Stories & Lifestyle: The visa interview – my experiences

Below, you will find Holger C. Breuer's experiences as he has published them on his homepage www.tc-world.com/comingin_us.html.

My way to America goes via Frankfurt, one way or the other. The weather seems to be a credit to my destination - it is raining buckets just like in the Pacific Northwest. Frankfurt is not only where the planes leave from, it is also the place to get your admission ticket - at the US consulate on Siesmayerstrasse. Right at the entrance of Siesmayerstrasse is the almost legendary kiosk where those who haven't read the strict rules for the visa application - the reason I am here - can leave their cell phones or bags for a very small fee. In groups of four you are admitted into the courtyard, surrounded by solid, dark-green iron bars.

Similar fences can be found in the Frankfurt zoo. The lady at pre-checking is hyper-nervous, maybe she forgot her bullet proof vest today. Show your passport, wait a few minutes, and you are admitted into the building. Security check. Valuables, keys etc. are separately passed through entrance control. I am beeping, so I have to remove my belt, I can, however, keep my shoelaces. Security measures you know from airports or prison movies. I follow a fenced-in path into the building and enter a lobby that is decorated with flags and photos. Dick Cheney grins in his picture frame as if to say, don't even think you could find a loophole!

I am holding a green card in my hand, which, of course, is not a "green card." Most of the others have blue ones, and are, of course, called in before me. My card is for later. Finally, the green ones are allowed to line up. The tension is almost whirring, the pressure is not without results, with angry faces and serious expressions they create a climate that makes you ready to confess. Suddenly, the pressure is on me too, even though I am so well instructed and prepared, this is not my first visa, but the first after 9/11, because the stupid photographer who took the passport picture wasn't familiar with the requirements of Mr. Chertoff, who is the head of US Homeland Security since 2005, and, mea culpa, I myself also didn't check everything - one ear is missing from my photo, i.e. it is not visible, and if I am planning to enter the US with both ears, I will need a new photo in my passport. Great. And I thought, I had done my homework. The question on the application form asking whether I had ever participated in the persecution of any person under the Nazi regime, or in genocide, I answered with "no."
Well, the lady at the counter is very nice, a German, and points out the photo booth that is somewhere in the hallway.

And indeed, there are actually two booths, with a short line in front of them, because one is, of course, out of order, and the other demands some kind of storage medium that, naturally, no mortal carries along, and if anyone did, he would have had handed it in at the entrance. I could also hand in a photo later, the lady finally informs me and puts me in the second line. Here, there are Americans, now things start getting serious, the pre-sorting can be left to locals.

The suspense keeps growing. Now, it's my turn. My so-called interview. A very likable man in his mid-thirties, probably of Levantine ancestry.

First, fingerprints, please. I wonder whether they already sort out the smokers this way. A flip-book style checking of my documents. Stamp. No word about the photo, the man seems content with just one ear. First he asks me what that is, a cabaret artist. I answer, even though I don't like the word, " a comedian." "Really?" he raises his eyebrows, more due to enthusiasm, and smiles. I hope I don't have to perform, I haven't rehearsed anything. He wants to know everything, how long have I been doing this, is this my regular occupation, the only question missing is: what do you do during the day? What do I want to do in the US? A report about Greyhound. Oh, he could tell stories about that as well. He rolls his eyes, but keeps smiling. Where did I want to go? Seattle. Oh, his sister is living there, she loves it. Who is interviewing who here? Now his turn again: when will my article be published? Probably not this year anymore. He seems truly distraught. So, we will have to wait for that a while, he says, and: good luck. That was it. That was it? All that trouble for this? It's a little load off my mind.