I GOT MY RUSSIAN VISA!!! (The Epic Retelling)

November 6th--The title of this post kind of kills the drama, but I'm too happy and relieved to care.

I got up around 8:00 so I could have breakfast with Dina before heading out for the day, and indeed for good from Paris--I had planned to go north to Lille that night.

I arrived at the consulate at 10:00 with a spring in my step, a spring that quickly deflated when I saw the line outside. It was kind of like a packed club, with a one out, one in policy. The line was in fact just to get through the security before the actual visa processing. I stood, relatively calm, and reflected on the process.

I had been naive to assume that an American passport would be good everywhere, and probably arrogant in the way that makes so many other countries dislike us. But also, my assumption came from the relative freedom of travel in Europe; and while Russia is technically Europe until the Ural Mountains, the process of visa application showed it to be very different than the other countries I would be traveling to. My naivete also meant that I would have to do all the application on the road, which greatly increased the difficulty level.

The first step is to determine an itinerary. If you try to enter or leave on any other date than the ones you specify, you can be arrested or summarily deported. Fun.

Then you have to arrange visa support with either a travel agency or a hotel, or both. For me, this meant contacting the St. Petersburg International Hostel and paying 55 dollars for the first night's stay and visa support. They faxed the form to my friend Angela who then had to email it to me as I had moved on to France. I printed the form out at a cyber cafe in Paris and prayed, because I wasn't even sure I could get a visa while traveling.

Keep in mind that all of this is merely to visit the country, not to live or work. The process is the same no matter the duration of the trip, 5 days in my case. I had already bought my plane flights from Munich to St. Petersburg and from Moscow to Athens because I couldn't afford to watch the prices rise anymore.

So as I stood in line at the embassy, I had already paid more than $500 going out on a limb. At this point it was an issue of pride. I had thought about this so much and talked it up to so many people that there was no way I wasn't doing everything I could to get this visa.

The line turned out to only last about 20 minutes, and then I was inside to stand in another line. I knew I still had to fill out the actual visa application, but I wanted to make sure that I had everything I needed. I got up to the counter a little bit before 11:00, sweating a little at the large amount of people in the building, something I hadn't really expected (there's that arrogance again).

A harassed-looking middle aged woman heard my story and handed me the form I needed, then looked at my confirmation voucher. A shadow crossed her face.

(In French)

Grand Arbiter of Fate: No, this won't work.

Our Desperate, Determined Hero: ...uh?

GAF: This isn't right, it needs to come from Russia.

ODDH: But it came from Russia--it was faxed to my friend in England, I was in England, and,

uh...

GAF: No, it needs a Russian number. This is a French number (pointing).

ODDH: (bile rising in throat) Well, but, yes, I printed it in Paris, but it's real, it came from Russia.

GAF: (frowning) You need to get them to send a fax. You have a fax machine?

ODDH: But it is a fax, it was faxed to England and then sent to me.

GAF: Do you have a fax machine?

ODDH: No.

GAF: Are you staying at a hotel?

ODDH: No, with my cousin. Well, really, my third cousin--the daughter of my grandmother's--

GAF: Does she have a fax machine?

ODDH: (in head) NO! GOOD GOD, NO! WHO HAS A FAX MACHINE ANYMORE!? SHOULD THEY ALSO SEND A RECORDING OF THE VOUCHER ON AN 8 TRACK TAPE? PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, DON'T SAY THE WORD FAX AGAIN!

ODDH: (out loud) No.

GAF: (frowning) Then you will have to make them send it by mail.

ODDH: I'm traveling, though, and I don't have time--

GAF: (frowning, tilting head)

ODDH: (not daring to speak when the GAF frowns)

GAF: OK, fill out this form and come back. This will work.

ODDH: ...?

GAF: (expectant stare, pushing form through window)

ODDH: (before she can change her mind) Thank you!

Then it was off to fill out the form, with questions like,

"Have you ever been involved in an armed conflict, either as a member of the military service or as a victim? If Yes, please explain." Yes, as a victim, here at this embassy.

"Do you have any specialized skills, training or experience related to fire arms and explosives or to nuclear, biological or chemical activities? If Yes, please explain." No. If I did, this embassy would look very different.

"Have you ever been deported from Russia?" Ask me again in a month.

Then I had to glue a passport photo to the form and go stand in line again. The trouble was, it was already 11:30, and the form was asking me things like, "Name, address and fax (low growl in my throat) of last two places you worked, dates of employment" and then giving me about six boxes to fill all the stuff in.

My savior walked by in the form of the laid back Russian they had helping people in line--no badge, no uniform, just long hair and a smile. I don't even know if he worked there. I asked him about the questions.

"No, it's no problem, just fill in what you can, it doesn't matter"

Ar?

The contradictions of the bureaucracy were making my head spin.

Note: Lest anyone think I'm making fun of Russians here, from what I've heard it's just as bad if not worse to get an American visa. But it's easier to make fun of Russians, because they have the accent, you know?

I was five people back in line, armed with what I needed and confident now. And then the GAF disappeared. She literally got up from her desk and didn't come back to the window for 20 minutes, at 11:50.

By then I had thought up imaginative ways of dismembering everyone in line in front of me, but it started moving more quickly. The GAF would listen, pronounce judgement, frown, shake her head, and move on. All the same, time marched on, and it was 12:15. I felt sure they would close down before I got to the window. I began formulating plans to stay another night in Paris and/or create a hostage situation, but then I was suddenly in front of the window.

I held my breath, not daring to move, as the GAF looked through my crazily jammed application. Then she opened my passport, took out her stamp, and slammed it down with all the force of, well, a middle-aged woman. It was music to my ears.

Normal processing time was a week for 40 Euros, but I clearly couldn't wait that long, so I paid (gulp) 120 Euros for same-day processing. It was worth it to be finally through all the uncertainty and worry. I paid in cash, bounced out of the building, and took this picture:

I have rarely been so happy. I actually pumped my fist and danced around a little bit on the sidewalk, which no one seemed to notice, presumably because I fit in with the rest of the Paris crazies.

The whole trip seems to be leading up to Russia, from the guy in Chicago O'Hare with the tracksuit to several random occurences along the way, like a huge Russian section in a bookstore with mainly English language literature. But this next thing topped them all.

As I got of one metro to transfer to another right after leaving the embassy, I came up on a huge Russian folk-group playing for money. I kid you not.

The rest of the day in Paris was a blur. I sat in a cyber cafe, worked on catching up on the blog, and ate a cheese sandwich in front of Notre Dame. I was leaving for Lille at 7:30 (arriving 8:30), and I could pick up my passport starting at 3:00. At 5:00 I strolled in, winked and waved to the random helper man--he smiled back and nodded like he knew it was all because of him--and picked up my passport.

An easy train ride later, I was in Lille, met by fellow counselors Caroline and Valentin, who brought me to Valentin's apartment and then out to dinner at a restaurant in downtown Lille. We then moved to a bar with 200 types of beer. I tried some different Belgian varieties (Belgium is a half an hour away by car) and went to bed content and happy.

And the trip moves on...

P.S.--This is what they actually put in your passport. It's a very valuable sticker.

I spent about 10 minutes trying to pronounce my translated name. From now on, I am Vhofedic.

Kraqgton Skott Vhofedic.