The Barcode and the Bazaar

Diary Entry: August 15, 2024

My journey to America began by confronting the bureaucratic absurdity of the embassy. Americans take their visa requirements with an almost religious seriousness. The embassy’s website is a sacred text; its guidelines are commandments to be followed to the letter. Having gone through this ritual back in 2016, I had a vague memory of the ceremony, but the fine print had long since faded. Still, I managed to file the application, pay the fee, and begin my preparations. Sometimes I wonder how much money Georgians have poured into the U.S. Embassy’s coffers over the last thirty years, only to be rejected. It would be a worthy research project to compare that sum to the financial aid we’ve received in return.

Yesterday, the day before the appointment, I sent my documents to be printed. I remember a fleeting thought — print everything, just in case — but for some reason, I dismissed it, leaving one document unsaved. A perfect piece of foreshadowing.

This morning, I arrived at the U.S. Embassy, a fortress at the entrance of Tbilisi. It was a blistering August day, and even at 8:45 a.m., I could feel sweat trickling down my back. Standing in front of me in the queue was a famous Georgian actress — the one who played that cool, aristocratic woman in Girlfriends of My Wife. A stupid, self-deprecating joke formed in my mind: Even she has to stand in this line? It was the kind of joke no one would laugh at, so I wisely kept it to myself.

After thirty minutes, we were finally herded inside. When my turn came, the woman behind the thick glass asked for my passport and the document with the barcode.

“I don’t have that specific page,” I said, my voice betraying a confidence I didn’t feel. “But I have another one with all the necessary information.”

She didn’t even glance at it. “If you don’t have the document, step aside and let the next person come.”

The words hit me with physical force. Heat flared behind my eyes. I told her I didn’t know that page had to be printed. She replied flatly that the information was on the website and I should have read it. I’ve never understood what inspires this inquisitorial tone in bureaucrats. It’s a visa application, not a criminal hearing. After all, if I don’t get the visa, I just don’t get it — my life goes on. It’s hardly a crime against the state. Perhaps it was the look on my face — the sheer panic — that made her pause. She sighed. If I could print the document and return in time, she would still see me.

I didn’t hesitate. I fled the queue and explained the situation to the security guards. Could they possibly help me print it? Of course not; their computers were locked down. But they pointed me outside toward the nearby shopping center, a gesture that told me I was not the first pilgrim to fail this test.

Next to the embassy is a massive retail complex that sells everything from electronics to construction materials — in fact, I’d bought the supplies there to build a decent table for my house a few months ago. I ran toward it and burst into the first appliance shop. A young woman working there graciously let me use her computer, but Gmail, in its infinite wisdom, refused to recognize my login. In moments of pure panic, passwords evaporate from memory. I gave up.

She directed me to the front desk. I don’t recall how I managed to get the file into a new email, but somehow I did. The girl at the desk printed it without a word. Ten minutes later, I was back at the embassy, clutching the paper like a holy relic, my hopes of starting my JSD studies still flickering. If I missed this appointment, the next wasn’t until mid-October, long past the deadline to enroll.

I stood in line again, behind a few people who looked like they were chasing their own version of the American dream. They spoke little English, their faces etched with the hope of finding work as drivers or laborers. Or perhaps they provide their services to please Americans in some other way, such as by marrying them. I watched, helpless, as two of them were rejected.

When I finally stepped forward, the man behind the glass asked a single question that changed everything: “Do you have a scholarship?” It was a clear signal. I said yes. He saw I was a student with secured funding, and that was all that mattered. Just like that, I had the visa.

But, of course, it wasn’t over.

“Your passport photo was rejected,” he said. “You’ll need to submit a new one through security.” He saw my next question forming. “The requirements are on the website,” he added, his voice cold and final.

I accepted it immediately. This was a moment where another word could cost me everything. The power dynamic was absolute.

I left the queue and went back outside to find a photo studio. The security guards, now my unofficial guides, told me to head toward the Gldani district. Near the subway station, they said, was a photo studio that basically specialized in embassy-approved photos. I got in a taxi. The heat was still oppressive, but I barely felt it, buoyed by a wave of adrenaline and the weary triumph of having nearly survived.

The woman at the studio knew exactly what I needed before I even finished explaining. She took the picture, printed it, and sent me on my way. I returned to the embassy one last time and handed the photo to the security staff, double-checking that it met the requirements. They assured me it did.

Confident the photo would find its way to the right department, I finally left for good.

Exhausted. But relieved.