I can has visa?

I’ve been trying for some time now to obtain a visa for my impending trip to Taiwan. This has proven most bothersome. I’ve had to travel to New York each time to deal with the Taiwanese Consulate in person.

The first trip I took up there, a Friday, my application was declined. The reason given was that they at the consulate wanted to know more about the curriculum at the university in Taiwan I’d be attending. I didn’t see why that was important, of course, and still don’t, actually, but, not having access to The Big Book Of Important Shit like these people evidently do, I figured it was best to take their word for it and bring back whatever they asked for. My acceptance letters to the program from both my unversity in the U.S. and the university in Taiwan were simply insufficient to convince these people of my intention to attend classes there. OK, super.

So I made a second trip. This was on the following Wednesday, the only day of finals week at my university that I didn’t have an exam. I brought with me my life history on paper. I had e-mails from every party involved in the matter, written confirmation of disbursement of my scholarship, bank statements corroborating a deposit of equal value, acceptance letters, Cheetos, a written statement from my mom saying how awesome I am—there was no way they could turn me down.

The girl helping me through the application process seemed to think the same. Then she slid the whole mass of papers back to me and said, “You also need two photos and you don’t have those.” I slowly touched my finger to the pictures I’d placed on her desk along with everything else. She seemed a little annoyed that she’d have to go through with the application process, but the papers were slid back across the table and the photos picked up.

“These aren’t the right size. We cannot use them and so the application is invalid. You will have to come again.”

I of course proceeded to explain that they were so totally the right size that the International Bureau of Weights and Measures had written me requesting to house one of them in some basement in Paris as the fucking SI standard for passport photo. My argument was less than persuasive.

Fortunately—according to her—I wasn’t to fret, because replacement photos could easily be obtained from a photo store that was just around the corner from the consulate. Not half a block away! I’d shown up at a reasonable time, so it looked like I could go get new photos, then come back and finish the application in plenty of time, same day. Great, right?

It should not have surprised me that the photo place, literally two doors down from the Taiwanese Consulate—a single Starbucks weakly fractured the aura of assocation between the two establishments—was run by Taiwanese people. I waited behind a persnickety woman for a while, before an employee stepped in from the side and asked me what I needed. I said a photo for a Taiwanese visa, and she responded with pleasure, as though it were an exceedingly simple task. She showed me to the photographer in the back.

It should be noted that the nice man taking my picture grinned and gave me a thumbs up as I snapped a pic of this sign with my cell phone.

After snapping a few shots and showing them to me for comparison, so that I could choose the one with least glare on my glasses, the man plugged in his camera and began to crop the photos on a computer. He then printed them out and cut them up, I believe cropping them even further. Whatever. He assured me he was very familiar with the requirements for “next door.” No surprise there.

The friendly old photographer hands me my two freshly cut photographs in an envelope and sends me off to the register up front. When I get there, the helpful cashier with a great New York accent reasonably supposes, “American passport?” I said no, that actually they were for a visa for Taiwan. He yells, “Oh!” and with a single button press on the register, my total flips from $6.00 to $14.50. For two photos. I recalled that I’d paid $9 in Philadelphia for six photos, which I still believed (and still do believe) were the right size.

These new ones I got were indeed exactly the same as my old ones. I only got two with my purchase, though, so I couldn’t take one home to show to friends, as two were required by the application. Bah.

So I pass by the Starbucks and head upstairs at the consulate again. I turn in my photos. The woman is very pleased with me, presumably because of how willingly I gave $14.50 to her cousin or brother or uncle, and says my application is now complete. She fills out a “visa pickup” form, handwrites in 4:00pm, and dismisses me for the time being.

I wander around that section of New York—right next to Bryant Park and the NYPL, for those interested—for a bit, and make it back by 4:00pm on the dot. The woman who helped me earlier that afternoon looks very upset and motions me over hastily to ask what I’m doing here. I point to the time on the paper she’d given me, and she points to the date, which was the day after. Oops.

On my third trip to New York, several days later, I picked up the visa without a single incident. Well, actually, there was one slight issue, but the people in New York assure me it’s not a problem: my visa is good for only 60 days, when my trip will last substantially longer than that.

Oh, well. At least I have something to let me into the country!