Brazil: The Visa

I've been locked into a training session for most of the week, but here's the update on The Road to Brazil: The Paperwork.

Monday morning, I began to prepare myself for the Brazilian consulate. I had everything I needed except the money order - which is only available at a post office - and a photocopy of my brand spanking new récepissé. So I Google mapped the post office that was closest to the consulate and headed for the metro.

The metro during commuter hours is a lot different from the weekend. Instead of chatty teenagers and confused tourists, my fellow passengers were grim professionals in suits, each one silently reading a newspaper. I felt like a real Parisian, taking the train to my very chic job in the city.

At my stop I briskly left the station with the other very busy and important people and followed my map to the post office. Picked up the blank money order, copied my récepissé, and walked back to the Brazilian consulate.

The consulate office is only a basement room with two windows and about fifteen chairs for waiting. I took a ticket and waited only a minute before it was my turn. Already I was liking Brazilian administration better than French.

At the window I turned over my stack of documents and watched as the woman at the desk thumbed through everything. She seemed satisfied enough, and announced that I needed to pay 190 euros. She carefully wrote the number on my money order and sent me away to return to the post office.

Now of course it would have been more efficient to pay the post office when I picked up the money order to begin with, but the Brazilian consulate strongly recommends against doing this because the fees change regularly. So off I went to the post office.

At La Poste, I was politely informed that their machine was broken. I got some vague instructions to where the next post office was, and started hoofing. Twenty minutes and some inquiries later, I found it, stood in line, paid the guy at the desk 190 euros in cash (thank goodness the post office has an ATM in it), and walked out clutching the receipt.

Back to the consulate, where I was immediately sent to the front of the line (blessed Brazilian administration again) and produced the receipt. The woman carefully put everything together, confiscated my passport, and told me to come back in 5 days for my visa.

"Friday night" I confirmed.

"No, Monday night."

Ok, to everyone else in the world, 5 days from Monday morning means Friday night. But not to government administration; the visa would be ready next Monday night. My flight was Sunday night.

"Excuse me," I said, trying not to reveal my panic, "but your internet site claims that all types of visas require 3 days."

"Really?" she asked. "Are you sure?"

"Positive." There was a ray of hope. She got up from her desk and went to consult with someone in another office while I fidgeted in my chair.

She came back and said, "You're right, three days..." Hallelujah! "....but for North Americans it takes five."

"What? WHY?"

Something in French I didn't understand. Something about policy changes.

I sat in shock at the injustice. Why pick on the North Americans? The only answer I could come up with was administrative revenge. Stupid Patriot Act.

Was there any way I could expedite this process? She shook her head no, looked over my head, and beckoned the next number forward. I was being kicked out of her window space.

Dejected, I trudged out of the building and called my boss with the bad news. Then the travel agency to change my flights. Guess I'll be leaving for Brazil on Monday night.

If I get the visa.