Day before yesterday, Liz and I motored on over to the Indian Consulate to get our visas. In the car on the way over, I formed a specific intent to park in the lot near my bank's row of shiny ATMs, withdraw the visa fees, cross the street to the consulate and drop off said monies and paperwork.
I was so certain that the errand would take just a few minutes, I thought our business could be transacted in less than 32 minutes. That's what I was hoping for, anyway. I only had a quarter and a nickel for the meter.
As it turned out, the universe had other plans. After we pulled into our parking space, I noticed that the signals in the intersection were out, and DPT crews were directing vehicles. A glance indicated that my bank was dark, the parking lot largely empty.
An ample woman who was goose-pimply in her tank top frowned at us when we got out of our car.
"Power's out! They just locked up the Wells Fargo and left, just now!" She squinted down Geary Boulevard, looking generally peeved. "My boyfriend just left me here and drove down to the peninsula, and now I don't know what I'm going to do.
He's at the racetrack. Everything's closed, even the Office Depot or whatever 'cross the street!"
Without being judgemental, I tried to speculate about what she might need from Office Depot.
Liz and I thanked her for the information and hotfooted it across to the consulate, a nondescript building on a residential block near my favorite sushi place.
A security guard directed us to take a number, and herded us out of the service area where the workers were, and into a cramped waiting room where folks in saris, Dockers, turbans and bindis sat glumly watching their children, reading their newspaper, playing with their cell phones. The place was in disrepair, and signs apologized, noting the ongoing renovation.
"I'm going out to get cash," said I, handing Liz my numbered ticket. The consulate wouldn't take checks or credit cards, and we cut it close to their morning closing time when we left the house. If I didn't return before they broke for lunch with our visa fees in hand, we'd have to come back the next day and do it all over again.
Couldn't have that. Liz went over her visa application and sorted her regulation photos. We may have been tardy, but we were hella organized. I'd plotted the house/FedEx Kinko's/consulate route with the help of Google Maps.
I left, walking quickly down Geary, hopeful that the blackout only extended a few blocks. My new Keen sport sandals were a source of great comfort as I hustled down the street, stopping at three! markets that lacked cash dispensers before finding a Cala Foods a few blocks away that showed signs of life.
I withdrew $60 from the machine, then I realized that I couldn't recall whether the $60 was per person, or whether each visa was only $30. I called Liz on her cell, which of course, was out of audio range in the noisy waiting area.
Hoping for the best, I walked back to the consulate, finding that most of the stores along the way were dark, save the farmer's market, which was still doing a bustling business. I stopped in for a moment to see that how clerks weighed produce with a dial scale, and rounded purchases up or down to make simple change in the register.
Back at the consulate, I joined Liz and caught my breath as she reminded me patiently that the visa fee was, indeed, $60 per person. I did my best impression of a person with a stiff upper lip and hustled back out, got more cash, and returned.
Liz had intelligently traded our numbers to others in the waiting room to keep our places in the queue. My number came up and I stepped up to present my forms and passport. The consulate worker, a woman in her forties, looked me up and down. I'd taken off my hat and sunglasses in an effort to mainstream myself.
"You're a writer? Are you going to India to write?" I couldn't tell if she was incredulous or or suspicious.
"I write, but i'm not going to India as a journalist, or to write about it. I mean, no one's paying me -- I'll just have a blog." Silence. "Sorry, a journal on the Internet that my friends can read. We'll add text and photos, and --"
"You'll have to fill out a waiver!" She pushed away from the counter and moved about opening binders and shifting stacks to find the appropriate form. After a bit of conversation with a colleague, she returned with a sixth-generation photocopy of a form which said something to the effect, "I promise not to practice my profession as a writer during my visit to India."
I barely had time to read it, and she took it back as soon as it was signed. She gave me a receipt, letting me know we were to come back to Window 1 at 4 p.m. to retreive our visas.
I thanked her, stepped out of line and waited for Liz by the door. We walked back to the car. The whole time, I craned my neck, stood on tiptoe and squinted to see if we'd gotten a ticket before we got there, as if I could wish it away. We'd definitely exceeded our alotted 32 minutes, but I was hoping DPT was occupied with making sure traffic rules weren't replaced by Darwinstic shenanigans that would call out the KRON News Copter.
My contortions proved successful -- there was no ticket on the car when we arrived. Liz suggested sushi, and I couldn't think of a reason to disagree. I moved the car to a 2-hour zone around the corner, and we enjoyed some quiet time at Nagano Sushi.
I was warming my hands on a mug of green tea when it occurred to me that the Indian government takes me more seriously as a writer than I do. I was enjoying a tempura roll when it occurred to me that I had successfully navigated an unexpected blackout, a lack of funds, and a temporary separation from my travel partner. Our lack of communication caused some stress, but it all had a beginning, middle and end, so we were quite satisfied with ourselves and the nigiri.
"Also," said Liz, swirling her salmon in soy and wasabi, "we now know to always get twice as much cash as we think we might need."
It's all a matter of degrees, I'm starting to see. The "unforseen circumstances" of traffic tie-ups, power outages and unreliable ATMs are things we'll need to be prepared for while travelling. At some point, our luck's bound to run out, and we'll just be at the mercy of happenstance, or whichever middle manager can book us standby, get us a last seating in a busy restaurant, etc.
Luckily, she's charming and motivated, and I can be somewhat persistent when I set my mind to things.
We went back later, stood in line for a half hour, and got our passports back, the visas installed. They're very festive-looking.
Posted by Walter at May 28, 2005 12:54 AM