I
My life has been dissected, investigated. Were it not for an untrained lackey at the quickee photo studio conveniently located inside a certain discount supermarket, I would have had a reward waiting at the end of a long five month finger-drumming spring.
I refer, of course, to the insanity that applying for a passport has become.
I am not an American. My life in the U.S., therefore, is greatly facilitated by the possession of valid, non-expired paperwork. If the system was not in the greatest crisis known to mankind at this time (because surely they could not foresee the frantic increase in passport demand the recent change in U.S. border policy created), I would not have had to sit and watch my window of opportunity shrink steadily and ultimately close while I waited for a crisp new booklet featuring my scowling face and full biographical details.
My relief was instantaneous when I saw the DHL van pull into my driveway. I ripped open the package in Christmas-morning anticipation, only to see my pile of notarized photocopies and applications butterfly-clipped to my rejection letter.
What? They can reject me?
Supposedly the photo was overexposed. Which means that my skin was too pale (someone should have told them about my natural aristocratic teint that refuses to take on any color other than lobster-red). Also, my notary stapled together what she should not have and failed to staple that which she ought.
At this point, I was sitting without a valid passport. My enquiries to the consulate of my home country provided only the suggestion that I travel back home to rectify the problem in person. This was a big part of the reason for my recent trip.
The first opportunity after my arrival, I ran down to the local passport office a half-hour after opening. There were at least 100 people ahead of me in line. Coming earlier would not have helped, though, as some of the bored applicants had stood in line for an hour before the place opened up. This joint was hotter than Justin Timberlake, it seemed.
An older gentleman in uniform was obviously in charge of crowd control. "No rioting or singing, please" he half joked.
He asked each applicant if they had all their paperwork and photos together. I was surprised by how many people rolled their eyes at their spouse and shuffled back out the door. I smirked, clutching every identifying document I have ever owned, neatly labelled and organized, in my used DHL rejectelope.
I refer, of course, to the insanity that applying for a passport has become.
I am not an American. My life in the U.S., therefore, is greatly facilitated by the possession of valid, non-expired paperwork. If the system was not in the greatest crisis known to mankind at this time (because surely they could not foresee the frantic increase in passport demand the recent change in U.S. border policy created), I would not have had to sit and watch my window of opportunity shrink steadily and ultimately close while I waited for a crisp new booklet featuring my scowling face and full biographical details.
My relief was instantaneous when I saw the DHL van pull into my driveway. I ripped open the package in Christmas-morning anticipation, only to see my pile of notarized photocopies and applications butterfly-clipped to my rejection letter.
What? They can reject me?
Supposedly the photo was overexposed. Which means that my skin was too pale (someone should have told them about my natural aristocratic teint that refuses to take on any color other than lobster-red). Also, my notary stapled together what she should not have and failed to staple that which she ought.
At this point, I was sitting without a valid passport. My enquiries to the consulate of my home country provided only the suggestion that I travel back home to rectify the problem in person. This was a big part of the reason for my recent trip.
The first opportunity after my arrival, I ran down to the local passport office a half-hour after opening. There were at least 100 people ahead of me in line. Coming earlier would not have helped, though, as some of the bored applicants had stood in line for an hour before the place opened up. This joint was hotter than Justin Timberlake, it seemed.
An older gentleman in uniform was obviously in charge of crowd control. "No rioting or singing, please" he half joked.
He asked each applicant if they had all their paperwork and photos together. I was surprised by how many people rolled their eyes at their spouse and shuffled back out the door. I smirked, clutching every identifying document I have ever owned, neatly labelled and organized, in my used DHL rejectelope.
I watched long minutes tick by, I noticed people rushing out frantically to feed expired meters. I sat with ticket #A099 folded in my hand. When the lighted board summoned #A065, the woman sitting beside me leapt up.
"I won!" she shrieked, holding her golden ticket aloft. The snowy-haired bouncer looked over in mild annoyance.
Yesterday I returned. The passport pick-up window had a lineup of one, and I walked out with a shiny new passport. Now all I need to do is get back home...
p.s. Rascal's passport expires next summer. I'll keep you posted.
1 comment:
rejectolope. hahaha...
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