No doubt few of you have ever had occasion to visit a foreign consulate, let alone the Chinese Consulate General here in New York, but I encourage all of you to consider popping by its 42 St./West Side Hwy location on your next trip in this general direction. It is quite a show.
The best place from which to enjoy the festivities is pressed against the glass doors at the head of the line while being screamed at, in Chinese (curses no doubt), by a mass of unruly would-be pickers-up. From this vantage point you can truly appreciate the fact that you do not spend your days as an underpaid rent-a-cop stationed between a bunch of impatient travelers and their, apparently very popular and highly prized, visas. I can vouch for the experience because that is exactly the position in which I found myself today as I sought my own Chinese tourist visa, for my trip later this month.
Here’s how your visit could go:
After waiting in the (wrong) line for 30 minutes you may find yourself summoned to the head of the queue by a nice blond woman who feels your pain, as I did. And you might encounter at your back an abrasive but helpful fellow New Yorker seeking visas for her clothing-executive bosses, just as I did. And this abrasive but helpful New Yorker who “does this all the time” will promptly begin banging on the door, seeking the attention of the guard who may not-so-politely tell her that she has to wait her “goddamn” turn.
Once inside, the abrasive-but-helpful-New Yorker will guide you through the masses of people to a hidden kiosk that produces little slips of paper, which suddenly banish the confusion in favor of order and precision. Only the abrasive-but-helpful-New Yorker will argue that the system doesn’t work at all, and you should just place yourself (behind her) in a line, despite the number on your ticket being 155 (same as the number above the teller’s window) and the number on her ticket being called to a different window.
At this point you will wait while your abrasive-but-helpful-New Yorker friend unnecessarily subverts the system and the vaguely German fellow behind you tacitly accuses you of disrupting the flow.
You will shortly find yourself at the window, having been summarily abandoned by the abrasive-but-helpful-New Yorker. In a maximum of 25 seconds at the window you will disgorge your application, passport, and photo and will be given, in exchange, a simple, carbon copy receipt, and will be ordered to return four working-days hence.
At this point you may or may not meet up with your abrasive but helpful New Yorker in her mad dash to get back downtown to her clothing-executives bosses. She might offer to share a cab with you, on her bosses nickel, of course, but seeing as it’s a beautiful day out you decline and bid her goodbye.