, you’re tempting fate.
This is an excellent story. Really, it tells us that as much as things are different in other parts of the world, they’re really not all that different.
Funny story, Mark. I probably would have given it up long before you did.
So what you are admitting here in your Lucy-esque story is that you are smart enough to be a businessman but not smart enough to do your homework before you go into a foreign country and set up shop. IMO, you are darned lucky they gave you any “relief” at all.
Dan, check your email. I sent you something.
Beware government bureaucracies. This is funny, but also a cautionary tale for my far left friends who admire government so much. Government workers are not measured by customer service or efficiency. Only on whether or not they follow their narrowly defined process. There is no penalty for inconveniencing the public. On the other hand, they can be fired for not following the process.
Quite right Old Blue. Nobody new the process and they all argued among themselves. Interestingly,, they all had a common whipping boy- the European Union. I am not arguing that the EU deserves all the blame.
Kristen:
“I dunno…at 120K miles, you’re tempting fate.”
For a Jeep Liberty, yes. For a VW Jetta, not hardly.
You made a Pole “take a ride” into Ukraine? That’s hilarious! Is Robert now “on vacation upstate”? That poor dude.
“What did you do at work today, dear?”
“An American took me on a car ride to Ukraine.”
“That’s nice, honey… Wait, what?”
One time I took my friend, born and raised in L.A., to Welch, WV on a repossession. He’ll walk down Crenshaw Blvd. at 3AM with a wallet full of cash and doesn’t carry so much as a pocket knife, but flat-out refused to get out of the truck in a town of less than 2,500 people built into the side of a mountain. The only thing he could say was, “This is some ‘Wrong Turn’ bull—t, right here,” repeatedly.
To be fair to him, we did have to get the sheriff to escort us across three creeks, deep into the woods to find the car and we were greeted with three very mean looking guys with shotguns when we pulled up. The sheriff saying, “Uhhh, yeah… I probably better go with you,” before we left probably didn’t help his confidence any, either.
I’m glad you got it all sorted and not-so-glad to see that vehicle registrations are a pain in the rear wherever you go. Great story. Thanks.
JohnW, why are you so fixated on the car I drive? I have no idea what the heck you drive, and it’s not like I talk about my car all that often. I have a big Wrangler too which is much more impressive…fixate on that one for a while.
J.M. White#14 – The dialogue between Robert and his wife was actually even funnier. Like a lot of things I had to cut it, or the essay would have turned into a script for a full length slapstick movie.
Before I tell you how the conversation went, remember this is the guy who told the Ukrainian border guard that we are going to visit a cemetry to put flowers on his ancestor’s grave.
So Robert’s conversation with his wife went like this. We were getting close to the border around 3:00, when Robert called his wife and said he was going to be home late tonight. Evidently, she asked how late, because he then said “very late, but I am not sure how late”.
Evidentlly, she prompted him for an explanation. Because the next thing Robert said, is that he is helping some guy with a car problem, and he is just approaching the Ukrainian border. And, when he will return depends on if there will be any problems at the border, which he has no idea about at this point.
You can imagine that this explanation only caused his wife to ask more questions, evidently in a very animated way.
It took another 5 minutes for Robert and his wife to get on the same page.
“Because the next thing Robert said, is that he is helping some guy with a car problem, and he is just approaching the Ukrainian border. And, when he will return depends on if there will be any problems at the border, which he has no idea about at this point.
You can imagine that this explanation only caused his wife to ask more questions, evidently in a very animated way.
It took another 5 minutes for Robert and his wife to get on the same page.”
–MarkJ
OMG. I had not heard this bit. I can imagine that wife, and her reaction. It just makes the whole story even funnier.
Years ago, Mark and I shared many adventures. A lot of them involved backpacking and skiing. They were always a hoot, in a high-wire-act way. I’m sorry I wasn’t along for this one, but glad that I got to put the story up here.
Mark, do you remember the time you made the acquaintance of the the lobstermen who were skiing at Stowe, in the middle of a hellacious, below-zero blizzard, and invited them to stay at our apparent?
J.M., when I was in college some friends of a fraternity brother who was from some section of Brooklyn or the Bronx (can’t remember which now) came to Lexington to visit. These guys had never really been out of the big city. Like your friend, they had no problem navigating the mean streets of the early 1970s up there, but when we took them for a ride out Virginia 39 to Goshen Pass, they were absolutely petrified that we were going to go flying off a curve and into the Maury. It was hysterical.
J.M. White:
“One time I took my friend, born and raised in L.A., to Welch, WV”
Welch is a must-do. People who have never been there would not believe the terrain. My mother’s family is from there.
Kristen:
“JohnW, why are you so fixated on the car I drive? I have no idea what the heck you drive”
You essentially said that 120,000 was running on borrowed time and I remembered that you drove a Liberty. For those, it certainly is. Most people I have know that had those have had a fair number of recalls and other odd issues with them. I’m a car guy and it interests me; that’s all. I drive a 2004 Dodge Dakota quad cab.
Now you have an idea what people go through when dealing with the US immigration Service.
My mother’s family is from Welch too, John W. My grandparents moved to Greenbrier County though.
Debbie, my mom’s older sisters moved to Roanoke and mom moved with the family to Bluefield. No one ever moves TO Welch.
JohnW, I won’t remember they by …9:00, but thanks for telling me.
I have to say LOL to that, John Wilburn.
Debbie, I remember once when around a group of people in Bluefield, one of them asked another where he was from. The guy replied “War, WV; where men are men and sheep are scared.” I thought we’d never stop laughing. And this was long before the mayor was killed by his own daughter-in-law.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/War,_West_Virginia
http://wvgazette.com/News/201207200057
John W, my favorite name of a place in WV is “Squat and Dodge” or “Squat ‘N Dodge” in the Quinwood area of Greenbrier County. It supposedly got its name from the local moonshiners squatting and dodging the law.
Debbie…sounds like a line from dodgeball.
” dodge, duck, dip, dive and dodge”
Debbie, my personal favorites are “Six”, “Big Four”, and “Johnnycake”. All of which are in McDowell County. I drive out there every rare now and then, if for no other reason, to better appreciate what I have. My mom’s family lived in segregated coal camp housing and didn’t have indoor plumbing when she was a toddler. Sometimes it’s all relative and I don’t want to lose sight of that.
JW, my family is from Tazewell County, VA. My mother was born in Amonate. I worked in the coal fields in the late 1980′s, and I was fascinated by those small coal camps. Spent a lot of time in Grundy, VA, and once tried to drive from Grundy to War, WV. I survived that trek and never did it again!
I’ve also had the good fortune to go into two coal mines, both high coal. One was an exhibition mine, the other owned by a local company. It is an amazing experience I’ll never forget. At the exhibition mine, they gave me a brass tag with my name stamped on it. I thought what a nice keepsake to remember my trip. Then I was told to clip the tag to my belt so I could be identified in the unlikely event of an explosion and fire! I carry that tag on my key ring to this day to remind me how well I have it.
Southern West Virginia, Southwestern Virginia, and Eastern Kentucky are such unique places. I met some of the nicest, most genuine people during my time there. This region is truly a national treasure!
It is indeed “all relative” John Wilburn. In a Facebook argument with a relative over gay rights, she preached “that was not how we were raised” at me and we went back and forth a couple times and a friend of hers chimed in and said, “well I was raised with an outhouse, but I sure do love my indoor plumbing!”. Where we come from and what we are taught has influence, but what we become is still our choice.
Re: Sandi Saunders @ 3:15 pm
“well I was raised with an outhouse, but I sure do love my indoor plumbing!”. Where we come from and what we are taught has influence, but what we become is still our choice.
—————–
+1 on both points.
—–
OTOH, I remember (short version) an old codger who had been brought down from a mountain cabin to live with his son (my friend).
We had a labor-day get-together. As my friend and I were grilling in the back yard, his father, who was sitting on the deck, boomed out, “You guys got it all wrong. You cook outside and sh.. in the house.”
LOL, Dave Hicks. I remember one summer when I was 10 or 11 yrs old, we lived in Missouri and had been to visit family in WV. We were coming home and stopped at a rural gas station somewhere in Arkansas, for gas. I had to go to the bathroom and the elderly black man at the station pointed me to where it was. It was an outhouse and the stench was so bad, I could not go in there. I decided I really didn’t have to go that bad. I love and cherish indoor plumbing!
My grandfathers maternal and paternal, were coal miners in WV, as were some of my dad’s brothers. None of my mom’s brothers were. All of my maternal grandparents kids left the state. A lot of my dad’s family still live there, and I have remained in touch with the family that lived beside my maternal grandparents. Two of the 3 boys in that family work in the mines as did their dad. Their mom is proud of them, but worries for their safety too. Her oldest son has lived in VA for years, but the two youngest love their home and have no desire to leave.
Ralph Berrier had a story about this letter in the RT last year. I forwarded it to my mom’s siblings, and one of my uncle’s emailed me back and told me that I’d made an old man cry. It is a beautiful story IMO.
http://therevivalist.info/dear-west-virginia/
Darn it Debbie! That was beautiful and it made me cry too! Thanks for sharing!
You are welcome, Sandi. I love it.
Sandi Saunders:
“Where we come from and what we are taught has influence, but what we become is still our choice.”
My mom went to school at night for several years to earn a bachelor’s, then master’s degree. She and my dad have a super work ethic. I work 70-80 hours per week and don’t complain because I don’t have to split wood for heat, have indoor plumbing, and a college education that’s paid for. I wouldn’t trade what I learned from my folks for anything.
Uh oh. My anecdote seems to have completely derailed this thread off-topic.
I apologize, MarkJ.
I don’t know, JM, what really is the topic? Seems like some of these anecdotes fit the thread perfectly.
J.M. White,
The fourth highest ranking thread of all time was originally about teachers, but it was gun rights that pushed it to 414 comments. This blog is definitely NOT known for staying on topic.
Great Mark J column, though!
Bureaucracy was the topic, gdad. Entertainment was the point, I suppose.
I’m not saying the convo should stop; I’m just trying to throw some props back to MarkJ for inspiring it. That’s all.
John W. is right. We don’t do well at staying on topic, even when we’re provided with a daily OPEN thread. I didn’t really imply that anyone was complaining in this case. I just didn’t want to feel so responsible for the derailment without making an apology to him.
What is this? Déjà vu all over again. Why?
Dave Hicks,
I like Mark’s story a lot, and I wanted to make sure folks who may have skipped it during the week (it’s a long story) had a chance to read the whole thing. That’s all.
It is a great story.
I will forever be confused about why the folks on this blog abhor government beurocracy as depicted in this story and then support the control by government over more and more of our lives. There is a disconnect.
Great story,mark. You write almost as well as Dan…and that is high praise.
All – I suppose most of you have already tuned out of this thread. But if anyone is still reading – first I would like to thank all of you who posted kind words and encouragement for me. I really appreciate the feedback.
J.M. White – I am especially touched by your thoughtfulness about staying on track. At the same time, I think that in a special way, how the thread evolved makes sense and I enjoyed the humanist atmosphere, because in fact the flavor of my essay. It was a story about a never ending chain of screw-ups – starting with mine; and yet, it was a never ending chain of people extending good will to a stranger.
Of all the stories on this thread – the one I will remember most, and certainly share is the one about the hillbilly at the cook-out, who told his family in the city they got it all wrong when they sh&# in the house and cook outside. Priceless!
Your description of the Chicken Kiev made me very hungry, Mark. At least you got some good food out of the ordeal.
btw, Mark, recipes are sometimes shared on this blog. Do you happen to have a good one for pierogies?
Terps#44 – Regarding my writing, I owe Dan a lot. Firstly, along with Bogusia, my wife, more than anyone, Dan encourages me. He also imlpements most of the art work, sometimes with great irritation at the work load that my ideas cause him. Further, he plays the role of my editor – doing the final review and edits.
In the case of this essay, I probably would not have written it if he did not push me. I was telling Dan the story, and he immediately encouraged me to write an essay on it.
Thank you very much, indeed, for comparing my writing to Dan’s. As a part-time hobbyist, it is quite a compliment to be compared to the master.