It's hard to overstate how paranoid I've become about this. I got to the point last night where at two in the morning I went through every bit of paper again and then slept on the containing folder. JUST IN CASE.
With an appointment scheduled for the embassy's opening time of 8, I naturally leave nothing to chance and get up three hours early to catch my bus, for the half hour journey to Marble Arch. By the time I arrived (well before 7) there was a queue of about 40 people. I curse myself for my own tardiness and join the end of the line. Clearly some of them had been here a while, despite the very clear instructions for people not to turn up too early. Idiots.
Probably in a fit of pique at the uncomprehending English, the security guards commits a grievous breach of social etiquette and moves the head, and direction, of the queue. Like Jesus with a badge, his officiousness causes the first to be last, and the last first. The early first fail to pay enough attention, and the crowd reforms around them. The curiously English feeling of unfairness begins to tell; one woman is very obviously realising that she has lost her rightful position, and tries, unsuccessfully, to negotiate:
"This woman was in front of you" she says to the people who have moved to the front, pointing at the woman behind her. Clearly this is preamble. What she really means is "I was in front of you" but that level of directness would be impolite. Better to masquerade her dissatisfaction as altruism. The people in front ignore her, unmoved in any way by the increasingly frantic protests. The security guard who caused all the fuss turns and goes back inside.
Stretching across the front of the vast Embassy, watched over by a grotesque monument to Reagan, the queue resettles and grows as more people join it. Fronted by one of those frequent green spaces that London seems to be full of, the building is, by comparison to it's surroundings at least, squat and ugly. A giant gilded bird rests over the front awning. Presumably it's intended to be an eagle. It looks more like an especially ugly crane. A pigeon lands on its head, defecates and flies on.
This is probably not the way immigrants are supposed to remember the process of assimilation into the US. But too few of those entering America have described watching errant birds pooping on the symbols of freedom, independence and liberty. The shit spangled banner.
The doors open, a staff member rolls out two enormous cupboards. The queue is divided, then divided again. I am in the initial group, about 12th in line. I show my first set of documents. My photocopies are in black and white. Nobody else's are. I start to sweat straight through my shirt. Documents are taken, checked, handed back.
I begin to worry that my iPad won't get through the security sweep. Laptops aren't allowed in, but no mention was made of tablets. I have convinced myself that I am about to be sent away for bringing contraband items, and start working out where I can drop off my bag to get back for my interview without it. My name is called. I remove my belt, watch, shoes. The guard asks to look in my bag, and pulls out my iPad case.
My iPad gets through. I talk too much to the man next to me in the queue. He tries to look interested in his own paperwork. I take the hint.
The VISA interview process is two steps; the first inspects all my paperwork, the second involves an interview about my relationship with Jalyss, I have been assiduously prepping for the second. I learnt her Birthday. I know her middle name. I have the story of how we met down to a fine art.
The first part comes quickly. I'm second to be called, it's 8:05. I give fingerprints and hand over my file.
"So, you're engaged" the clerk says. It's an in! I start my pre-planned speech about how we met. "Congratulations" he interrupts, "passport?"
He takes the papers I've been conserving for the last few weeks. My paranoia has paid off, and everything is mercifully, thankfully, wonderfully present. He accepts it and sends me away to wait again. This was the bit I was worrying about and it's already over.
The seating area, sparsely peopled when I left, is now full. The heat has risen considerably, and two industrial fans have been set up. I position myself on a near empty row. A man immediately comes and sits next to me. It's a breach of that other unspoken English rule about personal space, that nobody should ever sit beside you if there's another space available.
The day before I got profoundly uncomfortable when, on an otherwise empty train, a man came and sat across the aisle from me, which, in fairness to me, is a pretty odd thing to do, and shouldn't really be allowed, Today I don't begrudge anyone their seat, even if it isn't typical. "Look at me" I think. "Personal space doesn't bother me and I keep trying to start conversations with people. The process is working. I am becoming an American!"
The numbers that were previously being announced are now simply flashed on a screen. It makes it harder to read when you have to look up regularly to check you haven't been called for. The book I'm reading, a collection of Charlie Brooker's columns called 'I
Can Make You Hate' seems an inopportune choice in the context, and I avoid showing the cover or spine to anyone who may be registering my choice of reading material and making judgement calls about my suitability to get a VISA, especially once I start silently laughing to myself. The conjoined seats shudder, and my new friend get up and goes to sit elsewhere.
I 902 flashes up, and I hastily stuff the book in my bag and struggle to get all the evidence of my relationship out whilst I scurry to the window. I had expected a private room, a guy in a slightly too large suit to offer me a coffee, and a smoke. My cop film expectations are not met. A woman asks me to repeat the process of scanning fingerprints, to prove my identity. In front of her she has 4 forms with my photo on. If I'm not me, I'm a pretty good match.
She leafs through the file in front of her, looks at me, and back to the file. She asks me to talk about Jalyss. This is the only question in the interview, I try to say as much as possible without coming across as desperately lonely. I keep an eye out for signs she's trying to get out of the conversation. She doesn't seem to be listening, so I stop,
"I'm going to approve your application" she says. I haven't yet got the evidence I prepared out. Photos, call record, receipts, letters and print outs I'd spent the last few days collating and obsessively filing. A curator's egg of my relationship with Jalyss sits in a folder my bag at my feet. "You can go now"
"Errr. Is that it?" I ask. I think she may have made a mistake. Where's my interview? "Jalyss' middle name is Jarynn. They're made up" I tell her. I sound like an irritatingly precocious 6 year old announcing she's completed her flute recital. I want to punch myself in the kidneys. I learnt this stuff, and I'm going to get it out there, "Jalyss is a conductor; but not a musical conductor - or an electrical one!" When I practiced that line in my head I paused for effect, and to allow time for them to laugh,
"Yep. You can go now" she says, "go celebrate."
My 'interview' has lasted just over a minute and spanned the length of one question. I am strangely disappointed at how anti-climatic it was, my preparation seems unnecessary. It's hard not to feel cheated. I'm not sure why. I close my half opened bag and leave the way I came in. Nobody stops me.
The queue outside is still growing, like a bureaucratic game of Snake. The pigeon has returned to rest on the eagle.
I have up to 10 days to wait for my VISA and passport to be returned to me. 12 days until I'm hoping to fly, and 24 until the wedding.
I'm not nervous about going yet, although I'm sure I will be soon. But for now I'm just grateful I don't have to worry about those bloody documents any more.
