I woke before the sun rose and soon after was on my way to the Immigration office. Before the pinks and oranges of dawn began to color the empty streets, I saw a rat and two cock roaches finishing up the business of the fast fading night. I stopped to make photographs when I saw something interesting. When I observed the sun suspended in the muggy haze I hastened my pace and arrived at the visa office at 7:30am, quiet faces greeting me with sour looks. I asked a fellow sitting next to the locked door where the sign up form was and he pointed to a sheet of paper on an air conditioning unit. I was #23, #1 having arrived at 4:00am.
I stood near the building and watched a middle aged man in cowboy boots speaking endlessly to an elderly man. I had the impression that the two had just met. I marveled at his confidence to always find something to say, sharing an endless stream of thoughts for over 30 minutes. It is not that I don't have thoughts to share, although, that is not entirely true. When I transferred myself into his cowboy boots, facing the elderly man, my mind shut down and all I could do was look up into the pinkish, gritty sky. The conversation would not have progressed beyond a simple hello. I thought about my writing, and this journal, and was convinced that I do have an occasional thought, idea or impression. Are these thoughts fit to be shared with someone else? Perhaps not, my ideas usually not in the realm of common experience. In the unlikely circumstance of being with someone who runs parallel to me, I would most likely look up into the sky, saying nothing.
At 8:30 the office opened and I took a seat in the back, next to a young Malaysian couple and two German men. I took Nausea out of my backpack and began to read :
"A gas lamp glowed. I thought the lamplighter had already passed. The children watch for him because he gives the signal for them to go home. But it was only a last ray of the setting sun. The sky was still clear, but the earth was bathed in shadow. The crowd was dispersing, you could distinctly hear the death rattle of the sea. A young woman, leaning with both hands on the balustrade, raised her blue face towards the sky, barred in black by lipstick. For a moment I wondered if I were not going to love humanity. But, after all, it was their Sunday, not mine.
The first light to go on was that of the lighthouse on the Ile Caillebotte; a little boy stopped near me and murmured in ecstasy, 'Oh, the lighthouse!'
Then I felt my heart swell with a great feeling of adventure."
I closed the book and was aware that my heart was beating faster than normal. I was a bit anxious, waiting for my number to be called, wondering if I had everything needed. I sipped on a water bottle and watched the tote boards at the front of the room. The man in the cowboy boots was the first to be called to counter 1. He smiled confidently as he handed over his passport and paperwork. I was next to be called and after turning in my materials was told to take a seat and wait to be called again. A few minutes later the cowboy was back at counter 1, his confidence replaced with a nervous twittering. He disappeared, returned, and then began to complain that the rules were not written clearly, he had done everything correctly, it was the immigration bureaucrats who were to blame for the mistake. He sat down next to a lovely blond German woman and began to speak, once again sharing his thoughts, evidently as numerous as water drops in a river. I sat quietly in my chair, watching, listening. I was glad the man in cowboy boots was not sitting next to me.
Surprisingly I was called before the cowboy - I admit to feeling a bit smart, the mute beats the chatterbox, how does that happen? - I collected my passport, a bright, new stamp inside, plugged into my ipod, and began moving in rhythm through the warm morning light.
