COLUMN: Adventures in bureaucracy at the Romanian Embassy

Any given embassy in Washington, D.C., is the official “soil” of that particular country. So, there I am, repairing the toilet in a very small Romanian bathroom. Actually, I was at 1607 23rd Street in our nation’s capital, but politically I was in Romania, and their 1950’s style toilet wouldn’t flush.

But, let me “flashback” to the beginning. Some months ago, Nicoleta’s passport expired, and a call to her embassy confirmed she could send in all her documents and get it renewed by mail, especially since she already has her green card, a valid visa, and an American husband. But since the rules change every other Tuesday, the most recent call went something like this:

Nicoleta: “But you said I could mail in my documents if I have a green card.”

Bureaucrat: “You’re all Romanians, and I love you all the same.”

Nicoleta: “So, what is that supposed to mean?”

Bureaucrat: “You have to come to Washington in person to apply, but first you have to get your American marriage registered in Romania by sending an apostolated copy of your marriage certificate and a change of name document. You must request these papers from the capital of the state in which you now live. Then you must get an apostolated letter granting your mother power of attorney to represent you in the Romanian court in Arad. Then, you will need to pay both a lawyer’s fee and a translator’s fee to put all documents in Romanian legal language. And you must submit all these before the next full moon. (O.K., so, I added that last part.) Your appointment to see us is Aug. 27.”

Luckily, Nicoleta’s cousin, who’s a cop, was on duty in the Romanian court the day of her mother’s appearance before the judge, so no large bribe was necessary in order to expedite the processing of the documents.

The night of Aug. 26, Nicoleta and I wandered around D.C., trying to find the embassy, and even with a map, we stayed lost for two hours along the unlighted streets surrounding embassy row. At night the flags are down, and the buildings tend not to be identifiable by country. Just as we were about to give up, we made a left turn at the statue of some Venezuelan dude, and accidentally found the Romanian embassy. Squealing in delight, Nicoleta’s enthusiasm caused the front door to open, and a man came out demanding to know what we were doing there.

I have no idea what she said to him in Romanian, but he immediately softened, put down his cigarette, and took pictures of us posing in front of the building.

The next morning, the official who greeted us in the consular office (after we pounded on the locked door for several minutes) was not so cordial. In fact, she was downright ill-tempered with every petitioner who came asking for assistance. Our appointment meant nothing, as she randomly selected who she’d help and who didn’t merit her attention. Walk-ins were just as likely to get help before those who had appointments.

For most folks who came asking for something, the initial answer seemed to be “NO!” So, we sat for hours in a tiny “holding pen” of an office on an ugly brown couch, staring up at the broken clock and the cracked ceiling until Nicoleta was finally called in to submit her application for a new passport.

In the meanwhile, I witnessed one lady throwing a spectacular fit in several languages when her petition was refused. Screaming something about having been to the embassy three times before and denied, she allowed as how she was not going away this time until she got what she came for. Her tantrum did the trick. She received immediate attention and left with whatever it was she wanted.

Another Romanian woman came to get help trying to find her Chinese mother-in-law after some bureaucrat sent her to DALLAS, Texas, instead of DULLES Airport in Washington. Then, there was the Romanian citizen who didn’t speak any Romanian because he grew up in Israel and only spoke Hebrew and a little English.

The annoyed official in charge of this three-ring circus turned to Nicoleta and insisted she fill out the fellow’s application papers since he “never bothered to learn his native language.” Apparently, all her countrymen are, in fact, “loved” the same.

Finally, liking her papers, another official fingerprinted Nicoleta and declared that she would get her passport in two to three months. In the meantime, we wait and hope all those apostolated papers don’t go missing and all the fees and trip expenses become wasted in bureaucratic bungling.

As it has been said, “Any… bureaucracy is indistinguishable from molasses.”  — Anonymous

Amen

Mary Ready of Destin is a twice-retired English teacher and long-time area resident. Her columns are published on Saturdays.