Visa
I've got four days now before I leave. For the last three days I was in Berkeley, staying with my kids and grandchildren, and navigating the streets of San Francisco to get my visa.
It was a pleasant experience. The Indian Consulate is in the section of San Francisco near the ocean, between those two wonderful parks, Golden Gate and the Presidio. We took the car after examining the transit maps and deciding it wasn't worth all the bus and BART changes we'd have to make to get there from North Berkeley, and our route took us along California Street, right up Nob Hill, past Grace Cathedral and the Mark Hopkins and down again. I was relieved to be driving the Prius, which is an automatic. Those were some hill starts. Lisa dropped me off at the consulate and took the car and the boys to the park. We intended to reconnect by cell phone when I was done. If it looked like I could use a companion with better hearing, I would call her back early to help.
The consulate is a small building tucked away in a residential neighborhood, its interior even more humble than its exterior. I walked into a cramped entry. To my left was a waiting room lined with old wooden chairs, A couple of clerks sat behind windows on the left. Some Indian people in traditional dress were seated in the chairs, a few more were speaking with the clerks, and one other American was standing in line. An Indian man in a tidy grey suit was speaking with one of the traditionally dressed Indian men. A lit up sign between the clerks' windows announced, "Now Serving 56."
Realizing I needed a number, I went back into the entry and found a machine like the one at the bakery. I was number 63, so I took out my paperwork and settled into one of the chairs in the waiting room. I can do this, I thought. The lit up sign announcing the numbers made me feel secure enough not to call my daughter. Then I noticed another sign, an ordinary piece of paper attached with a single strip of tape to the wooden divider between the windows. "1. Have all paperwork completed before taking a number. 2. Write your name in block capital letters on the piece of paper given to you by the security guard." What? What security guard? What piece of paper?
I went over and asked the other American if she had written her name in block capital letters on a piece of paper given to her by the security guard. She had not. Just then the man in the grey suit came by and I realized that he was probably the guard. I asked for the piece of paper. Sure enough, he leaned into the clerk's window, tore a 3x5 slip of paper off a pad and handed it to me. I wrote my name on it in block capital letters.
When my number came up, I had my $60 in cash, my name in block capital letters, my passport, and my completed paperwork with two passport photos ready. I pushed them under the plexi-glass shield and the clerk rang up the payment on a old-fashioned cash register. She stamped the slip of paper with a rubber stamp, initialed it, stapled the cash register receipt to it, and gave it back to me. As she did that, she said something to me that sounded very much like "Come back at 2," which surprised me, because I had read the instructions over and over on the website, and I was certain the consulate reopened at 2:30. To be sure, I asked the security guard on my way out. Good thing I did, because 2 was the right time. If I'd come back at 2:30, he explained, I would have had to stand in line again. At 2, you just come in and out with your passport and new visa.
Lisa and the boys and I went to the arboretum and had a nice lunch in the Beach Chalet. At 2 I came back to the consulate, walked in confidently, and found both windows closed. I was standing there looking forlorn, I think, when a man in a turban with a neat beard and a waxed handlebar mustache came by and told me I should be at window number one, around the corner. He showed me where it was. Apparently the clerk had told me about window number one, but I had missed that part entirely. Oh well. As we were walking over, I noticed that the man's beard was actually very, very long. It was parted at the center and twisted round and round till it tucked into his turban!
At window number one, I handed back my receipt and the paper with my name in block capital letters and a clerk pulled my passport out of some wooden cubbyholes and gave it to me. Now I have a nice new visa, and that part of my preparation is complete.
Now to pack.
It was a pleasant experience. The Indian Consulate is in the section of San Francisco near the ocean, between those two wonderful parks, Golden Gate and the Presidio. We took the car after examining the transit maps and deciding it wasn't worth all the bus and BART changes we'd have to make to get there from North Berkeley, and our route took us along California Street, right up Nob Hill, past Grace Cathedral and the Mark Hopkins and down again. I was relieved to be driving the Prius, which is an automatic. Those were some hill starts. Lisa dropped me off at the consulate and took the car and the boys to the park. We intended to reconnect by cell phone when I was done. If it looked like I could use a companion with better hearing, I would call her back early to help.
The consulate is a small building tucked away in a residential neighborhood, its interior even more humble than its exterior. I walked into a cramped entry. To my left was a waiting room lined with old wooden chairs, A couple of clerks sat behind windows on the left. Some Indian people in traditional dress were seated in the chairs, a few more were speaking with the clerks, and one other American was standing in line. An Indian man in a tidy grey suit was speaking with one of the traditionally dressed Indian men. A lit up sign between the clerks' windows announced, "Now Serving 56."
Realizing I needed a number, I went back into the entry and found a machine like the one at the bakery. I was number 63, so I took out my paperwork and settled into one of the chairs in the waiting room. I can do this, I thought. The lit up sign announcing the numbers made me feel secure enough not to call my daughter. Then I noticed another sign, an ordinary piece of paper attached with a single strip of tape to the wooden divider between the windows. "1. Have all paperwork completed before taking a number. 2. Write your name in block capital letters on the piece of paper given to you by the security guard." What? What security guard? What piece of paper?
I went over and asked the other American if she had written her name in block capital letters on a piece of paper given to her by the security guard. She had not. Just then the man in the grey suit came by and I realized that he was probably the guard. I asked for the piece of paper. Sure enough, he leaned into the clerk's window, tore a 3x5 slip of paper off a pad and handed it to me. I wrote my name on it in block capital letters.
When my number came up, I had my $60 in cash, my name in block capital letters, my passport, and my completed paperwork with two passport photos ready. I pushed them under the plexi-glass shield and the clerk rang up the payment on a old-fashioned cash register. She stamped the slip of paper with a rubber stamp, initialed it, stapled the cash register receipt to it, and gave it back to me. As she did that, she said something to me that sounded very much like "Come back at 2," which surprised me, because I had read the instructions over and over on the website, and I was certain the consulate reopened at 2:30. To be sure, I asked the security guard on my way out. Good thing I did, because 2 was the right time. If I'd come back at 2:30, he explained, I would have had to stand in line again. At 2, you just come in and out with your passport and new visa.
Lisa and the boys and I went to the arboretum and had a nice lunch in the Beach Chalet. At 2 I came back to the consulate, walked in confidently, and found both windows closed. I was standing there looking forlorn, I think, when a man in a turban with a neat beard and a waxed handlebar mustache came by and told me I should be at window number one, around the corner. He showed me where it was. Apparently the clerk had told me about window number one, but I had missed that part entirely. Oh well. As we were walking over, I noticed that the man's beard was actually very, very long. It was parted at the center and twisted round and round till it tucked into his turban!
At window number one, I handed back my receipt and the paper with my name in block capital letters and a clerk pulled my passport out of some wooden cubbyholes and gave it to me. Now I have a nice new visa, and that part of my preparation is complete.
Now to pack.
posted by Eve at 10:25 AM
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