(no subject)
I've just spent many wonderful hours here. Next time my Russian passport expires, I don't think I'm gonna bother. If any other government worked like these people, it would be out of business by lunchtime. (Incidentally, I barely finished by lunchtime.)
I had to fill out a form asking for my name. Then I had to fill out another form asking for my name. Then I had to fill out another form asking for my name. Then I had to fill out another form asking for my name. Then I had to show them my birth certificate, which, strange as it may sound, states my name.
They also wanted to know the details of my non-existent wife. And those of my non-existent children. And the names and addresses of every place I've worked (or studied) at for the last ten years. And how much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood. And the air velocity of an unladen swallow.
Then I had to pay them for reading my name six times. This is the most difficult part of the whole exercise. For you see, the consulate is built to withstand even the mightiest outburst of rage of a man who cannot remember the address of that place he worked at eight years ago. So all you see inside is a heavy door and a counter with really thick glass. You have to push a button on a little speaker to talk to the man behind the glass. It helps if you know Russian, because he certainly doesn't know English. Then he will eject a little box from the wall, you will put the money (cash, they don't accept credit cards or cheques) in that box and put it back in the wall. After presumably scooping the money out, he will sit and look at you from behind 15 centimetres of glass. Eventually, in about ten minutes, he will decide to write a receipt which he will put in the box from which you can take it. Now you can leave with the proud knowledge that you are a citizen of the biggest country in the world.
I had to fill out a form asking for my name. Then I had to fill out another form asking for my name. Then I had to fill out another form asking for my name. Then I had to fill out another form asking for my name. Then I had to show them my birth certificate, which, strange as it may sound, states my name.
They also wanted to know the details of my non-existent wife. And those of my non-existent children. And the names and addresses of every place I've worked (or studied) at for the last ten years. And how much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood. And the air velocity of an unladen swallow.
Then I had to pay them for reading my name six times. This is the most difficult part of the whole exercise. For you see, the consulate is built to withstand even the mightiest outburst of rage of a man who cannot remember the address of that place he worked at eight years ago. So all you see inside is a heavy door and a counter with really thick glass. You have to push a button on a little speaker to talk to the man behind the glass. It helps if you know Russian, because he certainly doesn't know English. Then he will eject a little box from the wall, you will put the money (cash, they don't accept credit cards or cheques) in that box and put it back in the wall. After presumably scooping the money out, he will sit and look at you from behind 15 centimetres of glass. Eventually, in about ten minutes, he will decide to write a receipt which he will put in the box from which you can take it. Now you can leave with the proud knowledge that you are a citizen of the biggest country in the world.