The Barcode and the Bazaar

Diary Entry: August 15, 2024

My American adventure began with a head–on collision with the bureaucratic absurdity of the embassy. Americans approach their visa requirements with an almost religious reverence; their website is holy scripture, and its instructions are dogmas to be executed to the letter. Having navigated this very ritual back in 2016, I possessed a vague recollection of the ceremony, though the finer details had long since faded from memory. Nevertheless, I somehow managed to navigate the application and pay the requisite fee.

Yesterday, on the eve of my interview, I sent my documents to be printed. I recall a fleeting thought crossing my mind — print everything, just in case — but for whatever reason, I brushed it aside, omitting a single document in what would turn out to be a perfect, self–fulfilling prophecy of the chaos to come.

This morning, I arrived at the American embassy, a formidable fortress erected at the entrance to Tbilisi. The scorching August heat was already bearing down, oppressive even at a quarter to nine. Standing just ahead of me in the queue was a famous Georgian actress — the one known for playing that effortlessly cool, aristocratic woman in My Wife’s Girlfriends. A stupid, self–deprecating joke flashed through my mind: – “What, even Mrs. Chika has to stand in the embassy queue?” – It was the sort of dark humor no one would actually laugh at, especially considering Mrs. Chika had recently passed away. Exercising a rare moment of prudence, I held my tongue.

After half an hour of baking in the sun, we were finally herded inside. When my turn arrived, the woman sitting behind the thick pane of bulletproof glass demanded my passport and the document bearing a barcode.

“I don’t have that specific page,” – I told her, my voice suddenly drained of its confidence, – “but I have another one that contains all the necessary information.”

The woman didn’t even bother to look.

“If you don’t have the document, step aside and let the next person pass.”

“Значит, мы с вами уже на ты?”

Those words struck my heart like a bullet. My eyes burned with sudden humiliation. I tried to explain that I hadn’t realized that specific page needed to be printed as well. She replied with icy detachment that the information was clearly stated on the website, and it was my responsibility to have read it. I have never understood what endows bureaucrats with the right to wield such an inquisitorial tone. Yet, perhaps my face — and the naked panic newly imprinted upon it — gave her pause. With a heavy sigh, she informed me that if I managed to print the document and return in time, she would agree to see me again.

I didn’t hesitate for a second. I bolted from the queue and desperately explained my predicament to the security guards. Could they perhaps help me print it? Of course not; their systems were strictly locked down. Instead, they pointed outside toward the sprawling shopping center nearby — a weary gesture that assured me I was far from the first pilgrim to fail this particular test.

Adjacent to the embassy lies a massive shopping complex where one can buy absolutely anything, from high–end electronics to raw construction materials — incidentally, the very same place I had purchased the supplies to build a rather decent table for my home just a few months prior. I sprinted in that direction and burst into the first appliance shop I could find. The young woman working there took pity on me, kindly offering the use of her computer, but Gmail, in its infinite algorithmic wisdom, refused to recognize my credentials. In moments of sheer panic, passwords have a cruel tendency to evaporate from memory. I gave up on that front.

Seeing my despair, she directed me toward the main reception desk. I have no clear recollection of how I managed to forward the file to a new email address, but by some miracle, it worked. The girl at the reception printed the document without a single word of complaint. Ten minutes later, I was sprinting back to the embassy, clutching that single sheet of paper like a holy relic, the flickering hope of commencing my JSD studies still barely alive. Had I missed this interview, the next available slot wouldn’t have been until mid–October — long after the university’s final enrollment deadline had passed.

I took my place in line once more. This time, I soon advanced to the waiting area by the visa officers. I found myself standing behind several individuals who were evidently chasing their own desperate versions of the American dream. They could barely string together a sentence in English, yet the raw hope of securing work as a waiter or a courier was visibly etched into their faces. Or, who knows, perhaps they were planning to offer more intimate services to appease the Americans — like marriage, for instance. I watched helplessly as two of them were summarily dismissed with rejections. I sometimes wonder just how much money Georgians have poured into the American embassy’s treasury over the past thirty years, only to be met with a cold refusal. It would make for a fascinating study to juxtapose that staggering sum against the financial aid we have received in return.

When I finally stepped up to the window, the man sitting behind the glass asked me a single question that changed everything:

“Do you have a scholarship?” – It was a glaring beacon of success.

“Yes,” – I answered. He saw before him a student with guaranteed funding, and ultimately, that was all that mattered. Just like that, the visa was mine.

But, naturally, the ordeal did not end there.

“Your passport photo was rejected,” – he informed me after a brief consultation with a colleague, – “you will need to bring a new one and hand it in to security.”

“A 3x4 photo with a digital copy on a disk?” – I asked timidly. He merely looked at me, anticipating the barrage of follow–up questions lingering on the tip of my tongue, and added in a tone of absolute frost:

– “The requirements are written on the website.”

I nodded in immediate submission. This was a precarious moment where a single extraneous word could have cost me everything. In this room, their power was absolute.

I backed away from the window and rushed back outside in desperate search of a photo studio. The security guards, having seamlessly transitioned into my unofficial advisors, directed me toward Gldani. Near the subway station, they assured me, there was a studio well–versed in the dark art of producing photos acceptable to the embassy. I threw myself into a taxi. The oppressive heat was still suffocating, but I could barely feel it anymore; a pure rush of adrenaline, coupled with the intoxicating realization that I had almost escaped this bureaucratic hell, fueled my every movement.

Before I could even pant out an explanation, the woman working in the studio already knew exactly what I needed. She snapped my picture, printed it on the spot, and sent me on my way. I returned to the embassy for the final time, surrendered the photo to the guards, and obsessively double–checked that it met their arcane specifications. They assured me it did. Finally pacified by the knowledge that the photograph would find its way to the correct department, I walked away.

Exhausted, but finally breathing a deep, unburdened sigh of relief.