I was warned about this place before I arrived. Expect chaos, expect difficulties. Be assertive, walk straight through the crowds and don't take any crap. This sort of behaviour is so out of character for me, a human bundle of indecisiveness and awkward politeness, that I almost had to create an alter-ego in order to get into the correct state of mind.
Pushing my way to the front of a small group of Russians, I waited for the little door to open. After about five minutes a sleepy, Mediterranean-looking guard emerged and surveyed us all with an extreme lack of interest. People began calling and waving Russian passports. Trying to point out that I only needed a tourist visa and should be in a different queue, I held my British passport aloft and felt a twinge of colonial embarrassment as I did so. 'Let me through, old boy. It's alright, I'm British!'
The door was closing again so I forced myself through it and the guard looked at me with surprise. I told him in German that I need a visa and he nodded patronisingly to humour me. I may as well have told him that my name was Betsy and I'd come to marry his shoes. 'Kein Problem, kein Problem', he muttered in a thick Russian accent as he pushed the poor deluded would-be tourist back outside. I took my place again in the midst of the impatient mob, and again we waved each time he came out as though he were a celebrity.
Finally I managed to shove my passport into his hand. He glanced at it apathetically and slipped it into his pocket, before disappearing back into the cool, dark recesses of the Embassy. Around twenty minutes later he opened the door and ushered me in. I walked through the metal detector and every ounce of my clothing triggered the alarm. Metal badges, steel boots, copper coins, keys, phone. He seemed unfased by the potential terrorist threat I represented and pointed vaguely over his shoulder in the direction of the corridor.
When I got to the top of the staircase I was greeted by a sort of apocalyptic version of the Post Office. A tall guard in a green uniform was sitting behind a table and gave me two tickets to take to counter no. 2. I walked past chaotic scenes, shouting Russians, confused Germans and fighting children. Upon reaching counter no. 2 I milled around near the window, unsure of exactly what I was to do next. Somebody in the queue noticed me loitering and explained I needed to give the man at the counter one of my tickets and wait to be called.
From watching the people whose numbers had come up I worked out that I needed to take a visa form and then get some photos taken at the extortionate 6 Euro photo booth. Since the booth only had instructions in Russian, the guard came over and actually helped me to work it. I was stunned by this peculiar outbreak of assistance in a place which seemed deliberately and skilfully constructed to confound all attempts to get anywhere even near to Russia. The first photograph was bad. It lingered flickering on the display screen.
'You happy with that one?' he asked, uncertainly.
'Uhm, I think so.' I said, politely.
'Take another one.'
A computerised Russian voice counted down and there was another flash. I tried to smile for the camera but it came out as more of a leer. The guard gazed in horror at the screen. Greasy hair, unwashed in two days and sticking all over the place, as well as a bizarre smile which made me look like a rather apologetic serial killer. Certainly not the sort of person you would want to let into your country.
'No,' he snapped. 'Another.'
The third photograph was shabby but passable. At least it allowed me a fighting chance of getting a visa. I walked back to the queue and started filling in the application form. One question was difficult to understand so I called Olya to ask her opinion. The guard, who had been perfectly friendly until a moment ago, marched up to me.
'Sprechen Verboten!' he barked in a perfect imitation of World War II German film clichés.
Eventually my number 230 was called and a small bearded man processed my forms with something between complete indifference and active hostility. He gave me a bill to pay at the counter, 50 euros more than I was expecting, and told me to bring the receipt back to him.
After waiting in another queue to pay, I forced my way back through the crowd. Two ladies who had managed to get in after a one hour wait at the entrance door lottery had just been told that they were too late and would have to come back again. I shoved the slip of paper through the little gap under the window, where you had to hold it with your thumb to prevent the air conditioning behind the screen blowing it straight back at you.
The man grudgingly accepted it and I skipped through the madness and the shouting out into the silent staircase. An old German guy who had also come for a visa and seemed friendly enough was sitting on a chair in the corridor, apparently waiting for something to happen.
'Is there anything else that needs to be done once we've paid?' I asked, since quizzing the people who were ahead of you in the queue seemed to be the only way of finding out what was going on in there.
Pushing my way to the front of a small group of Russians, I waited for the little door to open. After about five minutes a sleepy, Mediterranean-looking guard emerged and surveyed us all with an extreme lack of interest. People began calling and waving Russian passports. Trying to point out that I only needed a tourist visa and should be in a different queue, I held my British passport aloft and felt a twinge of colonial embarrassment as I did so. 'Let me through, old boy. It's alright, I'm British!'
The door was closing again so I forced myself through it and the guard looked at me with surprise. I told him in German that I need a visa and he nodded patronisingly to humour me. I may as well have told him that my name was Betsy and I'd come to marry his shoes. 'Kein Problem, kein Problem', he muttered in a thick Russian accent as he pushed the poor deluded would-be tourist back outside. I took my place again in the midst of the impatient mob, and again we waved each time he came out as though he were a celebrity.
Finally I managed to shove my passport into his hand. He glanced at it apathetically and slipped it into his pocket, before disappearing back into the cool, dark recesses of the Embassy. Around twenty minutes later he opened the door and ushered me in. I walked through the metal detector and every ounce of my clothing triggered the alarm. Metal badges, steel boots, copper coins, keys, phone. He seemed unfased by the potential terrorist threat I represented and pointed vaguely over his shoulder in the direction of the corridor.
When I got to the top of the staircase I was greeted by a sort of apocalyptic version of the Post Office. A tall guard in a green uniform was sitting behind a table and gave me two tickets to take to counter no. 2. I walked past chaotic scenes, shouting Russians, confused Germans and fighting children. Upon reaching counter no. 2 I milled around near the window, unsure of exactly what I was to do next. Somebody in the queue noticed me loitering and explained I needed to give the man at the counter one of my tickets and wait to be called.
From watching the people whose numbers had come up I worked out that I needed to take a visa form and then get some photos taken at the extortionate 6 Euro photo booth. Since the booth only had instructions in Russian, the guard came over and actually helped me to work it. I was stunned by this peculiar outbreak of assistance in a place which seemed deliberately and skilfully constructed to confound all attempts to get anywhere even near to Russia. The first photograph was bad. It lingered flickering on the display screen.
'You happy with that one?' he asked, uncertainly.
'Uhm, I think so.' I said, politely.
'Take another one.'
A computerised Russian voice counted down and there was another flash. I tried to smile for the camera but it came out as more of a leer. The guard gazed in horror at the screen. Greasy hair, unwashed in two days and sticking all over the place, as well as a bizarre smile which made me look like a rather apologetic serial killer. Certainly not the sort of person you would want to let into your country.
'No,' he snapped. 'Another.'
The third photograph was shabby but passable. At least it allowed me a fighting chance of getting a visa. I walked back to the queue and started filling in the application form. One question was difficult to understand so I called Olya to ask her opinion. The guard, who had been perfectly friendly until a moment ago, marched up to me.
'Sprechen Verboten!' he barked in a perfect imitation of World War II German film clichés.
Eventually my number 230 was called and a small bearded man processed my forms with something between complete indifference and active hostility. He gave me a bill to pay at the counter, 50 euros more than I was expecting, and told me to bring the receipt back to him.
After waiting in another queue to pay, I forced my way back through the crowd. Two ladies who had managed to get in after a one hour wait at the entrance door lottery had just been told that they were too late and would have to come back again. I shoved the slip of paper through the little gap under the window, where you had to hold it with your thumb to prevent the air conditioning behind the screen blowing it straight back at you.
The man grudgingly accepted it and I skipped through the madness and the shouting out into the silent staircase. An old German guy who had also come for a visa and seemed friendly enough was sitting on a chair in the corridor, apparently waiting for something to happen.
'Is there anything else that needs to be done once we've paid?' I asked, since quizzing the people who were ahead of you in the queue seemed to be the only way of finding out what was going on in there.
'How should I know?' he spat, startling me with a hostile grimace, like a hobbit turned evil by the ring in his pocket.
I shrugged and jogged down the remaining stairs. The sleepy security guard was leaning by the metal detector and I was surprised to find him smiling at me.
'Well, all sorted?' he asked, cheerfully.
I nodded and wished him a nice day. It was all over, I'd gotten out alive and emerged triumphant from the Embassy's anarchy and moodswings.
'See you next Tuesday' I said as I left.
'Well, all sorted?' he asked, cheerfully.
I nodded and wished him a nice day. It was all over, I'd gotten out alive and emerged triumphant from the Embassy's anarchy and moodswings.
'See you next Tuesday' I said as I left.
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