The prospect of visiting Paris has been on our minds for a long time, the food, the wine, the ambiance. Kristin’s family permit visa has expired and she has submitted an application for a permanent residence card, so we had to get a renewal on the old visa once in Paris. When we actually arrived on Monday morning Kristin had an appointment to deliver her documents directly to the liaison company for the British Embassy, a great organization by the name of Worldbridge. This is a typical example of when the government tries to outsource a very vital service, that of awarding visa’s and visa information, to a company that will in turn outsource their call centers and “visa specialists” to an even less superior company which will also do the same thing. We thought that all we needed to do was present the pertinent documents, get the stamp, and after an hour or so we’d be sipping on a little Bordeaux and eating raw beef. In reality, we were confronted by the cluster-fuck that is Worldbridge. Imagine going to the DMV, combine that with the emergency room of King-Drew Medical Center at about 12:45 AM on a Saturday, and throw in the niceties of traffic court on any given weekday, this is Worldbridge. Now we had an appointment, all the proper documents, and reassurance from two, yes two, phone calls to Worldbridge at the cost of $14 each (each!) just to speak with a representative and make sure that we would not get stuck in Paris for nine or ten days instead of the planned three. They assured us that we would have priority since Kristin was already in the system and has already submitted her application for a permanent residence card. We also received a letter from the UK Border Agency telling us that if we traveled abroad before Kristin received her residence card (which could take a year or more), all we had to do was pop in to the nearest British Embassy and we would be given “priority.” They made it sound like we were picking up a loaf of bread and a six-pack, not applying for a visa. Needless to say, when we arrived at the Worldbridge building we were pleasantly surprised to find out that the actual application process could take between two and fourteen days. After a brief objection and proclamation of our “priority” status, the woman corrected herself to between two and fourteen working days. This only extended our quick three-day jaunt to Paris by a mere three weeks when you include the Easter Holiday. I proceeded to explain to the woman that we had train tickets for Wednesday evening; it has to be done by then. She just smiled and referred us to the website. I demanded to speak to a manager. When the manager came to the front I briefly explained the situation and she said she would call the Embassy to see what they could do. I looked at Kristin and shook my head as if to say, “see, all they needed was a little push, you should be more assertive in these situations.” The woman then came out and said, “I spoke with the embassy, and there is nothing we can do.” I then told her of our “priority” status again. I even had a trump card, the letter that the UK Border Agency sent us officially proclaiming our “priority” in a situation just like this. I looked at Kristin and said, “show her the letter” as if to say “check mate.” Kristin looked at me and said, “I didn’t bring the letter, it wasn’t on the list of documents that they needed.” The manager then looked at both of us and said in an annoyingly attractive French accent, “well that letter is very important in a situation like this, if we only had the letter.” At this point I realized that there was a very toxic combination in the room; the British bureaucracy of the visa application system, mixed with the French work ethic (not exactly the “go the extra mile” workforce) at one end, and the impatience and arrogance (Italian/American) of yours truly at the other. As my voice rose I proclaimed that we had called Worldbridge at the cost of fourteen US dollars and the “visa specialist” at the other end said that we would be able to get our visa. She said, “oh, well that’s just some call center in Hungary or Turkey or something, they don’t know what they’re talking about.” Now I was screaming, and Kristin was begging me to calm down as I was making matters worse. I yelled, “your company screwed up, so what are you going to do about it?” The reply was not exactly what I was expecting when she said very confidently and calmly, “nothing, I am going to do nothing.” In that sobering response a brief moment of humility overcame me, I was wrong and everyone else was right. That woman was right, the people at the call center in Hungary of Turkey or wherever it was didn’t know what they were talking about, Kristin was right, I was making things worse, and that woman was right again, she was going to do nothing for us. I looked at Kristin and we both accepted our newly bestowed refugee status. That was how our romantic getaway to Paris began.
Here is a link to the pics from Paris: Paris Photos
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