One of the unique aspects of surviving/living/just-getting-by in the City of 1,000 Billionaires is the quarterly/bi-annual/annual jaunt to some distant port of call where we foreigners stand in line with our money/paperwork/passports for hours just so we can make it back across the Russian border - sometimes even in the Winter. Oh boy! Where can I sign up?
Yes, tracking down that wild Russian visa will award you with a sense of suspense and daring that men from a more romantic age got from the adrenaline rush of jumping out of airplanes (preferably ones that are flying), scaling the side of mountains (preferably towering ones), or hunting horned and heavily hoofed animals on African safari (preferably with lots of cigars, gin and female companionship). How did Ernest Hemingway run with the bulls in Spain, or hunt rhinoceros in Kenya, with all those damn visa deadlines hanging over his head?
First, I must apologize if this particular column does not seem up to snuff. Presently, I am sitting in the business center of some god-forsaken hotel in hostile NATO territory on this, my latest Great Visa Hunt.
I am sure there is a great Indiana Jones sequel here somewhere (Indiana Jones in the Raiders of the Lost Passport; Indiana Jones in the Embassy of Doom; Indiana Jones Stands in the Wrong Line for 3 Hours; Indiana Jones Moves Back Home with Mom and Dad?).
I am so proud of my visas that I have mounted them above the fireplace. When friends pay a visit I relay chilling tales about the cruel bureaucrats and poor accommodations I had to endure to bag that one. They nod upwards with a hint of envy and say, ‘Hmm, nice, very nice indeed.'
Anyways, where was I? Oh yes, sitting in the ‘business center' of my 1.5 star hotel (Yes! We have vacancies, and even some beds, but let's not discuss the pillows, okay?). I am writing this column under heavy surveillance of sorts so I am a bit jittery. There's a group of Baltic delinquents sitting in close proximity to me, desperately waiting for this computer, since it is the only one in the business center that seems to be working at the moment. The teens are beginning to experience nasty withdrawal symptoms from not getting their evening dosage of Super Carnage II, the latest video massacre game - just what the doctor ordered for kids experiencing peer pressure, puberty and Pepsi-Cola. They are starting to shake and toss knives so I will have to speed up before I get one in the back.
Beam me up, Spock, there are hostile life forms down here.
Screw you, Jim. The Vulcans have taken over the Starship and we will rule the galaxy!
Surgeons General Warning: Employment in a Foreign Land Can Have Adverse Affect on Your Mental and Physical Health. Pregnant Women, Children and Individuals Born Under the Sign of Aries Need Not Apply.
Where was I? Oh yes, the visa line. Bureaucracy of any sort, courtesy of any country, gives me the heebie jeebies. I break out in a rash all over my body and start hyperventilating whenever I approach an embassy, those sinister dens of paper pushers and paperclips, staffed by individuals who have no other desire than to make your life as miserable as theirs (Dear Embassy Employees of the World, Forgive me, that was mean, but I just found a big mistake on my visa invitation so tomorrow does not promise to be a fun day for me).
I am certain there is a contest, a Consular Special Olympics of sorts, which is held annually in the black hills of Transylvania between embassies. The Motto: What country can hassle its visitors the worst (Evil laughter, lightning, bloodcurdling screams)...
There is evidence that such a contest exists. Every time one embassy raises its rates, for example, or demands yet another anal probe for its unsuspecting applicants, the other embassy has a childish tit-for-tat reaction, which we helpless workers must pay for - sometimes with our very blood! We will see that scrotum injection and raise you a leprosy test (Oh, I'll bet that one got a lot of laughs!). And then to add insult to injury, they d-d-demand (Look, I'm stuttering I'm so damn upset) that you buy medical insurance before entering their territory, just in case, you know, something goes terribly wrong with the medical examinations. Big oops!
I must stop writing now. Big tears are falling onto my keyboard and I fear electrocution. Must wrap this up and get my beauty sleep. Big day tomorrow. Must be alive to stand in line!
Wish you were here!
By Robert Bridge
