Stamp collecting

No matter how many times I go through it, no matter how many new holographic stickers my passport picks up, it seems I can't go through the process of getting a Russian visa without some sort of drama. This year's adventure is particularly painful: once we'd mapped out our summer plans, I managed to misread the (vaguely-worded) fine print about timing options, which caused a few days of real stress and turmoil around here. I think we survived this time -- but one is never certain you've succeeded until the landing-gear goes up on your return flight. Folks unfamiliar with the details of traveling to Russia are often astonished about what it takes. For example, no, as a matter of fact, being married to Russian citizen has not changed a single friggin' thing about our visa options. Even though we scaled the bureaucratic equivalent of Mount Everest by getting hitched in an official Russian ceremony, I still have to drudge through the visa regime like anyone else. And the tough part is that I, raised in full American "Don't Tread on Me" libertarian bliss, am incredibly bad at sorting through fearsome state structures. I decidedly lack what I call the "bureaucratic imagination," a set of skills most Russians learn and hone from birth. It is a kind of attention to detail and ruthless persistence in the face frustration, rudeness, and hopelessness that is the only way to get the right stamp on your passport, or get your kids into the right school, or to make sure local authorities can't sweep you aside. It is the cynical -- though perfectly frank -- admission that there is a vast system out there that does not exist to make things easier for you, and the ability to creatively imagine the ways that it is going to beat and crush you if you aren't careful. It is something that our soft consumer society has lost. But, as wife would surely note, 'tis my own damned fault. I should have just called about the visa a month ago. I swear I'll remember next time.