The Embassy

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.