What is Egypt without pyramids? Spain without matadors? England without Big Ben? Or for that matter the French without arrogance? Information on the French arrogance will not be found in any travel brochure. It has to be experienced to be believed. Just like their wine. Mind you, the experience could leave you with similar after-effects -- a heady feeling, flushed cheeks and a sour taste in the mouth. When I walked into the French embassy in San Francisco I had no idea what I was getting into. Here I was, after spending four months away from my wife and five-year-old daughter. A homesick desi dying to get back to the sounds and smells of good old Bombay. The only thing standing between my favourite city and me was a harmless transit visa. You see, Air France does not have a connecting flight from Paris to Bombay for all flights originating from SFO (readers planning to take this route, beware). There is a 20-hour layover. This seemed like a good thing initially. The pause would help me prepare for the next long haul back home and it would give me a quick glimpse of a city that I have always wanted to see. A good chance to use my new digital camera, I thought. And so I drove down to the French embassy one glorious spring morning... I am finding it impossible to find a vacant spot. Finally, a car moves out. I look around suspiciously. Will someone beat me to it? Like a Formula One driver I wait for the light to turn green and then, vroom, I am off. Phew... I make it! Not bad, I think, just one street from where I want to go. I quickly take out a quarter and put it in the parking metre. It pops out instantly. Looks like the metre is having a bad case of indigestion. With no other parking space and only an hour before the embassy closes, I am left with no choice. With a prayer on my lips I head towards the building where I can see the red-white-blue French flag swaying lazily in the mild breeze that's blowing from the bay. "You come here for a visa?" asks the gentle-looking armed guard at the door. "Oui ," I reply, trying to get friendly from the word go. Apparently the guard is a true-blue African-American and does not speak a word of French. I don't blame him. After going through the metal detectors, I am instructed to sit next to a natty gentleman wearing a tweed jacket and a golf hat. I become conscious of my jeans and check shirt. The whole atmosphere is very sober and clinical. Where is the famed French eccentricity, I wonder. Little do I know that it is lurking behind the counter where two embassy personnel are busy with paperwork. I catch patches of conversation and realise that the person at the counter is having a tough time convincing the embassy personnel, whom I cannot see at the moment, about the validity of some document he has presented. "Poor fool," I say to myself, "must have not gone to the Web site and checked all the details about the documents required to apply for a visa." A smug smile spreads across my face. I am safe in the knowledge that I have the originals and photocopies of all documents required. Thank God for the Indian system. Paperwork in triple copies is our speciality. After an extended debate the person ahead of me gets his visa. With a triumphant smile he is on his way. My turn at last! As I approach the counter I catch the first glimpse of my tormentor-to-be. The middle-aged woman has a facial expression akin to that of a bored cow ruminating on a sunny day. "Hullo, and what can I do for you?" she says. "I need to be in Paris for one night." "Just one night?" "Yeah. I am passing through." "Are you going to India?" she looks at my turban. "Lucky guess," I say jokingly. No change in her expression. "You will need a transit visa. Can I see your passport please?" I whip out my passport. "No... no good" she says and shakes her head vigorously. I almost hear the bells clanging (the ones that usually hang around the bovine neck). "What seems to be the problem?" I enquire. "You are on a B1 visa!" She says it as if it is the latest crime added to the list of the heinous variety. I almost expect her to reach for the secret red button under her desk and buzz the nearest police station. "So what?" My face is like that of an innocent person who has this sinking feeling that he is going to be blamed for killing the canary who accidentally choked on its food. "We don't give transit visas to B1/B2 status," comes the reply with a ring of utter contempt. Now I know how M K Gandhi must have felt when he was pushed out of the train in South Africa. I smartly pull a printout from my folder and show her the line that reads 'B1/B2 applicants must apply for the transit visa in person'. "I downloaded this from your Web site." This produces an even more rigorous shake of the head. "No...no... that is not correct. Please read the notice on the entrance. It says 'No transit visas to B1/B2 visa holders'." But how am I supposed to have read the notice on the entrance when this is the first time I am coming to the embassy? And why is it on the entrance and not the Web site? I curtail my inquisitiveness lest I upset her more than I already have. "Well, so what do I do to get a transit visa madam?" "You get it from India." "Oh!" I am too stunned for words. "You need to Fedex your documents to India and get the visa stamped from there," she continues talking to the glass wall between us. "But that will take forever," I respond while my mind visualises some paan chewing Indian babu sitting on my application waiting for his baksheesh. "I have a confirmed ticket for April 12 and I have to be in India on the 14th," I plead. "Sorry, but you have to do what I am telling you." Something snaps. Indian pride takes over and the son of the soil emerges from the veil of decency. "Do you think that people are actually dying to visit your country? If it was not for your national airline that doesn't have a connecting flight, I would be home without wasting my time at the airport!" Sarcasm drips from my tone. Well, it dripped right of her ears too. Like dewdrops from a leaf. She looks exasperated and turns to her colleague (who I am sure is named Jean Pierre-something, like all French guys are) at the other end of the counter and asks something in French. I look at him with hope in my eyes. Will he show some compassion? He grunts something in French and returns to his paperwork. "If you will please excuse me now I have other people waiting in line." "Et tu Jean Pierre?" I almost cry out. I look behind me and see four people waiting for their turn. "I am not leaving here without my visa," I deliberately raise my voice. Heads turn, followed by a silence that is filled with anticipation. "You are the 10th candidate since morning that has come here with a B1 visa and we have rejected all of them before you," she claims. Suddenly I feel like a candidate in a swayamvar watching the bride-to-be pass me with the garland that should have been around my neck. "That doesn't make any difference. I had no way of knowing this information and I have come a long way for my visa and I want it now!" I pitch in with an air of finality. I see that she is not used to being spoken to in this tone. She calmly looks up and delivers her own closing statement, "Will you kindly be on your way?" The hidden red button flashes in front of my eyes again. "Who wants to go to your country anyway. If you have the Eiffel tower, we have the Taj Mahal!" I turn to leave, taking with me whatever self-respect was left. Well, that's that. Being a non-confrontational sort of a guy I did not think it fit to take it up with her superiors. If it's a rule, it's a rule. Tough luck. But I hoped that they would have taken care to inform people in advance and treat them with some respect when they come for a visa. If this was not enough I reach my car and find a parking ticket tucked under the wiper. I look at the metre and it seems to stare mockingly at me. The curved glass panel almost looks like a smirk. "Put this behind you, this too shall pass" I tell myself. Right now a daunting task lies ahead of me. How the hell am I supposed to spend 20 hours at the Charles de Gaulle Airport? Got ideas? Then please email me. I have a week to prepare for this ordeal. Jasmeet Gandhi is vice-president, strategic services, rediff.com. Tell us what you think of this diary
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