Last night I slept badly. No particular reason, just happened. When I finally got up at 7, I decided I'm going to make this day count. I still have 16 days before I board my flight. But today I'm going to go out and finish all the little annoying details that no one likes -- vaccinations, visas, reservations. Well, at least there isn't much reserving that needs to be done since we are moving according to the Waygoer's philosophy, most eloquently expressed by Lao Tsu:
He who acts defeats his own purpose;
He who grasps loses.
The sage does not act, and so is not defeated.
He does not grasp and therefore does not lose.
And so it was decided that we won't do any ground work (hotels, cars) before we get to a place and see what we feel like doing. That still left me with the Bolivian embassy visa requirements to take care of. I had wisely found out earlier that the visa would take two days and that I would need a travel itinerary, a hotel reservation for a day or two, proof of funds, passport, photo, and a yellow fever vaccination. I told myself there's a busy day ahead but it should be a breeze never-the-less.
First I spent the better part of an hour speaking to MD assistants whose bosses were too busy to bless me with a syringe of potentially deadly tropical disease at the bargain price of $200. I finally found one nice doc to administer the yellow fever communion and was off on my way to the bolivian consulate.
The woman who opened the door was the same lady who during my previous visit had given me a tiny piece of paper in spanish, informing me of what I need to bring for my visa. She took a look at the list and said:
"You don't have the Certificado de Antecedentes Policiales. Don't bother giving your stuff -- without it, your application will be rejected."
"Right," I said. "What is the Certificado de Antecedentes Policiales, exactly?"
"Background check," came the reply.
"What do you mean background check? How? By whom?"
"Just go to any police precinct and they'll help you."
"What about my friend who's in Argentina and will go directly to Bolivia from there?" I asked, hoping not to have to break the news to the Waygoer (it's needless to say his plan was to get a visa at the border).
"Well, he can get a visa at the border or in the Buenos Aires consulate."
"But what about his background check?"
"The rules are the rules and he needs to have everything."
"But how can he have everything if he's in Argentina and just decided to go into Bolivia. That doesn't make much sense," I was beginning to despair.
"Well, he should ask there."
"At the border or at the consulate?"
"At the consulate."
With that, I was off to the nearest police precinct, my mind moving between the wisdom of traveling spontaneously and the hope that perhaps a background check is not such a big deal and that I might even be able to get one for the Waygoer... At the precinct two nice cops quickly killed my hopes of a quick resolution.
"You gotta go downtown. NYPD headquarters at One Police Plaza."
"What were the cross streets?" I offered.
"It's like there, there are no cross streets. Just go to the arches and ask anyone," they did their best to help.
So the journey entered a new and exciting phase, marked by another $2 reduction of my MetroCard balance. I pop out on the surface right in front of the arches and start looking for a reliable someone. Suddenly it flashes: I have to go through the arches!
It is as if I have discovered an unknown gateway, a different dimension in New York City. I've been here thousands of times and I've never thought to look up and see what's on the other side of the massive intimidating facade. As I entered the walkway underneath the arches a very strong scent of melted tar hit my nostrils. I stepped through the smoke and there it was -- a courtyard full of teenagers making out on benches. Behind them a proud sign: Police Headquarters. Next I had to go through an airport like visitor's center, home to the only x-ray machine capable of allowing all your metal objects (keys, coins, headphones, cellphones) to slip through a crack at the end of the conveyor and spill on the ground to the amusement of the guard. New York's finest -- and they always get the best stuff!
Finally, I was in the right room, a small form and a number in hand. While I find it difficult and tedious to explain why I had to wait two hours on two lines for a fingerprinting that took all of 35 seconds, several small amusements distracted me from heavier thoughts. First, I had my Inside Man moment. I suddenly heard a woman speaking very quickly in Russian to the two black female clerks behind the desk. I was amazed -- she was speaking to them as if they understood her perfectly well. For a moment, I thought I was witnessing a small miracle: perhaps this city had finally been so permeated by all the cultures in it, that suddenly all the people in Babylon had started to understand each other's languages once again! Alas, my confusion lasted mere milliseconds. One of the clerks, none-the-less in a moment of clarity, perhaps backed by rigorous knowledge of statistics and probability, yelled above everyone:
"Anybody here speak Russian?"
I stepped in, proudly exhibiting 15 years of not uttering a single word in Russian, yet not missing a beat.
In the moments that followed the Russian woman's successful resolution to her problems, the beaten down people waiting in the stuffy room actually perked up and started talking to each other. Suddenly there was a great sense of camaraderie forged between the sorority girl on her way to teach english in Korea and the Samoan truck driver looking to get a permit to drive military vehicles from Fort Something to Fort Something Else; between the black woman in trouble at her job because of putting off coming here and the Swiss investment banker needing a background check for who knows what. While in this room everyone felt a little less free, doing a little time for Good Conduct, as the form in my hands stated, the commiseration of the moment led to jokes which led to smiles and in an instant everyone felt perhaps even better than before they had come to this strange place.
And enhancing my paradoxical foreboding, I noticed that the walls were adorned with the oddest specimens of NYPD propaganda. Pictures of crashed police cars with succinct gems of wisdom: Arrive Alive!? What does that poster mean? Don't drive like a cop? How about the guy's comment: I am the only one you don't want to respond. Is that even proper English? Who is he speaking to? The cops that crashed their cars? To himself? To the astounded people waiting for their Good Conduct Report? Perhaps the yellow fever is finally catching up to me...
I was brought back to earth by a voice calling my name:
"Please show up 10 working days from now, between nine and three to collect your report."
"Oh, no!" I thought. "There's no way that the Waygoer will be able to get a background check. Hell, I, myself can barely make it -- 10 working days plus 2 for the consulate -- that puts me a day beyond the date of my flight!"
I collected my receipt and left the building. So what does turn out... whether you plan or not, there are powerful forces that can toss you every which way and crush your small little plans. Perhaps ironically, the Waygoer is right -- go with the wind, but don't lose yourself. Then not all is lost... in fact nothing's lost. At that moment, I decided to tell him to just go to the Bolivian border and see what happens. In one possible future we meet each other in La Paz after successfully talking our way past the bureaucrats, in the other we begin our journey in Lima, Peru and find out where a different path leads us.
With these thoughts I was feeling better already and I entered my apartment building. In the lobby I ran into my downstairs neighbor. Frank is the sweetest 85 year-old Italian-American former customs inspector I know. Not that I know many others. So he sees me and yells:
"Hey! Come here. I need to talk to you."
"What is it, Frankie?"
"Well, the wife's not feeling well, so that eggplant parmesan she promised you... it aint happening."
"It's alright, Frank. She'll make it when she's good and ready," I say, starting to go up the stairs.
But he wouldn't let it go, "I told her: he won't mind, you don't have to do it. But she insisted."
"Look Frank, don't worr..."
"Now about that plunger..."
"What plunger, Frank?"
"You don't have a plunger and you need a plunger!"
"That was years ago, Frank. I don't..."
"Listen, I am going to the super now, and I'm gonna get one for you."
"No, I don't..."
"I'm going to the super now. I'll talk to you later."
"Alright, Frank. Take care. Be well."
Finally, I walk through the door, take off my clothes and jump in the shower. Bliss... And then... The door rings. And again, and again, and again. I can't take it anymore so I jump out, water everywhere. I press to talk.
"Hello. Who is it?"
"It's Joe! I'm with the super!"
I'm thinking, "Joe? Who the hell's Joe?" Then I remember seeing Frank's old customs inspector badge -- it did say Joseph!
"Hey, Frank! Listen, I'm in the shower. Can we do this later?"
"Yeah, I'll bring..."
I didn't wait to hear the end of his sentence. I went back under the hot stream of water, unperturbed by the loud banging noises which soon commenced on my door. Fifteen minutes later, I opened the door and there it was -- the biggest, most disgusting plunger I'd ever seen. I closed the door, opened a bottle of beer and thought to myself -- these are the moments that make up the journey: the absurd and the spontaneous, the annoying and the funny. All day long I've been on the Waygoer's track.
I still have 15 days left before I board my flight. But I feel a little like I've already left.
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