Via Prague

The day I always dread finally arrived. My visa expires at the end of the month, so it's time to head to the Foreign Police Office and get it renewed. Let me explain.
As any foreigner here will attest, the trip to the office is about on par with attending a mob riot. The office, located in Žižkov, neighorhood east of the center, is woefullly inadequate to meet the needs of the literally thousands of immigrants -- Vietnamese, Ukraine, Russian, American, and so on -- who each day go there.
Each year I've gone it's got worse, not better. The problem is, that before the Czech Republic joined the Schengen Zone this year, the country used to be a lot more lax about visas. A foreigner could stay for 90 days on a tourist visa, then hop over the border to Germany or Slovakia for a day, come back and the 90 days would start all over again. So many workers never bothered getting legal, even though many, like myself, did get legal. The system then at the Foreign Police was already overtaxed. Now, with the tighter Schengen rules, the system is simply out of control. Imagine a thousand people trying to squeeze through one small door, about the size of the Times-Standard front door, at the same time, all with the same mission, the same urgency, the same sense of righteous purpose.
Last year, I got up at 4 a.m. (the office opens at 730) and was one of the fortunate first ones to arrive. Even though that doesn't matter much. By the time the doors open, loads of latecomers eschew the long line and take their chances on just crashing the door. You can get crushed if you're not careful. Everyone crashes the door because there are only so many tickets given out for service. A machine upstairs dispenses the tickets and you wait for your number to be called. Once the tickets are gone then that's it -- you have to come back the next day. And of course, there are far more people than tickets. That's why the mob mentality takes over. For a while some scammers were getting all the tickets early on and selling them at absurdly inflated prices (the tickets are free); recently the office installed a policeman to watch over the ticket machine. Last year I was lucky though; I got through the doors, survived the onslaught, got a precious number and was out the door with visa in hand by 8 o'clock.
This year, my flatmate Islam, the guy from Bangladesh, and one of his friends, Anwar, made the journey together. He finished his job at Pavels at 1 a.m. and after a short sleep, the three of us set out at 4 a.m. on foot for the office. Along the way, Islam hummed an Eastern melody, and Anwar exchanged jokes and grins. Me, impatient as always, walked ahead. Islam had wanted to wait for the night trams, which come once an hour, but I knew a way on foot. We crossed through the park at reigrovy sady and down the hill, a trip that took about a half hour.
'When we arrived at 4:30, my heart sank. Even from a few blocks away, I could see it wasn't good. People were already lined up around the building. A loose conflageration of people, of all nationalities, all looking tense and tired. A few Ukraine or Russian guys were doing crowd control, pushing people back, and one was putting names on a list. We couldn't figure out if he actually worked there (doubtful) or had appointed himself some kind of manager of the scene. You see people like that, and you're never sure if they're really trying to do some good, or just making some kind of scam. Here and there were people with blankets.
'People are coming yesterday,' Islam observed.
After about twenty minutes we decided it was hopeless. Even if we managed to get inside the building when the doors opened, it was highly doubtful there would be any tickets left. Highly doubtful.
'We come back tomorrow,' Islam said. 'Very early.'
'Tonight,' I said, setting a mental alarm. Midnight. That would mean we'd wait overnight. That's about four hours longer than last year.
The journalist in me thought of doing a write up for the Post on the situation, but another reporter already beat me to it. I eagerly read the story, hoping to see that things will change. But the officials shake their heads. Yes, the system is overworked, deplorable. But there's not much that can be done. The workers are underpaid, there's no money, the usual reasons.
Having read the story a few weeks ago, I knew to expect the worst. And it doesn't exactly make you forward to next year.
'And think about in ten years,' Islam said. 'Ah, Life is hard.' He laughed in a tired way. We got the metro back to our neighborhood.
'So you can see,' Islam added, back at the flat. 'There is nothing like your mother country.'
'What's that?'
'Your mother country. There we do not need visas.'
'Yeah.'
'Maybe America is better.'
Maybe, I thought. It's true. Why deal with all this? Back in the States I could just work. Let the foreigners put up with it. I could just go back to being a comfortable American and not worry.
We both crashed for a couple hours. Then my phone beeped. A message from an old student, Jana. She wants to know if I'd like to go with her to Slovakia in a couple weeks, spend some time in the High Tatry Mountains. The mountains, in the northwest of the country, are said to be serene and lovely, a real jewel of Eastern Europe, a gateway to the East anyway. And Jana is a good friend, we have had great discussions about literature and politics, so it will be a good chance to catch up, possibly over glasses of Moravian wine.
The message made me feel better. I got up, resigned to make the journey back to the Foreign Police again tonight. After all, it may be the very definition of misery, but at least it's only once a year. Anyhow, there could be better journeys ahead.
TOMORROW: Hopefully me, Islam and Anwar will have our visas! Will update.