From Brussels with Love
BRUSSELS: in the early hours this morning, Monique and I make it down a leafy street that ends in a most exotic cul-de-sac - the Cuban Embassy is on the right, the Russian Consulate is on the left. Trees everywhere hide the fact that we are in the capital of Europe. I’m pretty sure I saw James Bond lurking behind a tree.
We have a plan to go to St. Petersburg in ten days, so my destination is to the left, where I join the queue of people waiting to get their visas to Russia. The consulate doors open in an hour, but there are already 25 people waiting. That doesn’t seem like such a lot, right? Or is this what a bread line looks like? Maybe the fact that the consulate only issues visas on Monday-Wednesday-Friday, from 9h30 to 12h30 has something to do with it.
The queue is outside the consulate sidewalk. Every once in awhile, the big wooden consulate door opens and a gatekeeper lets one person in. Or one person out. Sometimes both.
There are 2 lines in fact. Mine is for first time arrivals starting the process. The other, parallel, on the same sidewalk, is of folks who had already stood on line, entered, done whatever one does behind the big wooden door, and received a magic green ticket that means they can come back a week later and actually claim their visa. The separator between the 2 lines is a half empty can of white paint and a tray with dry paint and roller. The half-painted facade of the Consulate explains this, sort of.
11h45: My line hasn’t moved very much. For the first few hours, only green tickets are going in. A woman comes out and tells us all, with a semblance of apology, that the consulate doors will close in 45 minutes. There are anguished moans everywhere. The guy in front of me tells me this is his second attempt at a visa. Two days earlier he had waited 4 hours, only to arrive at the Door with 2 persons before him when the Russian workday ended. Having already booked his flights and hotel (for most tourists, these are pre-requirements for obtaining the visa in the first place), he was in no position to change his plans. So he was back for another go.
12h05: Things seem to be speeding up. Slightly.
12h15: A young man comes up to the front of the line and pleads to the first 15 or so (at this point there are 40 or 50 people behind me and it is clear that most of them, myself included, will not be getting a visa today), telling us that he just received word that his father was critically ill in St. Petersburg, and that if he misses the visa he will not see his father alive. He asks if someone will let him cut in front. Of course, we all do. He’s the next in.
12h25: There are still 4 people in front of me. I am certain that I’m not going to Russia, that this is too much to ask of anyone, that I will not come back for a second go.
12h35: We’re at the head of the line. I’m thinking of the son who will see his father in a Russian hospital while I stay home. I’m glad for him, but crying my own rage inside. The Door opens. The gatekeeper gestures.
I’m in.
