For expats living in Russia, it is a tale as old as time itself. Your visa expires. You take a trip the Ukraine or one of the Baltic States to get a new one. Everything is completed in one day, and you're back in Moscow in time for breakfast the next morning.

But now the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs has added another layer of complexity to this already bureaucratic process, meaning many have found themselves stranded in a third country without the necessary documents to apply for a visa and therefore without means of getting back to Russia. And reader, I was one of them.

The recent shake-up in the laws regarding visas for foreigners has been well reported in recent weeks, following an Oct. 4 government decree. The Moscow News splashed "Tougher Visa Rules" across the front page earlier this month. However, a colleague had made a successful trip to Kiev the previous week, and when The Moscow News called the consulate the day before I was due to go there too, we were told that all applications were being processed as normal.

That soon turned out not to be the case. It was only upon arrival at the consulate in Kiev I was told that, as a British citizen, I would need a 90-day Ukrainian registration before I could begin the application process.

"How do I get this?" I asked a predictably dour consulate employee. "I do not know," came the firm reply. "What do they look like?" I tried again, thinking it might be easier to find this mysterious document if I had any idea what I was looking for. "It varies."

At this point I noticed a young American man next to me having the same conversation with another member of the consulate staff. He was being told that without a registration he would have to wait 10 days for a visa, but if he were to find one the process would take the single day he had expected.  I asked whether the same applied to Brits, but was told that, for us, it was a registration or no visa at all. We were both bluntly informed that these changes had come in several weeks ago, and we really should have known about it by now.

I pointed out that only a few days previously another British Moscow News journalist had received a visa in Kiev without having a Ukrainian registration. "Impossible," I was told.

I was already extremely frustrated, and this flat denial of the truth did not help matters. When I added that nobody had mentioned the new rules over the phone, "impossible" was again the reaction.

I left the consulate with the feeling that my Ukrainian day-trip might turn into more of an enforced mini-break. But my spirit hadn't been broken just yet, and a little research later I found myself in the official Ukrainian registration office. The news I got there was predictable but no less annoying for it: the only way they could give me a 90-day registration would be if I lived in the country for not less than 90-days. As fine a city as Kiev is, there's no way I was giving it three months of my life.

I returned to the consulate in an attempt to do what I knew in my heart would be impossible: to reason with a Russian bureaucrat.

I explained my situation to the consul, but again was told there would be absolutely no way of obtaining a new visa without a registration. "But my parents are in Moscow this week,"

I lied, hoping the idea of this family bond would melt his former-Soviet heart. "We did let a boy in without a registration last week..." the consul began, "...but he was six years old. You are a grown man. Either you must get a registration or you must go back to Britain and apply there." When I explained that I had neither the time nor money to make a return trip to London, he rolled his eyes and told me, "If your parents have enough money to travel to Moscow, they have enough money to send you home. There is a Western Union just down the road."

"These are exactly the same rules as for Russian citizens applying for British visas," he went on, as I fought the urge to grab him by both shoulders and give him a good shaking.

We stood for a moment in silence. "Maybe this will help," he said, handing me a business card for a company called "Visa Deluxe." I stepped outside and called their number, to be told that they could register me - for the bargain price of $350. Having no other option, I agreed and made my way to their office, which operates practically out of the back of the consulate. You may draw your own conclusions from that.  

This was on Friday. The registration - which turned out to be the most expensive stamp my passport's ever had - was with me by the following Monday, and I was finally able to get my visa processed that afternoon.   

As I handed my documents over, the consulate employee with whom I had spoken on my first day gave me this parting shot: "It is hard for us too. It is so much trouble. I hope it will change soon."

Until then, I recommend that you take the expiry of your visa as an excuse for a few days at home. For Brits, this might work out as only a little more expensive than the costs of processing in Ukraine. And it will certainly be a lot less bother.

By Theodore Merz