Being Diplomatic

Those of you who read my blog regularly (and I have no idea why anyone would, it has often been observed that I obviously don't - but I digress) may recall a few weeks back when I discussed the ill-mannered child I came across on a canal tour of Amsterdam. (See: Travelogue Amsterdam: Part V - Sunday) I really was harsh on this kid. I mean, really! Making a spectacle of himself and giving American children everywhere a bad name.

I suppose I owe the kid an apology this morning. But I am getting ahead of myself.

I left the office a couple hours early yesterday because my passport was running seriously low on visa pages. (I guess I have been doing more travel than I had thought.) doing a bit of research, I discovered that I could head into the US Embassy and get pages added. So off I went.

I guess I have been here long enough that I didn't really give navigating my way to Grosvenor Square is no big deal. You take the South West Rail train into Waterloo station and catch the Jubilee Line tube to Bond Street. Then it is just a 400 meter walk to the embassy.

Arriving at the embassy shortly before it closed, I went through security and was relieved of my mobile, camera, seven flash memory cards, and two flash card readers. I then made my way to the passport and visa office. I think they were trying to make me feel homesick for Florida. The fist thing that I noticed was how hot it was in the room. The second thing that I noticed was that the room was full of screaming, boisterous children. There must have been ten or twenty of them. (But they were making noise enough for a hundred.)

I decided at that moment to be diplomatic no matter what happened. It seemed only right, as I was in an embassy. So no matter what, I was going to ignore the reenactment of Lord of the Flies that was going on around me. Let's see how long that resolve lasted.

I made my way, as directed to window number one and handed-over my paperwork and passport. I was issued ticket number 93. Not before I was hit in the back of the head by a small flying toy. I turned and glared at the child who had thrown it. I retuned my attention to the woman who had been dealing with my request when we had been interrupted.

"It takes a few minutes. I do need you to give me an address here in the UK for our records." She said passing the form back to me. It was for this reason that the next toy missed me as it went crashing into the Perspex of Window number one. "I'm sorry." Said the woman behind the counter.

At a time like this, I think back to the lessons my parents taught me when I was young. You can deal with your problem children in two basic ways. The first (the one I call the Jeanne Bergquist method) is to grab them (or have your husband do it) and forcibly sit them down and make them behave - swatting them occasionally for emphasis. The other is to hide, hope and pray that nobody saw you come into the room with the wild creature that you spawned and plot to leave them behind in a bus or train station somewhere. The progenitors of these wild beasts must have opted for the later.

"Not a problem." I said cheerfully. "Unless these are your brats!"

The gentleman behind me in queue said something harsh to the kid who hit him with yet another thrown toy. But I didn't hear it. I was making my way to take a seat in the waiting area. I tried to concentrate on some paperwork I had brought with me, but after the next toy hit me and a couple more hit the woman next to me, I gave up.

The woman, on the other hand, didn't. She took the toy that hit her and kept it. When the kid who had thrown it came to ask for it (with a definitely British accent, much to my relief) she told the kid off and sent him away without it. She did tell the kid that he could have it back if he brought his parents back to ask for it. I looked at her and gave her the golf clap to show my approval for how she handled it.

As I sat there, staring blankly at my files, unable to concentrate, I decided that my initial image of the embassy had been wrong. They weren't trying to make me homesick for Florida, but for Colorado. What with this pack of wild Indians milling about, it reminded me of the old west.

I received my altered passport back and left the embassy just after five. The whole process took slightly more than an hour. I came away secure in the knowledge that MOST of those brats had been with their families trying to get visas for visits to the US... so at least they weren't Americans!

I hope wherever you are today, you have a peaceful day, free of projectiles!

Don Bergquist - 05 April 2007 - Thames Ditton, Surrey, UK