The Embassy
Last Thursday I went to the French Embassy in New York City to
get a working visa. I assumed the process would be nothing more than filling
out basic information, and maybe getting my passport scanned. You know, like
going to a new doctor. In retrospect, I should have noticed the small signs that abounded whenever I told someone I was going to the French embassy. “Oh…Whew.
Good luck.” Luck? Luck is for the
unmotivated I thought. I’m going to
put on a dress shirt and this is going to be a breeze!
It wasn’t.
First of all, it was raining—which was the first blatant
stab at the bubble of ignorance I’d created for myself. Like a character in a scary movie whose car breaks down by the side of the road, I willfully approached the spooky castle without concern. The visa building was my spooky castle.
The visa building is a tan, Victorian era stone walkup that
looks like its been converted into a white color prison. The windows are covered with bars and a burly security guard meets you at the door. In front of
me in line is a classic Upper East Side family (read: Jewish). The waify mother
and balding father are hurriedly explaining to their daughter the protocol of
applying for her study abroad visa. They act as if she’s entering a POW camp
and her return is uncertain.
Suddenly I become very nervous. Am I actually as prepared as
I thought I was? I can’t contemplate the question long before the
bouncer/security guard whisks me though a metal detector and ushers me up the
steps. “I’m just curious if there’s anything I—" he cuts me off with a wave of
his hand and points up the steps. The rest of the morning is imbued with this
same affected hustle and urgency. It’s as if these government employees had
been trained to create the most hostile environment possible to scare a couple
dozen people away from their work abroad each month. Walking into the waiting room, I try to rebound. I
straighten my posture and summon my most happy-go-lucky attitude. This situation can easily be fixed with
enough palpable optimism (thought no one ever).
The waiting room looks like the inpatient den on a TV psychiatric ward.
People subtlety rock back-and-forth, fingering through old copies of some
magazine simply called “FRANCE.” In turn, the role of Nurse Ratchet is shared
by all of the employees—who, may I add, could not have made it more
clear how little they cared about us. The PA system in the waiting room is on its
last leg, and most proclamations simply sound like a game of German bingo.
Finally I approach a stern, caramel colored Parisian man
with small rectangular glasses. I hand him my paperwork and he immediately asks
why my form doesn’t have a small, passport-eque photo on it. Suddenly, I notice
the glaring hole on the “your photo here” section of my application. I suggest
he can, maybe, photo copy my passport? Word
of advice to anyone who goes through this process: don’t suggest they photo
copy your passport. After getting yelled at for a good 30 seconds I’m told to
go around the corner to Clyde Chemists to get my photo taken. “You have to back
in 15 minutes or you can’t come back.” He adds, “We are very busy.” Challenge accepted motherfucker. My cool,
affable-self, strolls past the rest of the clerks.
After clearing the security guard I sprint around the
corner. “Pictures” I gasp. The lady-greeter points me to the back of the
store. The two women behind the counter of the photo section look like Fran
Drescher’s aunts on The Nanny and
they are reassuringly Jewish with their updos and big, costume jewelry. “So you
need photos? Edith, call Stephen, he needs the practice.” He needs the practice. Those are the last four words you ever want
to hear when putting your faith in a stranger. The situation could only have
been worse if I was going in for back surgery or getting a colonoscopy. Stephen
is an attractive Latin guy who looks like he just woke up from a nap. My
demeanor still says: I’m cool. Take your
time! and I hate myself for it. Stephen pulls out an old school, Polaroid
camera and tells me to stand against the whit backdrop.
“Hmm…It’s out of
batteries. Deborah, where is the battery charger?”
“You’re sure it’s not here?”
“I don’t see anything back here.”
As they rustle behind the desk Edith comes
over to me, “you look stressed. Those people over there can be so mean. Here” she produces a package of Oreos that could easily
be from the 1980’s, “have a cookie.” I’m not really hungry, since my stomach is
in knots, but I accept out of kindness. Seconds later the
camera is working and Stephen prints out my photos but, again, he makes a
puzzled face. “These aren’t the right size.” Stephen you’re killing me here!
Finally I get back and await my
nemesis. He accepts my form and tells me to to return to the waiting room. I think to myself: There’s more?
Maybe they’ll just give me my visa on the spot cause I’m here so early?
Wrong
again.
Next I’m called up by a tiny, terse woman that I can only imagine
emerged directly from Satan’s testicle. No pleasantries at all, she simply
demands a copy of my passport. Which, you guessed it, I don’t have. [Time Out]
I will fully acknowledge, I was unprepared for this visit.
In my defense, they make no attempt at directing you to the relevant material
before your visit and also, this WOMAN HAS THREE COPY MACHINES BEHIND HER AND
YET SHE DEMANDS I GO DOWNSTAIRS AND USE THE PAY-PER-COPY MACHINE.
[Time In] To make matters worse, she tells me to hurry in
making my copies since she can’t help anyone else until I’ve been processed. The
fact that it’s 50 cents a copy assaults all my economic sensibilities but I
ignore that and reach into my wallet only to realize that all I have is a 10
dollar bill. To the security guard: “can you break a 10—.”
“Go upstairs and ask
in the waiting room.” I protest—I don’t like making eye contact with strangers
let alone asking for money. He repeats his advice again and I bound back up
the stairs, into the arms of the she-devil herself. “What’s taking so long?!”
Finally I find a kind young woman who miraculously has
change for a 10. In retrospect, I imagine she was the product of a
stress-hallucination, as I’ve never met anyone in my life that could break
any quantity of money. Back at the
copier, Beelzebub’s spawn has followed me and is now yelling as I furiously
photocopy my passport.
Finally I hand her my documents. With the flourish of her
pen she hands me a piece of paper and disdainfully explains, “Come back in a
week.” Shaken, I exit the consulate, hoping that she chokes on her next
croissant—and praying my visa is accepted.
PS: I’ve now successfully received my visa. I didn’t want to
post this until I had it locked down.
