I got to the consulate at 9:37 this morning, seven minutes after they opened. I thought that was pretty good, considering I'd had to stop off at the post office to get a money order for the visa before I arrived.
According to the internet, they give out twenty visas a day. At 9:45, when the queue in front of me had cleared, I was handed a ticket for lucky number 14. Fifteen minutes open, and they were already up to 14! Good thing I didn't get here any later.
So I sat down, opened the iPad, and set about killing time. I drew graph ideas and sent them to my group. Well, by "sent" I mean they are sitting in my outbox, waiting for wifi connection. I wrote a casual recruiting letter to a former colleague, forwarded our Christmas flight itinerary to our mothers, and made a little quilt idea drawing.
10:45 Visa 04
I stood up, and marched out of the waiting room, through the lobby, and onto the street. This is going to take all miserable day. I had imagined being in and out within an hour and having a coffee at a Parisian street cafe before hopping on the metro. At this rate I would be having a late or missed lunch, and not have enough afternoon left to get back to the office. Which is normally a good thing, but I am completely overloaded these days, and an unexpected full day out of the office would set me back. This derailment is not at all welcome.
I turned and started striding down the sidewalk. *grumble grumble* Where's a Starbucks when you need one? You know, if this were London I would have come across at least two by now.
I was just eyeing a boulangerie, wondering if I could pacify myself with a croissant, when there it was, perched on the next corner, lit by rays of sunlight and choirs of angels singing: STARBUCKS.
And empty! Surely this is heaven, and these unusually helpful baristas are angels. Ah...back to reality when it took five Parisian baristas a good five minutes to prepare a simple caramel macciato, but I'm still smiling. Wi-fi also costs extra, which I've never seen in a Starbucks before, but I didn't have the confidence to stray that long from the consulate anyway.
I really should have though, because when I walked back in, victory coffee in hand, they were still on 04. No matter, I have WHIPPED CREAM. I settled back into my seat, enjoying every sip of caffeinated caramel. It was gone too soon (I knew I should have sprung for the grande), but the memory still lingers.
11:15 Visa 05
I start to document this day, fully aware that my seat neighbors have nothing better to do than read what I am writing. I sent a text message to my team asking them to take over some stuff for me today because surely I will be here for the rest of my life. I'm pretty sure the Asian girl next to me chuckled as I hit send. Well, now we've confirmed that this one speaks English.
Then the girl next to me motions something to another girl a few seats away - I had noticed them striking up a conversation earlier - and stood up. The other girl leaned across the empty seat and asked me in plain American English, "Where is the Starbucks?"
11:40 Visa 06
I have dutifully volunteered to send a text to Amy and her new friend when visa 010 comes up. Dammit, why didn't I find the guy with visa ticket 015 to send me a text so I could go with them? Maybe I'll message them and tell them to bring me back some take out sushi.
1:50 Visa 010
Amy and Yuka, as it turns out her name is, come back by visa 08 and plop down next to me. We start the kind of friendship that only an administration waiting room can kindle. Where are you from, who do you work for, where are you going in Brazil, etc.
Yuka is an engineer with an oil company and will be visiting friends in Brazil. She used to work on rigs, including the now famous Deep Horizon. I am duly impressed - what little I know about life on a rig is gleaned from Armeggedon, and for a petite, pretty Japanese girl I guess it wasn't easy.
Amy is some kind of purchasing executive for Louis Vuitton. I literally laugh out loud when she mentions Louis Vuitton, because we regularly joke about working for the famous company in our office.
And for good reason, because this girl has landed from an entirely different planet than the one Yuka and I live on. She's based out of the New York office, but working here just for a year as an expat. I didn't dare ask for general details about her expat package, but she did dish about the perks of her job. A clothing allowance, a "leather goods" allowance, 70% off the employee store - which is in some top secret location here in Paris - two handbags a year...there are some women who dream of owning a single Louis Vuitton handbag in their lives, and this girl goes through a minimum of two a year.
Amy both disgusted and enthralled me with the stories of her glamorous life. Yuka and I alternately shot curious questions at her and wowed at the responses. Until now I thought girls like this only existed in chick-lit novels.
Anyway, Amy was on her way to Brazil to check out Sao Paulo for her next potential expat assignment. And that I was definitely not envious of.
2:30 Visa 014!
Amy's ticket came up first, and she excitedly flounced to the ticket window, oversized Louis Vuitton bag in tow. Twenty five minutes later she returned with her claim ticket for next week and bid us a relieved farewell. Yuka's trip to the window was also successful, hindered only a few minutes by the confusion of her being an American born Japanese. For Brazilian administration it definitely pays to have a non-American passport, and Yuka had brandished her Japanese documents with a vengeance.
Feeling a little bit left behind, I waited through one more appointment before my number was called. I slid into the chair at the window and tried to look as sweet as possible as I pushed my documents forward. Look how organized I am! I made color copies just for you! Remember that tall American girl with the overpriced handbag a few tickets back? I speak French better than she does! Don't you want to give me a visa?
Not impressed, the woman on the other side of the desk asked me if I was going for work. I confirmed. She scanned my application, poked at a computer keyboard, and said no, I was not authorized to work in Brazil. I opened my mouth in indignant shock (what did that Louis Vuitton chick have that I didn't? I quadruple checked the list of required documents just this morning) as she peered over my head to the others in waiting room. Then she had a thought, and glanced down at my papers again.
"Oh. You want a business visa. Not a work visa." Oui, I confirmed. She huffed, like I'd purposely mislead her, despite the fact that the top of my visa application was emblazoned with the words "Visa Affaires". She continued to peck at her computer, and twenty minutes later I scurrying away from the Brazilian consulate as fast as my legs could carry me, visa receipt on hand.
On my way to the metro I used the latest addition to my mobile phonebook to text an invitation to Yuka for sushi before our pick up appointments the following week. She enthusiastically agreed in response.
How about that - a visa and new friend in the same day. Turns out that queuing all day might actually be worth something.
Location:Consulate de Brésil Paris
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