Syrian Embassy and Hollywood Lies

I had Friday off and thought I’d get my visa for Syria. In the three other counties I’ll be visiting, I can get a visa at the border. But not Syria. Nope. They want you to send in your password, pictures, and not just one application, but two. Since I live in the DC area, I thought I’d make a day of it.

The day started off less than spectacular when I discovered I lived in a geological black hole where ALL passport cameras are on the fritz. Okay, maybe not ALL, but the three I tried were broken. A frustrating hour later, I had my passport-sized pictures in my hand and was heading into DC…

…Where I found the Syrian Embassy. I don’t know what I expected–Okay, that’s a lie. I know what I expected, or rather, wanted. I’ve seen embassies in movies and they are always glittery and shiny and are populated by glittery, shiny people. There are parties and shadowy men with accents. Woman who would sell themselves for secrets.

I wanted Mr. and Mrs. Smith. But was it like that? At all?

For anyone who wants to know, the part of the Syrian Embassy I say (the office area) was anything but glittery. or shiny. It looked like any office in anywhere USA. There was a counter with a glass front. The bored receptionist. And people standing outside and smoking.

To be fair, my BF told me it would be like this. That it wasn’t that exciting. But dammit, I wanted to be right. I wanted the gild and the gold.

Despite the disappointment, I got the visa. And soon, I’ll be in Syria where I’ve done enough research to know that what’s in my head is real. Maybe not glitter. But also not Hollywood.

And probably better than I can even imagine.

21 days and counting.

Comments

Syrian Embassy and Hollywood Lies — 3 Comments

  1. Here’s what I think was in your head 😉

    You’re walking out of the embassy office, disappointed at the ordinariness of it all, when a swarthy man stumbles into you, a gunshot wound to the abdomen. “Please,” he gasps, “tell her I tried.” He slips his bloody hand into your coat pocket as the police show up. Then he dies at your feet. The police question you, but let you go. Later, you find a blood smeared piece of paper in you pocket with only a name and a Damascus address. Luckily, you’re headed there in 3 weeks.

    Sound about right? : )