Roberta Goes To Russia

I’m at Sheremetyevo. Contacting the Russian consul representative involved talking into a very anonymous, battered intercom on the wall between the VIP lounge and a kiosk selling books and magazines. A very prosperous-looking man without a tie came down from above (wherever the consulate offices are), asked to see my documents, then took a cell phone call. Being a diplomat, he walked out of my hearing to talk, but he kept the passport in his hand. I was not at ease about it. He told me it would cost $25 for the visa and had to be in cash.

I had, again, given all my Russian money to the guy who drove me here. (It wasn’t much of a tip, as it turned out.) I had earlier had to change a $10 bill I’ve carried with me all this time to pay the storage for my suitcase. I had acquired a 10-euros bill in Frankfurt on the way to Russia, and I had a few US bills stuffed deep into my purse. All told, they just barely made up $25 — except that the $5 that I had carried around for over two months was kind of worn, and the diplomat said his cashier would not accept it.

“But,” I hear you ask, “don’t you still have a credit card? Why not just go to an ATM?” Well, you’d think that, except that my domovoi can go back in time to the middle of July, when First Tech, who originates the VISA card, did something to their VISA accounting and disabled the PIN I know. “You can bring the card in when you get back, and they’ll reprogram it for you,” the First Tech lady told me when I called to enquire. “Meanwhile, any bank that handles VISA will give you a cash advance.” Maybe in the USA, but so far, I’ve encountered only suspicious looks over bank counters here.

So there I stood, my passport and my last cash in the hands of a man who, I realized after he had left, I had never asked for identification.

“Wait here for me, maybe 15 minutes,” he had said. It got to be 15 minutes. It got to be 17 minutes. It got to be 18 minutes. I had no passport and no money, and I was feeling just the slightest tad concerned.

But he reappeared, visa pasted firmly into my passport, good for one day — tomorrow — plus a receipt for my $25.

It’s really going to happen. Thank you, God. And thank you, all God’s friends who have prayed for me over this.

Now all I have to do is pass the next 15 hours in this airport. I can buy food with the credit card, I’ll get my suitcase out of storage before midnight so I won’t owe that guy any more money, and, emboldened by the presence of an exit visa on my temporary passport, I’ll make another run at the bank tellers. And if they won’t give me money, I’ll plug in my MagicJack and call First Tech and get them to restore the PIN I know. Maybe that should be my first act. Except, of course, while it’s 2 p.m. here, it’s 3 a.m. there, and First Tech is likely to be less than responsive.

So maybe instead I’ll just sit here on the hard plastic seat and bask in the warm glow given off by my exit visa.

This entry was posted on Monday, August 10th, 2009 at 1:55 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.