Got It All Turned In

I got a call while I was teaching.  I turned off the phone.  As things wrapped up I noticed that I’d had four calls, all from an unknown number.  My Wechat had been humming as well.  It was the young lady from the Russian visa processing center.  Because I had three passports that the courier service was sending, they insisted on sending such things in three separate letters.  This, would require three times the fee, of course. 

This young lady graciously offered to front the fee for me, as I’d explained to her I was teaching.  This, or I could just pick them up myself tomorrow, instead, in person.  I’d been leaning towards this anyway.  The best the courier service could offer was that it “might” be delivered Friday night.  Might also be Saturday morning.  I had held off getting a ticket regardless. 

This young lady was off the charts in providing customer-service.  I’d ran out of time processing the visa the first time.  I had budgeted two hours before I was to start my class.  I’d gone to the consulate, when I shouldn’t have.  Then I hustled over to this visa processing center.  Handlers in line before me had multiple six-packs of passports, cases of passports.  They were not going to be quick.  Just before my time was up, I was told to head to the line where, uncharacteristically this person had handwritten a large sign saying “Driana.”  No one else had bothered to name themselves. 

I was hopelessly out of time.  My class was beginning in ten minutes.  We talked in Chinese and then switched to English.  I assumed she spoke Russian as well.  When I complimented her on having three languages she corrected me and told me her mother tongue was Kazakh.  Cool. She pointed out about seven things hopelessly wrong with my application that would need to be redone.  This would mean hours of work this evening.  Once the application was printed it couldn’t be edited. 

The next day, when I returned, there were still mistakes.  This application is hard!  But she corrected them and got it all turned in.  Then she asked me to write the address of my residence in Chinese for where the package should be sent.  For me to do so, would take a very long time indeed.  She, who she confirmed had only been studying Chinese for a few years, penned it off quickly.  I was crest fallen and impressed.  Before I left, I gave her my card and told her if she was ever looking for part time project management work, I was always looking for service- oriented people who spoke four languages. 

Thursday 5/31/18

These Buildings Changed Hands

I took my students to the Bund, as part of their Chinese history class.  Beyond the obvious contrast of old and new, beyond the visually arresting waterfront view, I wanted them, in groups, to each find an old Shanghai building, and find out who built it, and when and what had happened to it over the years.  Go inside, if they will let you, and see what you can make of it. 

We all rendezvoused after their primary research out on the esplanade.  They told of Russian buildings and British buildings and Japanese buildings that had been built in the twenties, built in the thirties.  The longest bar in the world, the world’s first elevator, etc.  And I took some time to impress upon this cadre of history students who were studying within a business school environment, that all of these buildings were ultimately expropriated.  For the “owners” they were all tremendous investments, corporate showcases, and testimonies of enduring permanence.  And indeed the buildings are all still here.  But when the Japanese helped themselves to all the region's colonies, in 1941, ownership of these buildings changed hands.  And when the Japanese were defeated they changed hands again, sometimes back to the original owners, sometimes not.  And when the Guomindang fled and the CCP arrived in 1949, the ownership of these buildings, and the flags that flew atop them changed, yet again.  Commerce, ownership, hegemony, always ephemeral. 

And with that, I sent them on their way.  I had a friend I needed to meet with somewhere. “I’m over at the Bank of China” he texted.   Well, where is that?  I only know all the old names for places.  New names too, ephemeral.  “You mean near the old Peace Hotel?”  “Don’t worry, I’ll come to you.” 

I was thirsty.  He’d talked about a nice place for a drink.  I was imagining something remarkably new and hip.  What did he have in mind?  We went instead to a small side street.  And it was a quite but cozy only they didn’t have any drinks.  Only tea.  I guess I’d like something a bit stronger than tea, I suggested. 

And on this street there is the old YWCA, and a small church, that families frequented for decade, after decade.  I gazed over at the iconic building over the bridge that Yankees built to let everyone know they were here.  Right down the road from the Japanese section of town that no longer has anything much to do with Japan.

Wednesday 5/30/18

Pasted Into the Body

My heart sank today.  The gal at the visa processing center told me, very kindly but very firmly that I would need to submit my daughter’s birth certificates along with the visa application if I was to get all processed.  Who keeps birth certificates?  Do we even have such certificates?  I am down in Shanghai.  My wife is up in Beijing.  What box, in what corner of the house, has the birth certificate?  I write my wife.  I call my wife.  I explain to my wife that this is very important.  Time is running out.  Can she please make sure that she prioritize the search for our children’s birth certificates. 

And I could tell that my anxiousness notwithstanding, she had no idea where they were and would search for them, when she was good and ready.  So I searched.  Back, back to the earliest mails in Gmail.  And miraculously, like Sherlock on the scent I found mention of the last time I’d needed to get these docs.  Looks like the U.S. authorities required them the last time we got the passports updated.  Looks like I was on a business trip in San Francisco and secured them from the local authorities. My daughters were both born in that city.  But no attachments.  No docs.  Until they are right in front of me, pasted into the body of an email I’d sent to my wife.  “Don’t worry.  I’ve found them.”

And now I can stop my worrying and continue with simple tedium.  I am back on the web interface of the Russian online visa site.  There are six pages of data entry before me.  Last night I thought I was finished.  I pressed the button that said I was finished so I could print out this document and turn it in.  Today I learned that I must enter the number of the travel agency in the same line as the agency's name.  I also had entered the arrival date on one of the forms, incorrectly. 

There is no way to go back and edit this information.  There is no way cut and paste.  Each discrete piece of information must be entered in anew.  I have three such forms I need to do.  My saving’s grace is that the kind lady at the service center has explained all that is required.  Now I have confidence that my efforts will be successful.  My biggest concern had been the birth certificates.  I’m grateful to be able to release that tension. 

Tuesday 5/29/18

Not Easy to Hustle

I’ve studied on line.  I’ve filled out hours’ and hours’ worth of online forms.  I have contacted an official Russian agency that can issue a travel permit.  I’ve written them eight or nine times because each email back, fosters another question.  Do I use these hotel’s you’ve listed on my application?  What if I have other hotels I intend to stay at?  Do I really need original copies of these forms? 

I have gone ahead and bought flights in and flights out of Russia as instructed.  I have bought traveler's insurance, because this is also required.  Passports?  Check.  Copies of Passports?  Check.  Copies of Chinese visa pages, on and on.  And I am in Shanghai this week and the next, so I have figured out how to process all this in Shanghai.  Go to the consulate, submit the papers, and come back a week later, unless you need to rush things. 

I teach at 1:00PM.  Print out and collect all the papers at my university and by 10:30AM, I’m on my way, in a Di Di, I’ve secured, over the bridge across the Suzhou Creek,  into Hangkou where the Russian Consulate is located. The building is imposing, of course, with two guards out front.  I am sublimely confident as I approach the first and tell him I’m here to submit my visa application.  “Do you have an appointment?”  “Yes.” I said vamping.  “I did so on line.” Which is partly true.  He asks my name.  I am not on the list.  You cannot enter.  Usually you can hustle in China.  But armed consulate guards are not easy to hustle. 

 They give me a number.  It doesn’t answer. They show me a buzzer I can press.  Someone answers, speaks Russian, and hangs up.  All my preparation, and my confidence fades.  A gentleman whom I can only assume was Russian walks out of the consulate, I approach him.  He, bless his soul, treats me like a human and tells the guard to let me in.  They let me in.  I head upstairs to the place where visas are applied for an wait in line. 

After a not insignificant period of time, as I inch closer and closer to my teaching time, the solitary man behind the counter is done with the Chinese guy and done with the Russian woman who has a baby with her and he asks me if I have an appointment.  I reply feebly that I clicked the button on line.  He is closing for lunch.  He recommends I go to the Russian visa processing center.  I’ve heard of this place.  A kind woman shows me a card with the address printed on it.  I see.  OK.  A pyric victory, this, my storming of the consulate. 

Outside I flash the mean guard a cocky look, notwithstanding the fact that he was right.  And find a cab to take me back over to Sichuan Road near the Waitan. 

Monday 5/28/18