How can i move to greenland

Nordic citizens may freely settle and work in Greenland. However, certain occupations require special permission, even if you are a citizen of a Nordic country. Citizens from countries outside the Nordic region must have a work and residence permit in order to live and work in Greenland. Greenland is part of the Danish commonwealth, and enjoys a high degree of autonomy. However, the area of immigration has not been transferred to the government of Greenland, and so it is Denmark that decides who can enter and work in Greenland.

The police in Greenland may provide guidance on the Immigration Act and the visa rules. The Danish Immigration Service can provide guidance on residence and work permits for third-country nationals, as well as on spouse and family reunification and unlimited residence. If you are a citizen of a Nordic country, you can freely travel to Greenland to live and work there.

However, a municipal permit is required if you wish to work in certain occupations see next section. If a company wishes to hire a foreigner within one of the following professional groups, the company must have a municipal permit on the basis of Parliamentary Act no. This also applies to Danish citizens who have not been born or raised in Greenland, and to other Nordic citizens:. The company that wishes to hire a person must first try to recruit Greenlandic labour. The company must then contact the municipality, who will try to source the labour elsewhere in Greenland.

If this does not succeed, the company must have written permission from the municipality to bring in an employee from elsewhere. The permission can only apply to one position at one specific workplace. If the municipality does not respond within 14 days to the company's application for a municipal permit, the company is automatically entitled to bring in an external employee.

If you are a citizen of a third country, then in addition to a possible municipal permit, you must also have a Danish work and residence permit, and possibly a visa to Greenland.

You must apply to the Danish Immigration Service for a work and residence permit. It is free of charge to apply for a work and residence permit. The application procedure takes around three months, and if the answer is positive, you can be hired. You may not begin to work until you have obtained your work and residence permit. If the reasons above have not convinced you to move to Greenland already, these will.

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Moving Services Expand child menu Expand. Why was she so nonchalant? Considering the haphazard inventory I had just taken, I probably should have demanded answers or cursed a bit. Raised some hell. When I was young, my mother always went on, at length, about the difficulties of raising my prone-to-tantrums, bang-his-head-on-the-concrete-when-angry older brother. And calm. And you never complain.

I wanted to ask her what was happening — and where I was. Fairly young — my age, by the look of him — his youth was accentuated by a clean-shaven chin under full, feminine lips and a baseball cap perched precariously on his head, above his boyish face.

He had the look of a perpetually surprised toddler, lips slightly parted in wonder and curiosity. The physical therapist, a blonde woman with chin-length hair, stepped in from stage right, clipboard in hand and a laminated badge dangling from a lanyard around her neck.

When she entered, the nurse left, not wanting to crowd the room. The physical therapist pushed a rolling walker to the edge of my bed and beckoned me to rise. My initial movements were the stop-motion stutter of a crude animation. And missed. I tried again. Yeah, I was wrong. Everything, including myself, felt familiar yet foreign, an already-read book revisited accidentally.

The therapist led me down a long hallway lined with other rooms and other patients. Every few feet, the therapist paused and waited for me to inch toward her, patiently watching with a fixed smile for the stop-motion hermit crab to scuttle closer.

A death rattle that made syllables and managed to form words. Her back, still facing me, seemed crystallized in position. Finally, she turned and looked at me for a long moment.

When the elevator doors dinged close, she took a deep breath and sighed. L uckily, my memories started to stick after that disconcerting moment with the TV. I started receiving various stories about what had happened.

Some true, some, I would eventually come to realize, fiction. Him divulging he was my boyfriend … it felt familiar. How many times had this happened? Stanley cocked his head to the side like a confused dog and considered my question — or at least, I figured he was considering it. Maybe he was worried about me. Maybe my well-being concerned him.

But I remembered that detail and I knew I knew him. In what capacity? Stanley let out a huff of air in exasperation. He shook his head in exaggerated impatience, rolling his eyes. It came back to me early on, distinctly, that he had never wanted to be my boyfriend before this. My skepticism remained even as my memory wavered. Yet, he showed up each day, and I began to believe him when he said his feelings had changed. Other friends of mine who came to see me in the hospital were wary of Stanley, but his insistence on his right to be there and his role in my life stifled any objections that even my best friend, Sam, thought to make.

My mother and I had always communicated infrequently about my romantic endeavors. Later, she said I seemed like I wanted him there. With no memory of the original conversation, I believed him, but I felt overwhelmed. So he got a recruiting job and a room nearby. Instead of walking away or going inside, I just stood and watched him stutter as his face flushed until he finally formulated words.

And boy, what words they were. Incapable of speaking, I retreated through the sliding glass door into the kitchen. All of the words I wanted to say slithered through my mind, broken, disconnected. But nothing came from me. As he spoke, he encroached on my space, stepping forward until his face was less than a few inches from mine. His hands still flapped in the air to either side; I think he may have wanted to grab me by the shoulders but refrained.

Stanley pulled his hands back, made a noise that sounded like a mixture of an exasperated moan and a frustrated yelp. All I heard next was the gate slamming behind him.

All of the out-of-town transfer students over the age of 22 were corralled on the first floor of the transfer dorm. That dorm became a haven for all of us who had spent our post-high school years not attending college.

But we had finally pulled together those community college units to gain admittance to a four-year school. And by God, we were celebrating.

Everyone except me. Stationed at the school-supplied prefab wooden desk underneath my bunk bed sans bottom bunk, I was drinking whiskey and playing music from a USB-connected speaker.

Among the gyrating bodies, a short guy in a blue baseball cap, brim pushed up jauntily, slid forward with an elbow pointing at me. He looked too young to be drinking. Later, Stanley would divulge his first impression of me: feet up on my desk, pugging whiskey straight from the bottle and ranting to him about Tom Waits. He thought I was a bitch. And I would tell him that I thought he was a disrespectful asshole.

Before we slept together, Stanley spent all of his time with me and stopped seeing all of the other women he had been involved with. At the end of that year in the transfer dorm together, we all dispersed. But sure enough, he ended up in a sublet off of Laurel Street and would rap on my window from the front porch, softening his big brown eyes when I pulled back the blinds to see who it could be. One day, Stanley, now sitting by that window at the computer chair and desk my sublet provided, broached a conversation we had never touched upon before, one I always avoided with everyone: acquaintances, bar patrons, friends — whatever Stanley was.

I stopped listening after his initial question. A wood frame painted white housed a run-of-the-mill mattress, neither soft nor hard. Stanley peered into my eyes incredulously, daring me to confirm what I could see him working out in his mind. So I did. And I said it for the first time in nearly 10 years. Maybe ask if I wanted a drink?

Oh, God, I wanted a drink. Hmm, new to the area — no. I heard the words, I understood them, but none of them stuck with me. Your eyes water because everything feels overexposed and lacks detail. And then he kissed me gently and we had sex, on a mattress that could have been hard or soft or just fine. And I understood because, I felt, who would want to be with me?

In the months after I left the hospital, my memory slowly but surely came back to me. I remembered all of this, about how I met Stanley and what our relationship was like before the accident. But I still had some questions. Some missing pieces — like how I could have let any of this happen. How could I tell you what Stanley had done? This conversation with Cassie took place before I fell out of the tree, and it came back to me as I gradually regained my memory.

It happened on Memorial Day Weekend when we all still lived in the transfer dorms, she said. They left before I returned from — where had I been? Drunk somewhere. Like always. Cassie described a beach bonfire. But then she and Stanley had run into the woods to find firewood. She described Stanley slinging his arm around her neck, the same way he did to me. It was when she fell down that things changed.

She described them losing balance and toppling over a log. With him. And I hated myself. Because I had been awake, drunk but awake, when they returned. Everyone else clambered upstairs to continue the party, but Stanley pulled me into his room and into his bed. After what he had done. W hen Cassie told me all of this, Stanley had been studying abroad for months. Neither of us had heard from him in that time. I heard from other mutual friends he had a girlfriend of sorts.

I sighed and tried to keep an even tone. It sounded more like an accusation than a comment; it felt more like an accusation. You need to tell her. Call her right now and make sure you tell her. I n the months following my coma, these memories returned to me in sporadic waves. I remembered, and then I convinced myself I must be misremembering, I must be wrong.

Stanley would storm out whenever I brought up the past, only to return the following day like nothing had happened, which made things even more confusing. A foreboding sensation crept into my gut and my skin became cold and clammy. It was overcast, typical January weather in San Diego, but far from cold.

Before we climbed the tree that night, you were telling me how much you hated him. You had him buy a plane ticket back home in front of you to be sure he was really leaving. He had just moved all of his shit into your room after his lease ended, and you wanted him gone. Stanley and I had been involved, but it was long over, and — as usual — Stanley used me right when I thought I was rid of him.

When he came back from studying abroad, he stayed with me for about a week and insisted I mediate a conversation between him and Cassie. He found his own place, but then when the spring quarter ended and his sublease was up, he moved all his shit into my room; I protested but he insisted. I still have no memory of the night I fell out of the tree, but Cassie told me I had made him buy a plane ticket in front of me to be sure that he would leave.

After concluding our phone call, I remained seated on the ground outside. I felt stupid; I was stupid. Stanley had been convincing me he was doing me a favor, that I needed him. When really, he needed me.

Still paranoid about what had happened with Cassie and his reputation, he had been using me to convince everyone he was a good person. A week after my call with Cassie, I was baking cookies. Remembering the recipe, the measurements, the order I needed to mix the ingredients, exercising my fine-motor skills to mix them — it was all good practice. It was all rehabilitating, my occupational therapist told me. Above the bowl of sugar and butter, my hands held a jar of peanut butter and an overlarge spoon, motionless.

I stopped to look at her, closing one eye to combat the double vision the damage to my occipital lobe had caused. Even knowing this, knowing my life had been disposable to him, I was too weak of a person to make him leave. You have a lot of competition. This obsession with outward aesthetics culminated in him taking me to Calaveras Mountain, a small mountain in east Carlsbad, and bidding me to run to the top.

Taking a knee, I put both hands onto the dirt-covered path and threw up. We were sitting at a Thai restaurant in a strip mall. Across the way, I had briefly worked as a hostess in a restaurant when I was newly 18; they tore it down and built a Red Lobster in its place. Stanley reeled back as if he had just been slapped. His feminine lips parted and his bottom jaw hung open, aghast. Stanley, enraged, knocked over his tea. It had been almost empty. The outrage felt performative; the spill theatrical.

I was beginning to get a headache; I just wished someone would be honest with me — my mom, Stanley, anyone who had been there. Everyone wanted to protect themselves at my expense. But I chose to give it to my parents — the insurance had covered the majority of the medical costs, but my mother had racked up hotel bills staying in San Jose. He knew this — or should have.

Did he ever listen to me? I took the train to work by myself. An eye surgery had corrected my double vision, and I no longer needed to close one eye or wear a patch to see. On paper, I appeared to be a legitimate, functioning adult, and no one asked about my abnormal gait or inability to write by hand.

It all matters. But what happened to me was real. Everything — my whole life — my whole life. You could barely string together a sentence before.

You interrupted me. You yelled at me until I shook. I felt — all at once — I felt pain. You did something very wrong to Cassie. And me — you probably stunted the progress I could have made. Goodbye, Stanley. We were able to see each other in person in , then we talked on the phone in the summer of The hold rape culture has on us all makes it nearly impossible for genuine self-reflection to occur in these types of men.

I go to therapy to discern which parts of my skepticism are warranted and which are pure paranoia. When the Duffy Brothers were deported from the U. S, they hatched a plan to bring Bonnie-and-Clyde-style armed robbery across the pond. Their plan had more holes than a bullet-riddled safe. T he American gangsters entered the British bank at three minutes to closing time on a Friday afternoon.

Three men — two brothers and an accomplice — arrived outside, wearing black masks and gloves, horn-rimmed glasses, and narrow-brimmed trilby hats pulled low over their foreheads. They were armed with two revolvers and an automatic pistol. It was p. Outside, at the Friday meat market, butchers and wholesalers closed up their stalls and rinsed blood from their cleavers.

Inside, at the end of a busy week, bank clerks tallied up receipts and attended to the last straggle of customers, including apron-wearing market workers and a year-old girl.

The brothers were Joe and Tommy Duffy, a pair of self-proclaimed American gangsters. They claimed reputations as violent enforcers and armed robbers — and had the broken noses and gunshot wounds to prove it. Now they were bringing the bullet-spraying American bank robbery to sleepy England, where armed robberies were virtually unknown.

But their gangster credentials were about to be severely tested. They had chosen the wrong bank, in the wrong city, at the wrong time, and there would be terrible consequences. T he Duffy brothers were American gangsters who had been born to Irish parents in Edinburgh, Scotland, two of a family of nine sons.

Joe immigrated in , ending up in Detroit, and Tommy followed across the Atlantic a few months later. Joe was then 20 years old and Tommy — the more rambunctious of the pair — was They may also have tried to become farmers. This was the era of the gangster, the bootlegger, the racketeer. Prohibition and a thirst for illicit alcohol were allowing organized crime groups to flourish. Al Capone was waging war on the streets of Chicago. Arnold Rothstein was building a criminal empire in New York.

Prominent gangsters, pictured on the covers of newspapers in chalk-striped suits and fedoras, became nationally infamous. The hit movie Underworld , starring George Bancroft as gang boss Bull Weed, was the first of a series of gangster pictures that helped turn their protagonists into glamorous antiheroes.

By their own account, it was the ease of obtaining guns that led the Duffys to become gangsters. The brothers became holdup artists, targeting stores and payroll trucks.