An American Rogue in Europe: Chapter Two

I was told yesterday that my first shot at blogging after my significant hiatus was too short, I apologize. Today's entry, I'm sure will be more pleasing.

Chapter Two: The Big Easy, the Hard Way

It was Saturday at noon when we finished moving the furniture out of our house. Our crew, Ella, myself, Mom and Dad, Randy (father-in-law extraordinaire), Jena (Lil sis), Kyle (crazy Austin filmmaker), Bear (cousin and talented artist) and Dee (cousin's girl and ice cream entrepreneur) were enjoying lunch at Jena's house (since there were no chairs at ours) when I decided to check on my passport.

I love the United States. I'm a bit of a flag-waver and have been accused of being a little xenophobic, but I have absolutely no love for the Department of State or the application process is absolutely ridiculous.

Roughly ten weeks before my expected travel date I got my small fortune together and travelled to Grambling's Post Office. Grambling is roughly a quarter of the size of Ruston but apparently the residents of Grambling are much more likely to travel internationally since Ruston's Post Office has no passport service but Grambling's does.

I was alone in the Grambling Post Office and remained alone for the entire 25 minutes it took me to finish the application. That did not hinder the clerk from inquiring as to whether I had scheduled an appointment and implying that he shouldn't take my application since I hadn't made one. He finally did take my paperwork, my money and my picture. He did the last very poorly leaving me with a passport photo that makes me look more than a little like a sex offender. The good news is I'll only be using for the next ten years, so no worries. Finally, my application was done, Grambling's finest mailman wished me a good day, and I went home to await my documentation.

Eight weeks later, still no passport. 10 days before my trip, I called the 1-800 number. This is an exercise in patience and perseverance all on its own. A series of messages alerting me to the current workload of the passport office all but made it impossible for me to ever reach an actual operator. After four full cycles through the phone system, I finally made it on hold. A short thirty minutes later, I was actually speaking to a person. She was polite, apologetic, and foreign. I hate to make a snap judgement, but if I was guessing, I'd say that English wasn't even her third language. She found my passport application record in the computer quickly once I gave her my social security number, passport application number, mother's maiden name, address, three personal references, shoe size, and sexual history.

The good news was, my passport was still being processed. My friendly passport agent told me she would "put a rush" on it, no charge to me, and I should receive it either Friday or Saturday morning with several days to spare. I thanked my new foreign friend and said goodbye. Saturday came and still no passport. Again I waded through the answering service quagmire, and this time my passport agent (again foreign) had sadder news. My passport was not on its way. It was, in fact, not ready for delivery. Worst of all, it would not be ready in time for my trip. No manner of expedition, no amount of money would get it to me in time to leave Wednesday. My one hope was to journey to my regional passport office and apply in person. With proof of my impending journey (and barring any outstanding warrants for my arrest) I'd be able to walk away, passport in hand that afternoon. I questioned a system that couldn't finish my passport in time on its own, but with me nearby, urging them on, would be able to whip together a passport in a matter of hours, but eventually I gave in and set up an appointment.

Now for a geography lesson: The little wife and I have made our home for the past three years (and separately for several before that) in North Louisiana. Ruston to be specific. Our flight to Europe was to leave from Dallas, Texas, some four hours west. New Orleans, and my passport lay some five hours to the south of Ruston. For those that are a little slow on the uptake, that is the exact opposite of convenient.

By Sunday evening Ella and I had completely moved out of our house, cleaned it thoroughly (enough) and headed north to my parent's house. We unloaded a few things, visited for a moment and set out for the Crescent City. Leaving a few minutes before midnight, we knew it would be a long trip. Some five and half hours later, we pulled into our future home. The original plan was that we would visit our friend's house before heading to the passport agency, seeing as we didn't really know where the office was, and as we only had two hours until we had been told to arrive, we decided to head downtown.

New Orleans is a beautiful city. Designed long before it was built, and then rebuilt in the image of a long line of Imperial masters, it is both comfortingly predictable and fascinatingly surprising. For the record, the passport office is located on the thirteenth floor of 365 Canal Street, within spitting distance of the Mississippi River, and just across from the all-new Harrah's Casino. We had found the office (after a slight detour through the Shops at Canal Place Mall) and set up second in line after a couple of college students from Northern Arkansas. The four of us commiserated over our struggles with the State Department and I chided myself for worrying so much about our five hour trip when these guys had driven more than seven (we would later meet a guy who had come all the way from Northern Alabama, more than 10 hours, just to pick up his passport and turn around again).

I've never really been in a disaster or tragedy but I've heard that people that find themselves in such situations often end up with an unnatural familiarity and uncommon courtesy towards one another. The passport office wasn't exactly a disaster area. but we were all put out and could have reacted with anger at the clerks and each other. Overwhelmingly that was not the case. I wouldn't call it pleasant, but my fellow prospective travellers made it immensely bearable.

Coming soon -- Chapter Three: The Amsterdam Hustle