Pióro

Moving around Central and Eastern Europe is still a pain in the ass for Canadians. Martha and I are waiting with bated breath for EU accession in May. Hopefully we will be able to come and go through Poland and Czech with the same ease as Germany or France. At the moment, no one really knows what is going to happen with visa requirements in the accession countries, but the adoption of EU travel policies would be a blessing that would allow us to avoid countless headaches.

It would also mean we could go bowling, which is a pretty popular activity around here. Our Polish friends have invited us out countless times for some ten-pin antics and we’ve had to decline. We can look across the Olza river, but we can’t touch. The Poles, Brits and Yanks we know don’t have this problem. As our friend and fellow teacher Aaron says, “There are no fences in an American’s world.” Maybe it’s time Canada invaded somebody.

In December, Martha and I had the pleasure of visiting the Czech consulate. We got up before dawn to catch a bus for Katowice, which is essentially what Hamilton would look like if it was destroyed in a world war and then managed by communists, or at least the latter. All this was in an effort to get a single entry visa to visit Kavita and Mark. It was worth it.

The first visit, or the fill-out-forms visit, was a breeze. We jumped the line of Russians trying to beat impending EU border clampdowns and filled out our documents. The only thing that struck us as a little insane was the level of security within the consulate. A huge Polish bouncer escorted us to a bare white room. There was a tinted window at the far end and lights blazing all around it. Since we were blinded by the lights and greeted with silence, we assumed there wasn’t anyone around. We waited a few seconds before the window surprised us with it’s impatient intercom voice.

“Yes. Can I help you?”

The whole affair took twenty minutes. In one week, everything would be ready. So for one week, the Czech consulate in Katowice was our favourite consulate.

Because of our pleasant initial experience, Martha and I let our guard down. The next week we took a later bus to Katowice and got to consulate an hour later than before. The door to the consulate was locked. The bouncer was letting in people one at time so Martha and I were trapped in the outer courtyard, left to shiver the with Russians.

We waited for hours. We were some of the last people in the queue. We finally got in within the last fifteen minutes of consular hours. When we spoke to the blazing lights, she said we couldn’t get our visas. Visa pick up was done during the first hour of the consulate’s workday. Then the lights went off and the window wouldn’t speak anymore.

This news was no good. It’s a two hour bus ride from Cieszyn to Katowice. Mar and I had balanced our schedules so we could make the trip during the week. Another trip to the consulate would be a colossal waste of time and money. And where did this random pick-up rule come from?

We were escorted to the front door. I pleaded with the bouncer in broken Polish. He pointed me to the intercom by the front door. I buzzed it and asked in Polish if anyone there spoke in English. I was told to wait. I waited a while. I buzzed again. Nothing. Then I buzzed again. Still nothing. One more buzz and then a very angry buzzer asked me, in English, if I understood “wait.”

During this time of reflection, I decided I would resort to a strategy known as The American. We learnt it from a Brit we’d met when we were in St. Petersburg. It was at the visa registration office. He told us before going in that if there was trouble, he’d resort to The American, a posture that involves carrying on in very loud English about the ridiculousness of his situation and why they should do as he demanded. He never told us what his success rate was with this technique, but he wielded it with embarrassing gusto and futility in Petersburg.

When I finally got an audience with the intercom, I’d explained that we weren’t told about visa pick up time. (This was true, but later I noticed it was written in small print on the sign at the front gate. Still, I felt justified.) We were at the consulate ten minutes before the cut-off time (well, maybe one or two minutes), but we had to wait in line (true). That we could not get our visas today was “not acceptable” (a very common phrase used by practitioners of The American.)

Stunningly, The American worked. I picked up the visas a few hours later. I was nearly late for my classes, but visas were in our possession.

Because of all this, Martha and I started preparing for our Ukrainian visas at the beginning of February for our trip this summer. With all the trouble we’ve had with Polish and Czech consulates, we could only anticipate the worst from a country that rates a mere 2.3 on the Transparency International Corruption Perceptions Index (2003). I had phoned the consulate a few times to double-check their requirements and to see if I would get the same story each time. I didn’t let their curt but helpful demeanour throw me. Martha and I hit the Krakow consulate on the first day of our winter break. The lady behind the simple bullet-proof glass looked over our documents carefully and asked us when we planned to visit the Ukraine.

“June and July.”

“Well, then, I can’t give you visas.”

Turns out they can’t issue visas more than a month ahead of your planned entry. So that was that. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t pull out The American as the pressures of time, money, pride or convenience were not at stake. There was nothing we could do.

Maybe there is a such a thing as “too prepared.”