The Passport Circus

I really have no complaints about our stay here for the past three weeks now. As the Colombian girl we met (with a Philadelphian grandmother) at the passport office this morning said to us, “Colombia is very warm. We all feel like family to each other.”

So maybe that’s why it didn’t bother me too much when we had to get Joe’s passport reprinted at eight o’clock that morning. The lines were wild, wrapping out into the streets. Fortunately our driver, Andres, knew how to bypass the wait, and within minutes we were told to return at three o’clock for the completed second try. No charge.

“Super!” Andres grinned.

 

About half an hour after we had returned to the B&B, the Program Director called for us.

“You have to go back to the passport office again right now. There has been a problem.”

Poor Andres. He toted us back there where we waited at the desk of a young woman with braces and black hair with violet undertones for forty-five minutes as she tried to correct the problem.

“Three-thirty,” Andres explained as we hustled back to the mini van.

Inch by inch.

I wondered how annoyed all those long lines would be with us when they saw us emerge so quickly. We kind of stick out in a crowd, too. Not only is my skin the color of toast on a “2” setting, but even though Carrie-Bri dyed my hair a few shades darker for the occasion, it’s still about thirty times more blonde than any Colombian.

 

Yali’s neck seemed pretty stiff and a little painful that afternoon, more so than usual, but he was easily distracted by running around in the garden with a beat-up old soccer ball. I’m convinced someone taught that kid how to play soccer.

Oxbear re-joined us at five o’clock with success in the form of passport…

“We checked it about four times,” he said.

…photos for Yali’s visa, and approved vaccination paperwork. If all went well, we’d visit the Embassy tomorrow morning for the final step: Yali’s visa.

 

Meanwhile, the recent French couple (where the guy adopted from Colombia years ago had returned to “unlock the secrets of his past”) had explained all the cheek kissing we’ve encountered with the French while living at the B&B. Sort of threw me off guard a couple of times.

“In France, it is two kisses,” they explained. “But in our village, it is four.”

That’s about four kisses too many for this American-blooded girl.

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Jamie Larson
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