Gadling

The next day, I gather all my pertinent documents and walk to the US Embassy, where a crowd of 75 or so Ecuadorians has gathered. I suspect that I’m about to encounter an Iraq War protest or burning American flags, but instead it’s just a bunch of people in line for visas. I cruise right by that line and into the building, probably receiving a number of death glares from those left in my wake.

The woman at the desk helps me after ignoring 15 minutes of my staring at her. When all my papers are finally turned in, another woman appears to verify that I am, in fact, a US citizen.

“Where was your passport issued?” she asks.

I tell her St. Louis, and then she asks me what agency issued it. “New Orleans, I think.” She frowns. There is, she says, no record of my ever being issued a passport, possibly because of Hurricane Katrina. I consider asking if she is fucking kidding me, but worry that saying “fuck” to a government official might give them grounds to arrest me as a terrorist. I offer to answer some US history questions to prove my citizenship, but she suggests I produce a driver’s license instead. I do so, and that is proof enough for her.

She glances at my license, and that, along with my white skin and unaccented English, is presumably enough to grant me a US passport. With such tight security, I really can’t figure out how those planes were ever hijacked, I really can’t. Anyway, I’ll apparently have my passport in a week.

I am told that it will be available on Tuesday, but when I show up they tell me there’s been a problem, and that I need to come back the next day. I return on Wednesday afternoon, lay eyes on the prize (finally!) and see that my new passport expires in less than a month. Apparently, because they had no record of me ever being issued a passport, they don’t want me traveling around outside the US. Which means that this whole process, with American bureacracy in place of Ecuadorian, gets to be repeated in a month’s time. Hurrah!

New passport in hand, I take a taxi back to Immigration to obtain an entry stamp and a 30-day visa extension. As you can guess by now, that ordeal was far from painless– it took four hours. Never lose your passport.

Fast forward two weeks. I am in Quito, attempting to get a document which states on what day I arrived in Ecuador. Don’t ask me why I need this; I just do.

First thing Monday morning, I go to the inconveniently-located Immigration Office. I arrive innocent, like a newborn, unaware of the long waits filled with interminable number-taking and line-standing that I’ll have to endure. Soon enough, the innocent newborn in me is clubbed to death, and I become a soiled, cranky crack baby.

The problems are manifold. The place is crowded so I must wait for hours to be seen. The Immigration Office inexplicably has no record of me ever entering the country; therefore, I must go to the airport to pick up proof of my arrival from the American Airlines office. That single piece of paper costs me thirty dollars, but to be fair, it is on high-quality American Airlines letterhead, and it takes over ninety seconds of someone’s time to produce it.

I return to Immigration, which has now closed for two hours for presumably the world’s longest lunch break. Several Ecuadorians and I elect to pass the time in the lobby by watching some hokey Mexican talk shows. Two hours is a long time to watch puppets interview real people, especially when you don’t understand what the hell anyone is saying (though perhaps that was for the best). My contemplation of suicide is interrupted by my number finally being called. Ten minutes later, I have everything I need, and I walk out the door at 3:30, after first arriving at 9:00.

[Tomorrow, part 4.]

I need to file a police report concerning my passport that I lost recently in Quito, Ecuador, so Monday, I go to the police station, or rather, to where I think the police station is. I try out my best Spanish on the first person I see: “Hola, yo perdí mi pasaporte.” The man reacts as if I’d just told him I lost an eyeball instead of a passport– confusion, followed by offers of not-really-helpful help.

I am directed Upstairs to the police station, which directs me back Downstairs. Downstairs tells me to go back Upstairs. Finally, I explain to Upstairs that I am a lost puppy in search of a home, and they let me wait in their office until the Chief of the Lost Passports Division gets back from solving his later caper, or, more likely, lunch.

The Chief, a man of sixty-five whose picture is in the dictionary next to the word “grizzled,” invites me into his office, where he fires up his trusty typewriter. He feeds the paper in, asks me for some ID, and upon seeing my name, he frowns hard.

“Or-rin Oat-fail…” he says, pronouncing my name the way it probably sounds when someone says it underwater.

“Aaron,” I offer.

“Si, si. Orrin.”

“Si, es correcto.” Is this really necessary?

He punches my name into the typewriter– clack… clack… clack– with slow, methodical keystrokes. Each clack of the keyboard is followed by his triumphant pronouncement of the preceding letter. The song goes something like this:
CLACK! “A.”
CLACK! “A.”
Rest-two-three-four.
CLACK! “R.” And so on, with the rest of the letters, The Chief pronouncing each one carefully like he was in the finals of a spelling bee. Soon enough, I have my much-coveted police report.

[Tomorrow, part 3.]