Yesterday I had to go to the Turkish Embassy here in Stockholm, since I am visiting Turkey next week and the authorities find it hilarious and essential for Americans (i.e. persona non grata) to obtain a visa in order to actually leave the airport in Turkey.

I went there Wednesday morning, and had quite an adventure.

Now, the embassies are all in a beaultiful part of Stockholm that is very old, extremely stately, and terribly posh. The houses are, more often than not, former turn of the century manors. Oh, to be a diplomat. Fabulous houses and the ability to park anywhere you damn well choose without getting your car towed (is it only me, or does anyone else think of the fat South African guy in 'Lethal Weapon 2' screaming "Diplomatic Immunity!" and holding up his badge whenever they think of diplomats?)

Anyway, I manage to find a parking spot between the Turkish Embassy and the American Embassy. The American Embassy here in Sweden is a massive, horrible, concrete block. It's the kind of thing you would expect in Mother Russia thirty years ago. There is some pretty unfriendly looking razor wire strung upon every visible surface, concrete blocks around the whole perimeter, and armed Marines walking around looking like 12-year-olds on a caffeine kick. In other words, a pretty scary place with "Made for TV Movie" written all over it. Weirdly enough, the Finnish Embassy is equally as formidable and taunting, and Finland is just over the puddle. Maybe the 4 million Finns that there are in this world are so sick of taking Sweden's shit (historically speaking) that they build a massive structure just to thumb their nose. You may think I am kidding, but the Swedes are still pissed of at Denmark for an event that happened about 800 years ago or so, when the Danish king invited all the Swedish nobles to a three-day party and then wound up executing them all. A betrayed woman with PMS has nothing on a grudge match like the Scandinavians, man. Just GET OVER IT already, people!).

Anyway, I show up at the embassy promptly at 8:00, and ring the doorbell. A few times. Only to discover to my horror that I am not actually at the Turkish Embassy, but actually at the Ambassador's Residence. I figure this is going to count against me. I traipse down the road and find the Embassy, and ring the doorbell at the huge wrought iron gates. Again. And again. Finally, the gate clicks open, and I walk in through the courtyard and up to the building. The door opens to present a man looking uncannily like the guy in "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom". You know, the weird creepy guy who brainwashes the child king. In a film that never should have been made, and only gets recalled in memory as the film in which the future Mrs. Spielberg is running around and screaming a lot. Anyway, Temple of Doom guy tells me in a pretty hostile voice to come back tomorrow between two and four pm. I enquire as to the cost of said visa, and this sends him over the edge. I have affronted him somehow. He yells at me repeatedly and agitatedly to wait on the other side of the gate and he will let me know. I feel a bit affronted-I am dressed in a sundress and ponytail, and I think Holly Hobbie is more threatening looking that I am, but there you have it. I head to the gate, only to find I am locked in the courtyard. The Indiana Jones guy is going to be apoplectic when he finds this out. I debate shimmying over the fence, but realize I am within eyesight of the patrolling U.S. Marines, and they may feel the need for target practice ("Wabbit season! Duck season! Wabbit season!"). I squish myself as tightly as possible against the fence, and hope they will forgive me. Maybe I should stick one leg through the gate to illustrate my willingness to comply to them. Points, and all that.

So yesterday I bunk off work just after lunch and head to the embassy again. I park in the same place and head to the embassy. I ring the bell, and it is apparent the embassy workers are coming back to work now from lunch. A man at the gate (this time FAR friendlier) approaches me, and asks what I need. I tell him I need a visa. And-this is where it gets interesting-he then asks me if I am an Iraqi citizen.

Huh. If only I had a nickel for everytime I had been asked that! I have been confused as being from any variety of places, and have heard it all. But I have never before been asked if I was from Iraq.

I am instructed to wait in another courtyard with a whole queue of people. They lock us in the courtyard, which seriously freaks me out. I AM LOCKED IN A TINY HIDDEN COURTYARD UNDER THE HOT SUN AT THE TURKISH EMBASSY! I start to panic. I picture them sliding us a bowl of rice, which we all fight over to share. Me carving the number of days I have been locked in the courtyard, while I waste away. My tearful mother on tv begging their senator to help work for my release (note: I am not freaking out becuase I am at the Turkish Embassy, but because I have the tendency to slide into the melodramatic. In case you hadn't noticed).

It goes one step weirder-other than a Swedish civil rights/immigration attorney, I am the only Westerner there for quite a while. And not just a Westerner-I am the only non-Iraqi citizen there. That's right. Little old me, and about 8 Iraqi men. I kept my American passport in my bag and my mouth shut. Being locked in a small courtyard with people whom my country has the audacity to show dead fellow countrymen of theirs to the world is not my idea of a good afternoon (I have to admit, in perhaps one of the few sojourns into politics that I will get into on this blog, that I really don't feel it was necessary or appropriate to show Saddam's sons' bodies on TV. My partner unit said it was done only to convince the world theatre that they truly are dead. Whatever. I could have just taken their word for it that the sons were dead, Oliver Stone I am not. Even worse, the first images of it popped up over here right as I was digging into my fabulous spinach vaji curry. For the first time in my life, I lost my appetite for my curry last night.)

I finally get it all done, however the Turkish Embassy makes me go get even more money out of an ATM, for now what must be the most expensive visa that I have ever purchased. The good news is, the people at the Embassy that afternoon were very, very nice. Now I get to try to hold my own in Turkey next week. I am very much looking forward to it, and think it will be lovely (albeit very hot).

When I told my father I was going to Turkey next week, he told me to be careful, to remember "The Midnight Express." I thought he must be referring to some kind of train. He told me no, this was a movie, which I then figured it was some Will Smith action comedy. He revealed (rather patiently, to his benefit) that this film is about men being thrown into a Turkish prison. So I should be careful. Another friend advised me to be careful, a la Midnight Express. Perhaps I am the only person who has never seen this movie.

But come on-does it really matter what country you are in if you are thrown into prison? Aren't they all equally as horrible (except for in the US, where you can sue if your Twinkies are not served at room temperature, of course)? Fill in the blank here: "It was horrible! I am scarred for life! I was thrown into a ______________ prison, and I was completely innocent of the charges! How was I supposed to know that ____________ is illegal!" Doesn't sound good no matter what country and activity you put into the blanks. Unless you use the words "English" and "getting my rocks off to Colin Firth". That would be worth it, then.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:27 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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