visa quest

Lee and I are at JFK now, waiting for the flight that will take us to Amsterdam and then on to Mumbai. It's a sunny, cool day here, and we're munching on some sandwiches. All is well.

All was not so well a few days ago, after it became clear that the Indian consulate had some sort of problem with approving my visa application because I filled in the word "journalist" as my occupation. The consulate, in NYC, had contacted me a couple of days before Xmas to say it needed assurances I was going to India as a tourist, not as a reporter, and I quickly confirmed that. But then nothing.

With time running out, I decided to fly down to NYC Monday morning and go to the consulate to plead my case. If I succeeded, I could join Lee on the trip as we planned. If not, she would go by herself, and join Sarah in Mumbai.

I took an early JetBlue flight, and then used AirTrain and the subways to get to a stop near the consulate, which is situated on E 64th St. next to Central Park. Nice digs. I walked up to the consulate about 15 minutes before it opened, and there was a line of about 50 people standing or sitting outside its doors. I started to wonder not just if I'd get to plead my case, but when I'd even get inside the door.

A security guy for the consulate emerged, and started shooing everyone back from the door and telling them that they were not allowed to carry any item, other than papers, into the building. Security reasons. The ban included the smallest of pocketbooks, handbags, shopping bags, backpacks and in my case, my trusty green satchel that contained a letter I'd written to the consulate general, our itinerary, and other supporting documents.

Nope, the dude said. It can't come inside. And you can't leave it by the door either, he said. To demonstrate that, he took some backpacks and bags and threw them into the street. A car pulled up and ran over some of them. It was about then I noticed a guy across the street with a big black bag, about the size of the one Lee uses to carry her massage chair. It seems the guy was willing to take your banned bag, purse or satchel, put it in his big black bag, and watch it for you while you did your business inside the consulate. I went over to investigate.

"How much," I asked.
"$10," he said.
"Deal," I said, and walked back to my place in the line.

Once inside, there were a variety of lines forming for different purposes. Some people with dual citizenship were there to get ID cards. Others were there for passport issues. The visa window was devoid of activity, but I went up to it anyway. Eventually a woman appeared behind the thick glass. I explained my purpose for being there, and handed her my letter of explanation. She took it like she had been expecting it, told me to sit down and wait, and then disappeared.

She appeared a while later. Good news. I would get the visa if I came back in an hour, but it would be a journalistic work visa, even though I wasn't planning to work in India. Who cares. I was ecstatic. I called Lee, we celebrated over the phone, and I went to get some coffee, after telling the dude with the black bag that I'd be back to get my satchel in a while.

When I returned, I learned that I would need to pay an additional $40 for the visa. I looked at the newly printed visa, and noticed it said it was a tourist visa. I asked her what was going on. She said I had to pay the extra money because I was a journalist. I said I didn't understand. I said I'm just like anyone else going on a vacation, and that even journalists go on holiday.

But I didn't protest too much. It was much more important to me that I had the darn thing. I exited and picked up my satchel. The man with the black bag was pretty busy by now, taking and releasing other peoples' bags. I'd paid him $10 bucks for this service, and I couldn't resist asking him how much he made in a day.

"$300," he said.

I looked at his bag stuffed with other peoples' bags and belongings.

He was having a good day, I thought. A very good day.

The bi
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