Dreary Wednesday's Slipping by

I had the pleasure of going down to the Russian consulate yesterday. One of our attorneys needed a visa to go to Russia on business. Apparently, no one is allowed to just fly into Russia with a passport. Everyone needs a visa. This is just a desperate ploy for an impoverished nation to raise capital in the most petty ways. The "rush visa" (same day) costs £120 for "processing". On a good day, the consulate is clearing £10k. But I guess when your country is the remnant of a bygone era that failed miserably and is overrun by corruption and Mafia, you'll do whatever it takes to generate hard currency. Still, it's a clear disincentive to visit the country (not that it was on the top of my list anyway).

The consulate was exactly what you would expect from a former outpost of the USSR. Shoddy construction in that all too square and boxy Soviet way, security cameras everywhere, black lacquered gates that make you feel like you're going to play skeeball on the Jersey shore, and loud, rude Russians everywhere shouting indecipherable commands. To get in, you push a button at the gate, tell them what you want, and get a one word response repeated in loud, broken English, "push, push, push!" The security gate is one of those tall metal bar turnstyles that maybe exits in the NYC subway, but mostly reminds one of an exit from an amusement park.

Once inside the building, there are no directions of where to go or what to do, which, of course, presents one with a choice: do you ask and risk getting expelled or do you simply gamble? When in doubt, never ask a disagreeable Russian that barely speaks English anything. Fortunately, my gamble paid off and I found the right spot. The visa counter resembles something you'd see inside a prison, an image I'm sure the Soviets desired when they designed the place. There is a red line on the floor in front of the service windows that you are not supposed to cross. Each window is shielded with thick glass and each attendant is one wrong word away from shutting the blind in the most passive-aggressive "f*ck off" that a Russian can manage.

The room was packed with travel agent couriers awaiting tourist visas, most of whom were Russians sporting that "just this side of Mafia" look that I may have mistaken for a combination of abject boredom, extreme fatigue, and the nicotine/caffeine edginess that couriers always seem to possess. My only surprise was that the room was no filled with chain smoke, but, it seems, that even the Russians are modernizing.

There didn't really appear to be a queue, just one older Canadian guy at the window. I waited patiently, behind the red line, while he took his best shot. Apparently, he said the wrong thing. "Next customer! You, move! Move! Move! Next customer!" was shouted in barely decipherable English as the Canadian huffed and puffed about how he had mailed something to someone. Silly child of America Junior. Expecting the Russian bureaucracy to keep track of something like mail. For shame.

As instructed by my co-worker, I smiled congenially at the troll behind the glass. He was the gatekeeper. No visa, no travel, unhappy boss. Less than one minute later, the passport and papers were handed back to me with, "pay, pay" and a point toward the window at the end of the counter. The cashier was a less than active babushka eager to get her grubby little paws on my currency. Nothing like changing pounds into rubles, is there?

After paying, the wait began. All bureaucracies have procedures that exist solely to frustrate those that need something and the consulate was no different. After 45 minutes, I was finally able to reclaim the passport, visa attached. Expecting something official, imagine my surprise when I realized that in the 45 minutes they possessed this passport, they had merely managed to staple the visa card (which was filled out by the first clerk in less than 1 minute) to the passport. It's not like the Russians contain the technology or fortitude to actually run an Interpol search on every visa, which just convinces me that the whole episode was a grand charade.

I finally left and headed back to the office. My excitement for the day was over; I had nothing left to do but enjoy the cab ride through sunny central London. And after such a taxing afternoon, I was forced to space out for an hour before heading home.

Today is a typically dreary Wednesday - the hump day for most workers, but for me, the end of my work week. The sky is shadowed in heavy clouds of gray with a chill breeze just cool enough to make one shiver, but not cool enough to justify a jacket. I wore my sports coat instead. It's a cheap, low end model, but suits me well and if there's one thing about England, it's that they will never question you if you're "dressed up".

I arrived late for work. I couldn't be bothered to get up on time. This week is once again the cycle of up late and up early. As it is, I'm operating on about 6 hours of sleep, which is 3 hours more than yesterday. Not putting anything in my body aside from ostensibly healthy consumables like pizza, ice cream, coffee, and amoxicillin leaves me feeling freshly American for a change. Eliminate the "cancer causing agents" but gorge myself on gluttonous repasts tempered with high level pharmaceuticals.

There was a wait at the shower this morning. That discovery led to a profound string of hallway cursing. I'm not the morning type to begin with, but don't f*ck with my routine. Already being late, I made busy by brushing my teeth and getting my clothes together. Later, I stood tapping my foot awaiting the overly effeminate gay French guy to finish whatever the hell it was that he was doing and move along. A hot shower is the one thing that sets apart "civilized" from "uncivilized" and my day ceases to function without one. When I finally did get in the shower, I lingered under the hot water, scalding my skin, opening my nostrils, and invigorating my brain. Work be damned.

I hate sharing showers.

I'm leaving early today. My international law class was moved from Monday to Wednesday because of the "holiday". I would have preferred it stayed on Monday, but the whiney types in class couldn't imagine a world in which they wouldn't actually have a true "holiday". Not like anyone went anywhere. Instead, we all collectively spent our "holiday" doing schoolwork as exams are less than a week away. Tyranny of the majority, as the GOP likes to say from time to time.

We have a moot court session tonight in class. I'm excited to beat some ass. Real World is on the opposing counsel, which is great because not only is she a complete moron but also she's an unstable moron. Unfortunately, there is no cross-examination session, but at the least I have power worded my case, prepped my team, and we're ready to lay a smackdown. Not that it really matters. It's a pretty useless activity all round, but it should be an enjoyable diversion at the least.

Tomorrow I'm going to finally have coffee with Miss Colombia. I haven't seen her since the immemorable evening at the club a few weeks ago. No matter what she says, I'm going to give her the business. Lovely girl, but obviously in need of personal growth. Not that I have any time to have coffee with her. My paper still isn't finished. In fact, it's adrift in a sea of uncertainty much like W's domestic agenda. I'm confident that I'll be able to put it together by Friday, but it's going to be a painful process. I just have no time for minor inconveniences like sleep.

Tomorrow is also the general election here in the UK. I'm curious about how the TV reports the results. I've seen the US model and I've heard stories about the UK, so it will be an interesting comparison. Someone at work yesterday told me that the BBC has a flimsy cardboard "pendulum" that swings back and forth all night until the results are finally tallied. Sounds exciting.