For a little over 6 years I have lived in primarily Russian neighborhoods. You'd think I'd be used to the Russian way of doing things, but it still catches me by surprise on occasion. Like, the whole waiting in line thing? Doesn't happen. I usually find myself in line all alone, while everyone else is in sort of a rugby scrum.
So when I showed up at the Russian consulate yesterday and saw a teeming mass of people in front of a locked door, I didn't turn and leave. I made sure I was in the right place and then I waited. A woman insisted that I squeeze past everyone and go right to the door; everyone knew I was there for a visa, so I should go right up. (Wonder how they could tell?) So I muscled my way to the door and waited.
One man leaned on the buzzer to get the security guard's attention. After about 10 minutes the door opened and the mass of people began squeezing toward the door. I made sure to catch the guard's eye, knowing I'd be waved in. And I was. In a gruff voice he yelled "Visa! Over there!" And people moved aside to let me in.
In the small room set aside for visas, there was a big sign in Russian and English asking for quiet so the workers could do their jobs. And yet, the workers were making the most noise. One man was having a problem and the other workers were shouting their opinions from across the room. Two women were having a loud conversation behind the counter, while I waited for someone to help me. Finally a third woman waved me to her counter.
"What kind of person are you?" she shouted. That had me stumped. Not the yelling part; I've learned long ago that just because a Russian is yelling at you doesn't mean you're in trouble. But I pondered that question for a moment; what kind of person am I?
"Are you American?!?" she yelled.
Oh, okay. I get it. She gave me the correct forms and instructions, and I left. Well, I tried to leave: the entrance was locked and the security guard was gone. A few of us stood there waiting to be released. I asked the man next to me if it was always like this (the section for Russian nationals was packed); he laughed and said "oh, yes."
After about 10 minutes the security guard reappeared; it seems he'd been herding people through the other section. He unlocked the door, said something in to me Russian. I didn't catch what, because I was preparing to muscle my way past the people waiting to stream in. But I thanked him. In Russian. Got to start somewhere.
Doofstoyevsky will have a similar experience at the American embassy in Moscow. It seems I can't get a passport for Cheb without his consent; there's a whole set of rules to prevent international child abduction. So he has to get a notarized letter. We'll see how that works out.
The farkakta cotton cardigan is done. Finally. Seams and all. I thought the hood was going to kill me; it went on forever. I need to do the neckband on the Kersti pullover and then I'll have a photo shoot.
I'm trying to decide on knitting projects to take with me. I have to take the Peace Fleece. Come on- I have to. I think I'm going to bring the Must Have cardigan; with others there to distract Cheb, I'll be able to focus on the cables. For the plane, I'm going to try to bring socks. According to the airline's website needles aren't banned. We'll see about that.
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