In Russia there ain't no love, baby

Today, with my adorable babushka kerchief, pearly white and innocent smile, I went to the Consulate of the Russian Federation and thought I could con them into accelerating my visa papers. My California girl Kat came along because she's wonderful and really into interior decorating and I thought she might like to see the consulate.

Usually, I can talk my way out of anything.

But, in this country, this is not the case.

I walk in to the wood-paneled room adorned with Soviet propaganda, and all 15 people in there are speaking Russian ochen bistra (that means 'very fast'). I take a number, and we sit down, trying to take the situation very seriously.

In the office, there are two small windows, about 2'x3.5'. One is called "1" and the other is appropriately called "2." Everyone in the room had the same 3-4 papers in their hand, a passport and a solemn [Russian] expression. I realize this is not the place I should try to sweet talk my way into getting my passport back sooner (I am supposed to travel to AMERICA in a few days), so I go to the security desk to see what's going on.

JACQ: "Excuse me"

A man (let's call him ANGRY RUSSIAN) motions to press the white intercom button. I see it, I press it.

JACQ: "Excuse me, can I ask you something?"

ANGRY RUSSIAN: "GARBLAHSK OHMBER"

I think I missed what he said.

JACQ: "May I ask you a question?"

In the most Russian and incomprehensible accent I have ever heard, he points and says "Go to nahmber wan." (Go to number 1.)

JACQ: "No, I have anoth-"

ANGRY RUSSIAN continues to point to "Number 1"

I sit back down. I realize this is not going to work. Sometimes, my Crest commercial smile and doe eyes can't get me everything I want. Kat and I return to the car, I change the oil for the first time in my life (I mean, at least I accomplished something), and we go home.

I don't even think Kat liked the decorating inside.

Today was a hard day.