You went to Boston yesterday for a meeting at the Austrian consulate. It felt like a blessing because the gingerbread boy will be off to German camp this weekend for a month, and his birth certificate with apostille has not arrived yet. Rather than pull him out of camp to visit with the consulate once the apostille does come, the consul lets you bring in the rest of the paperwork with the gingerbread boy immediately, but won’t date it until the official meeting on July 1st when you and the gingerbread man do your paperwork.
The build up to leave is comical. Papers printed in triplicates (just in case). German phrases checked and double checked. A race down 95 to find get to Boston before all the parking is gone.
But then, there you all are. It’s beautifully sunny and you have 30 minutes to kill. You decide to walk to the gingerbread man’s office, but you have a thought. Why not get the visa photos taken of you and the GBM? Surely there’s a drug store around that is able to do so.
And, indeed there is. It’s right across the street from the consulate. Serendipity. You go in, ask for passport photos, and are directed to an older gentleman who seems to come directly out of a Pixar film. He takes great pride in his work and tells the GBM that his shirt is too pale, and looks at you in horror at your white tee shirt under a white cardigan. He says that it might not be accepted against the white background.
You look at the gingerbread boy and his lime-green tee-shirt. Minutes later, the gingerbread boy is hiding in the alcove by the elevator wearing your white sweater with scalloped edge detailing, and you are wearing a lime-green tee-shirt.
“It’ll only be a minute,” you say, confidently.
But then you see the Pixar man holding an old-style digital camera telling the GBM not to smile. He takes one photo.H
Then he takes another photo.
Then an Asian man walks through his perfectly framed set-up.
The Pixar man rolls his eyes and clucks his tongue and sets up yet another shot. Slowly.
Minutes are passing and your extra half-hour before meeting the consul is quickly dwindling, not to mention the gingerbread boy is hiding in a corner, mortified, while more and more people pass his way.
Finally the fourth picture is taken, and Pixar man gestures to me. He puts me in position, then tells me to take a baby step forward, then to remove my necklace. No smiling. He holds up the camera.
How long does it take to press a camera button four times? Apparently, much longer than you think when a passport photo virtuoso is at work.
It’s now 10:22. Eight minutes to adjust the background, print the photos, pay, and get across the street. What seemed like a good idea is now seeming like a very, very, very bad idea.
The GBM follows Pixar man to the printing station, while you run to the gingerbread boy. He practically rips off the sweater and dives into his tee-shirt. You’ve lost the GBM and wait by the front of the store until you catch sight of him. He hands you forms to fill out, because the consul might want all the paperwork, sans the missing apostilles.
The form is, of course, in German. There are many things you can say in German thanks to Duolingo. You can say, “My name is Hans.” You can say “The milk is hot.” Or even, “My father has a sister. She is my aunt.” But the finer intricacies of Austrian bureaucracy is lost on you. You give up.
It’s 10:29. The gingerbread boy suggests that you get to the consulate. You tell them to go, that you’ll wait for the photos and check out.
Again, you forget that you’re dealing with the passport photo virtuoso.
He snips the photos carefully, lining them up with exactness. Then he loads each photo individually into little paper folders. You want to scream. You want to grab the photos from his hands and make a run for it. You offer to place the photos into the folders, but he declines your help. He is a virtuoso, after all.
He rings you up, finally, and you give him cash, then run. But then you run back, because you need the receipt.
And the consul? Broken elevator, five floors up, and then five minutes for two signatures.
The build up to leave is comical. Papers printed in triplicates (just in case). German phrases checked and double checked. A race down 95 to find get to Boston before all the parking is gone.
But then, there you all are. It’s beautifully sunny and you have 30 minutes to kill. You decide to walk to the gingerbread man’s office, but you have a thought. Why not get the visa photos taken of you and the GBM? Surely there’s a drug store around that is able to do so.
And, indeed there is. It’s right across the street from the consulate. Serendipity. You go in, ask for passport photos, and are directed to an older gentleman who seems to come directly out of a Pixar film. He takes great pride in his work and tells the GBM that his shirt is too pale, and looks at you in horror at your white tee shirt under a white cardigan. He says that it might not be accepted against the white background.
You look at the gingerbread boy and his lime-green tee-shirt. Minutes later, the gingerbread boy is hiding in the alcove by the elevator wearing your white sweater with scalloped edge detailing, and you are wearing a lime-green tee-shirt.
“It’ll only be a minute,” you say, confidently.
But then you see the Pixar man holding an old-style digital camera telling the GBM not to smile. He takes one photo.H
Then he takes another photo.
Then an Asian man walks through his perfectly framed set-up.
The Pixar man rolls his eyes and clucks his tongue and sets up yet another shot. Slowly.
Minutes are passing and your extra half-hour before meeting the consul is quickly dwindling, not to mention the gingerbread boy is hiding in a corner, mortified, while more and more people pass his way.
Finally the fourth picture is taken, and Pixar man gestures to me. He puts me in position, then tells me to take a baby step forward, then to remove my necklace. No smiling. He holds up the camera.
How long does it take to press a camera button four times? Apparently, much longer than you think when a passport photo virtuoso is at work.
It’s now 10:22. Eight minutes to adjust the background, print the photos, pay, and get across the street. What seemed like a good idea is now seeming like a very, very, very bad idea.
The GBM follows Pixar man to the printing station, while you run to the gingerbread boy. He practically rips off the sweater and dives into his tee-shirt. You’ve lost the GBM and wait by the front of the store until you catch sight of him. He hands you forms to fill out, because the consul might want all the paperwork, sans the missing apostilles.
The form is, of course, in German. There are many things you can say in German thanks to Duolingo. You can say, “My name is Hans.” You can say “The milk is hot.” Or even, “My father has a sister. She is my aunt.” But the finer intricacies of Austrian bureaucracy is lost on you. You give up.
It’s 10:29. The gingerbread boy suggests that you get to the consulate. You tell them to go, that you’ll wait for the photos and check out.
Again, you forget that you’re dealing with the passport photo virtuoso.
He snips the photos carefully, lining them up with exactness. Then he loads each photo individually into little paper folders. You want to scream. You want to grab the photos from his hands and make a run for it. You offer to place the photos into the folders, but he declines your help. He is a virtuoso, after all.
He rings you up, finally, and you give him cash, then run. But then you run back, because you need the receipt.
And the consul? Broken elevator, five floors up, and then five minutes for two signatures.
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