John From Germany
I spent this morning finding, entering, and waiting in line to deal with the German consulate here in London. You see, they charged me with the notorious Paragraph 1 -- "sojourning in the federal territory without title of residence" -- because I didn't get stamped during a visit to Poland, in the absence of which I stayed a bit too long in Germany without a visa. I had gotten a temporary visa in the meantime, but I also committed the unbelievable (if you didn't know me better) gaffe of not carrying it with me for the trip. So, basically, I had it coming, but you still have to exhibit the base indignity that comes with evading public charges.
So yeah, I was totally throwing a hissy fit because they weren't going to let me back into Germany. Stoic and defiant, I marched through the metal detector at 23 Belgrave Center with a will to set things straight.
While queueing up with the multitude of non-Germans waiting to settle some immigration issue or another (echt Germans get in through the front door, and presumably have coffee and cake with the Consulate while they discuss opera), I fell into conversation with a man named John.
Sort of torqued by the whole situation, I was perhaps a little too upfront with John. So after a bit of a rant on my part, he gave me a bit of information about his situation. He was a Christian from the Gambia seeking religious asylum in Germany. I'm sensing this is a complex matter, both for the judiciary and the individual, but then, what do I know anyways?
His English was excellent. He was speaking in the same sort of generalities that people in pain use to prevent its clear expression to others. His wife had died some time earlier, and he had two children. He was staying with a distant relative in London (I'm assuming less than legally), and had been working in a restaurant for over a year while the paperwork was being processed.
This was the framework of an insane story, but unfortunately, that was all I was going to get. I wanted to talk to John more, to hear more, but both our numbers got called shortly, as Naturalization is a short line. I behaved, and got good news; I hope it was the same for John. By the time I went back through the metal detector, I had taken back all the Hungarianesque curses I placed on the customs officials, most of whom I now know by name, and the BRD in general. It might be a first, but dealing with bureaucracy had actually bestowed perspective.