To Russia from Budapest, with No Love

[Editor's Note: Despite our constant griping about the hassles and humiliations of everyday life in Hungary, it's sometimes nice to put things in perspective. Helping us today is longtime reader E.H., who recently submitted the below novella-length horror tale about trying to get a visa in Hungary to visit Russia. Even if you have no reason to visit Oroszország or its embassy in Budapest - pictured above, suitably sinister-ized - it's an eye-opener of a piece, and may make you wonder if Hungary isn't actually so bad. Enjoy.]

I’d heard from others who’d traveled to Russia that it’s difficult getting a visa but thought that, armed with good research, I’d be okay. My colleague scheduled to accompany me on this trip passed me the official form received from the Russian Embassy in Washington; I duly completed the arduous form (one question, for example, asks one to list all the countries and years visited, over the last 10 years – a pain if you’re working regionally).

Just to be sure, I called the visa section to confirm that, as an American with a Hungarian Letelepedési (the right to live in HU) card, I’d not be told I had to apply in the US, and fortunately I discovered I needed other documents.

Now, the visa section at the Russian Embassy in Budapest is only open Monday, Wednesday and Friday from 10 a.m. until 1:00 p.m., though the notice on the street says 9:30-12:30. I arrived at 10:45, to be greeted by what I must guess was a diplomatic corps employee, who, acting as “concierge,” only has command of one language: Russian. I showed him my passport and Letelepedesi, and he pointed to two windows – one with a queue containing four people, and the other, six. Like any shopper, I chose the shorter line.

Over an hour later – it takes a long time to process so much complex paperwork – I arrived at the window. Without even looking up at me, the man behind the window got up and left. Huh? Maybe he heard the Call of Nature?

Eventually, he returned and I handed the documents, Letelepedesi and passport. After 30 seconds he muttered in Hungarian, “Wrong window – go to window three.”

Having been told to chose by the “concierge,” I was a bit irate; but I looked above the window and saw, in plain old Cyrillic – and translated into dis-jointed Hungarian For Hungarians. Apparently having a Letelepedesi didn’t count.

So off I went joining the queue at the other window, confirming that above it, it says something in Cyrillic, and translated for the non-Hungarian into Hungarian – Non-Hungarians

Ironically, I noticed that they somehow managed to translate some other important advice – i.e. how to pay – into English.

Around 15 minutes before closing time, I finally got my turn and handed in my papers… The man looked at one of them, put it face down on the desk and without a word, got up and left, leading me to wonder if perhaps Russians don’t have a phrase for, “please bear with me,” or just “sorry, gotta go!” But since these people have all the cards, I had no choice but to persevere.

Upon his return, the man sat down and took a few minutes to settle back in, fiddling with his paperwork, pens, glue, etc. Never looking up as if even to say, “sorry” he finally picked up my forms, turning them over to give them another read. After what seemed like an eon, he looked up at me with an annoyed expression. Unsettlingly, this gaze lasted for at least 20 seconds – and I finally acquiesced, saying, “I’d like a visa, please.” (After two hours of waiting, I would have thought it obvious – and was truly stumped for anything cleverer to say.)

Still annoyed, the man returned to the paperwork, putting big black “X”s through the application form pages and the letter from the Marriott confirming my reservation, and he wrote “?”s on the date until which my insurance was valid. Then he handed me back the papers.

“Excuse me, but what’s the problem?” I asked.

He shoved through the window a partially completed application form from somebody else and a business card for some chick called Jelena, then signaled for the last person behind me to come forward.

I gazed in amazement; I’m already accustomed to Hungarian bureaucracy, but at least in Hungary they give you a paper telling you what is wrong. Russia, being bigger perhaps, leaves it up to your imagination.

The concierge came over and showed me the door; tapping his watch on 1:00: time to leave! Too shocked to do anything else, I obligingly stepped outside, where I stood with the other shocked ejecta.

I compared the form handed to me with my completed one. While starting off somewhat similarly, the partially completed one was only one page and glaringly lacked my movements for the previous 10 years. I concluded I needed to do more research and at the same time, that I’d be damned if I would call “Jelena” to my rescue, after all I’ve got degrees in Maths and Economics!

Back home, I got on the Internet and landed on the first Google result for “Russia Embassy Budapest” – a site called “Budapest.RusEmbassy.Org” – and it had loads of information, as well as a link to the form in English that one must complete. I compared it to what I was handed, that was partially completed by/for somebody else. They seemed similar, though this one was in English. And I duly completed it. I also spoke with my Insurance company, reaching a gal who laughingly said, “yes, we know all about those Russian visas, already have a template; you’ll have it later today.”

With completed paperwork and an image from their website with the checklist of all the necessary documents, I returned to the embassy on Wednesday to find the line stretching out the door and down the steps. I noticed that the people in line all had Hungarian passports. Having learnt from my Monday visit, I approached the concierge showing my American passport and holding up three fingers, to indicate window three.

Differing from Monday Concierge, Mr. Wednesday was able to muster up some English, but insisted that I wait outside. After 90 minutes, he allowed me in and placed me in the line saying Hungarians. I protested immediately, but he insisted that he knew better than I which line I should wait in.

When I finally arrived at the window I was told “You’re on the wrong line.”

“Wait a minute, you’re concierge over there PUT me here,” I said. “You two need to sort this out, not me.”

After a moment of consultation, he agreed to look at my documents… But when he got to the neatly completed application form, he looked up and said “it’s wrong.”

“What?” I balked, “I got this off your website.” And I pulled out the image I’d brought to demonstrate that I’d brought all the mandatory items, complete with the URL. It demonstrated that I’d indeed got documentation from a bona-fide source. Obviously, he wasn’t prepared for this and called a huddle of all the other window and back office staff. They then checked the Internet. After 10 minutes he returned, and scribbled out the URL of another website: www.hungary.mid.ru.

I wasn’t going to leave, and asked him for the proper forms, saying I would complete them right there and then. So he handed me one Hungarian language and one English version of the application form. This time they were not marred, and he instructed me to complete them both (as they need two copies) and then go to the other window.

Ugh. I completed the forms, realizing that the two asked different questions. Astonishingly, the same embassy, same visa department, and the questions are different depending upon language. But okay, I need the visa and this would be my last day/chance to sort it out.

I completed the paperwork and got in line. I figured I was alright as I was already inside, and though the closing hours had come, like other government bureaucracies they’ll serve all those who had managed to arrive before closing time. And as if to support the fact, there were two more people behind me, and others at the other windows.

I waited while the lady ahead of me received instructions on how to pay. It would take her 600 meters outside the embassy grounds; but she shouldn’t hurry back as on her return, the visa section would be closed.

“But my flight is tomorrow,” she said. “Come back Monday” was the response. After a few more minutes protesting, she left.

And then finally, it was my turn. In front of me, that same piece of stone I’d faced the Monday before. He locked his gaze on me, and without so much as a blink, his left hand reached forward, taking hold of the string, and ….. dropped the blinds. Agog, I stared ahead as if I could read the phrase “Game Over” written on the levolor panels facing me.

I turned to concierge who’d told me to stand on the wrong lines. “Excuse me, but what just happened?”

“Come back next Monday”

“Huh? Seriously.”

“Come back Monday.” And as if to support the unreasonableness of my request, he pointed to his watch.

“I’ve been here since 10; I’ve waited on the wrong line that you told me to wait on.”

At this point, “Mr. Hungarians only” started serving the next person. I turned to the Concierge to ask “Explain why are they still serving Hungarians, then?”

And then I point to the people behind me, “And what are they waiting for?”

He only shook his head as if berating a child, “Come back Monday”

It was all too surreal, and so I started laughing. Smilingly, I asked “Where are the cameras? This is one of those ‘wind up’ tv programs right?”

But it seems Russians don’t have such a show; apparently they are as devoid of a sense of humor as they are of consideration for their fellow man.

Then a funny thing happened. As I continued to protest, who should come into the waiting area but Mr. Stone-faced, who’d just closed his window on me. As he passed through, he recognized one of the guys who’d been standing behind me, and greeted him as if they were long-lost friends. They patted each other, firmly shaking his hands, and in the brief exchange Mr. Stone-faced did an about-face, returning to the office clutching documents… he re-emerged less than five minutes later with a passport in hand.

At this point, I noticed the Complaints Book; a holdover from the Socialist age, ever present in Hungary, and meant to substitute for the void in consumer protection that suppliers enjoy. So I started across the waiting room, intent on at least making a mark somewhere. But the Concierge intercepted me and told me that if I waited outside for two hours, they’ll re-open for me especially.

“And how do I know that’s true?” I asked, incredulously.

“I’ll show you,” he said, escorting me outside to the pavement, and then showing me the tableau with the visa “opening hours.” But there was no mention of any special re-opening nor special consideration for those who’d waited fruitlessly.

When I told him this, he just smiled, shrugged his shoulders and closed the gate. So I guess it was more of a ploy to get me to leave peaceably without filling in the complaint book.

As I stood there, two other dejects joined me. We swapped stories and I felt a little less aggrieved. One chap had come 170 km (from Miskolc) twice, only to have some issue one time with a picture, and timing-out this go around. The other had some as-yet undisclosed issue with her insurance document.

Meanwhile, my American partner informed me that, without a hassle, he had gotten his visa in one week via FedEx with the same application form I’d completed the 1st time.

So here I am, wondering… if I’d just engaged Jelena for $50 would I have suffered so? Is there perhaps some sort of deal her existing between her and the visa section? Is it just this one embassy? But how could their entire visa section be staffed by so many of the linguistically and diplomatically challenged?

I’m now contrasting all this with the Russia that I read about, which so clearly wants to exert an influence on the world stage. I would think that individuals such as myself who voluntarily invest in going to visit their country would be the one audience to whom they would gleefully demonstrate what wonderful people they are; and would not want to stymie such goodwill with complexity, inconsistency, favoritism and inconsideration.

Is this a taste of what it’s like to actually be in Moscow, or to try to do business with Russians? Perhaps the cold war ended, but the “cold” warriors continue on.

EPILOGUE…

My partner was insistent; I had to go to Russia to do the demo. So yet another go; but this time he called Jelena’s office. They told us to get her while at the embassy, she’d handle it all. Though the line outside was 20 people long, she took my paperwork (and gave me top marks); took it all inside for me, bypassing all those queuing and returned five minutes later with a receipt. For only two times the price of the same visa in the US (Ft 34,000 vs 100 USD); I could come back on Friday and collect the documents. And lo’ and behold, on my 4th visit I did achieve my intended purpose – a three-day visa to visit Moscow.

Conclusion – grease the system, it keeps Jelena and Vladimir at work, and you might not lose your mind in the process.