Obtaining a Foreign Passport - My Los Angeles Experience

As I stepped out of the airport and into the thin Los Angeles air, I watched with fresh (but bleary) eyes as a blue shuttle bus drove past the labeled support column I knew I needed to walk toward. Of course, that was my connection, and I stared aimlessly through it as it drove on its merry way—without me on it. So, forty minutes it was to have a seat on the bench and wait for the next one. No problem, that wouldn’t set me back too far.

            “You headed to Union Station?” A fellow traveler standing nearby asked as I pulled a pair of leggings out of my backpack to put on over my shorts–I was freezing.

            “Yes I am. You too?”

            He explained that he was coming back home from a trip to Hawai’i and I shared that I was there to visit with family. The next shuttle showed itself twenty minutes early; that’s always a nice surprise.

            A forty-three-minute ride later, I found myself standing outside of a very closed Union Station, it was almost one o’clock in the morning, after all. I walked to the spot an unhelpful Google Maps route appeared to tell me to go to in order to wait for a bus. That was not the right spot. It ended up taking me nearly a half hour just to figure out where the hell I was supposed to go and constantly changing bus routes for the ones still operating as I frustratingly walked in circles, my irritability increasing as each male passerby seemed to have something to say to me. It was difficult to tell the travelers apart from the homeless because we all looked the same–we were all exhausted, lost or seemingly wandering with no sense of time or direction and with all of our belongings attached to us, and some of us were definitely on drugs.

            By the time I found a good route, I had no choice but to walk through the empty building in order to get to the opposite side of it and come out on the street parallel to the one I arrived to, thank Gods for the helpful security guard that allowed me safe passage. For those reading this post that are familiar with the area, I hopped off the shuttle on Vignes Street, and my next connection was off Alameda Street. But I was not safe yet. Because once I realized where the bus stop was located, I also had a moment to take in my surroundings—and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

            The bus stop sign was clear ahead, just across the street and dimly lit by the illumination of the flickering street lamp and traffic light above it. There was no bench or protective cubby to shield from the elements, but thankfully it was a clear night, just a little chilly. Beyond it lay the true test; could I survive standing beside it waiting for a bus that may not show up while surrounded by the scattered bodies of drunks and junkies and homeless people laying about the sidewalk and stairs and stumbling by with mindless missions while avoiding eye contact at all costs? It was as if I’d entered a scene from The Walking Dead. Mind you, I have nothing against these sorts, I believe in helping people rather than shaming them or criminalizing them. Unfortunately, such things must be stated; every last damn thing in this life is political. However, I was just a mere one-hundred-and-five-pound woman with no weaponry in the middle of the night and the utmost alertness is warranted in these situations; the particular situation where the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight and your back gets hot and the only thought that crosses your mind is: I shouldn’t be here right now.

            I walked past a man hunched over in a wheelchair with a blanket over his head that held no motion, and the creeping thought that he might be dead prowled and clawed at my insides. A woman approached me, looking lost and clearly high, and motioned for me to follow her. I took two steps back and she took three forward, so I turned on my heel and walked in the opposite direction and she followed. I switched again and this happened two more times, she follows, I back up, turn around, continue, she looks behind me to ensure I’m following her. By this point I had become so irritable and exhausted and afraid that all I could do was let out a very loud and rude, “HEY! I’m not following you and you’re not going to follow me, so go on and get!” She looked at me incredulously, as if I’d just kidnapped her dog, then turned and disappeared into the night. I felt bad afterward, but I had to keep myself safe.

            By the time I finally got to the bus stop I stood in silence, looking down as three different men staggered past me: one in a rush, one in a daze, and the last with a frantic and delirious gait that sent a gut-wrenching twinge throughout my nervous system, alerting my intuition to steer clear. Seven minutes ticked by as slowly as seven hours and it was grueling. In case you’re wondering, yes I could have avoided this entire situation by ordering a rideshare, but I am hopelessly stubborn when it comes to spending extra money on transportation and dangerously confident in my ability to survive ridiculous situations I put myself in. I am always interested to see if I can pull something off. Don’t be like me, order an Uber or Lyft.

The bus showed itself and I hopped on quickly and attempted to pay by card with my hands shaking uncontrollably. The payment wasn’t going through fast enough and the kind bus driver motioned for me to have a seat anyway. About fifteen minutes later, I got off and walked four minutes to my hostel in the eerily empty streets of downtown Los Angeles. I checked in, rode the elevator up to my dorm, and quietly situated myself in the dark so as not to wake the other sleeping travelers.

            I slept for about four hours (missing my alarm in the process) and quickly jumped out of bed when I realized that if I didn’t get a move on it STAT that I would miss my very important appointment at the Consulate General of Italy.

Third time’s the charm, I repeated in my head at least a thousand times since a few weeks before boarding my flight. Yes, this was my third attempt at obtaining my EU passport that rightfully belonged to me as a dual citizen. These people make everything so difficult.

I rushed downstairs to check out, unable to take a shower beforehand as I’d overslept. I basically ran to the subway station and frantically obtained a reloadable card from the ticket booth, caught two subways, a bus, and then walked about ten minutes to the building. At one point I stopped to reload the card to ensure I’d have enough and not miss my connection just to watch the bus stop by as I was doing so and as I ran to catch it, my open purse scattered about the sidewalk and as I scrambled to collect my belongings, not one single person let the bus driver know to wait for three seconds and suddenly I looked like a crazy person slamming my fist on the door as I caught it just in time as it was taking off. Mind you, at least three people out of the large group waiting for it watched the whole thing happen and nobody had the courtesy to say, “Hey, we got one more coming.” Not that the world owes me a damn thing, but that would never happen where I live in O’ahu. Ah, jeez where the hell is the comradery? I apologized to the bus driver for coming off as aggressive and she nodded in understanding, I’m sure it wasn’t difficult to tell that I was not from the area and I clearly was desperate to catch that bus. I shrugged it off as I sat down and gathered the things I had dropped once again after finding a seat.

As I walked toward the building, I stopped just short of the entrance uncertain that I was in the right place until I recognized a spot marked by a tree nested in concrete that served as seating. I had spent a good twenty or so minutes crying hysterically at that spot after my failed second appointment just a few months prior to this moment.

I finally had everything ready to go, every last nitpicky process had been completed as I pulled out of my flimsy purple folder every last document they could possibly need to prove my legitimacy before the clerk could even list them off, and my appointment took less than twenty minutes, and then another half hour as I waited for my passport to be printed and handed to me on my way out. Yes, handed to me the same day.

Twenty minutes. All of that, years in the making, for just… twenty. Minutes. I sat in a daze as I watched others be told “No, you’re missing this document,” or “No, we can’t do it that way,” or the favorite, “No, you are not properly registered to this jurisdiction,” for passports, visas, and other appointments related to straightening out tedious legalities regarding property ownership documentation. They just love to tell people, “No.” But I couldn’t complain as I reached for my new passport and felt the very real material of it in my possession: freedom at last. The possibilities are endless now; I can finally pack up and head for Europe pretty much whenever I want to after this. That is, once more business gets handled.

Of course, it was more than that for me. With the U.S. falling into fascism and authoritarianism and my increasing disdain for the disgusting views my “fellow” Americans seemed to openly share with the world it was no doubt I wanted to make sure Plan B was set clear in stone for myself to get out immediately at any given moment. We’re not racist. We’re not sexist. We are not white supremacists.

Give me a fucking break. And shut the fuck up. You’ve exposed yourselves.

I left the building a bit stunned, slightly stupefied, if you will. I sat at that concrete benching at the landmark tree that I once dramatically bawled my eyes out near but this time, the sweet taste in my mouth trumped any previous negative emotions as I reclaimed that spot as a triumphant location with a grin from ear to ear. But goodness was my mouth dry. I hadn’t had any water since my canister ran out about an hour and a half before. An hour is a long time when you’re running around on a mission and sweating into your eyeballs. I knew a Ralph’s was located just down the street and I was in desperate need of water… and alcohol. Strutting down the street with a new sense of accomplishment I almost completely missed a marijuana dispensary before stopping abruptly and noticing it.

Oh, yeah. It’s definitely time for a victory J, I’d say.

I didn’t hesitate for a second to take advantage of it for recreational use with zero consequences before I was already waltzing inside and buying two pre-rolled joints after chatting up the cashiers (I’m a HUGE people-person and the good moods elevate that). I made my brief trip into Ralph’s for my drinks and headed for the bus stop to begin making my way to Fullerton. Of course, I waited at the wrong stop and missed the bus. No worries, I desperately needed to take a piss anyway.

I walked into a medical office that was strangely similar to some sort of government building and immediately ran into a security guard that looked suspiciously angry.

Fuck.

“Do you work here?” He eyed me suspiciously.

“Yes,” I have no idea why I’d say that. “Err… No, sir, so sorry I just really gotta use the bathroom… can I please?”

He sighed heavily, clearly sick of this shit as I couldn’t possibly have been the first person to stop by to ask. The man took the time out of his day to lead me through two corridors and three locked doors that could only be opened with his security key. I won’t lie, halfway through I had begun to feel suspicious myself, Bruh… where is this man taking me?? But as I relieved myself (sometimes a good pee is better than sex when your bladder feels on the verge of explosion), I wondered something: was this the “pretty privilege” the internet has been talking about? Think about it: I straight-up lied to this man about being a worker in the building just so I could use the lua, and then he proceeded to take me through a maze so I could use it. He did not have to do that, and was it truly just out of the goodness of his heart, or would he have done the same if I was some middle-aged overweight bald man? I’ve told myself that the answer to that question is yes. Yes, he would have.

Anyway, a bus, two more subways, and a whole train ride later I finally found myself in Fullerton where my wonderful cousin walked me to her home from the train station and my uncle gave me a free joint. It was truly time to relax, enjoy some weed, some family time, and a real accomplishment for a couple days before I set off back home.

And I must say, the running and roaming and fear and self-sufficiency in the navigation of it all has led to one thing I’m most certain: I now have a deep appreciation for Los Angeles… and I am eager for another hectic and chaotic trip around the city.