AMP Treatise

The most fun part of any trip, as is commonly known, is applying for a visa. I’ve never had to get a visa since every international location I’ve gone has happily accepted my Swedish Passport as good enough to entry. I’m waiting for a JW-202 application form which I get directly from the Chinese Ministry of Education. Then I have to go to the Chinese Consulate in Midtown West with the JW-202 form, acceptance letter from CEIBS, physical examination form filled out by a doctor, current passport, 2 photos, and a bunch of patience. Can't wait!

Some Chinese Visa notes courtesy of the infamous Henry Blodget on Slate.com.

In New York, anyway, when it comes to consular real estate, China got the shaft. No 19th-century, Upper East Side mansion for this emerging superpower. China's consulate is a cookie-cutter rectangle on the corner of 12th Avenue and 42nd Street, overlooking the West Side Highway and the docks of the Circle Line. As I made the pilgrimage west from Times Square, trudging into the icy wind, wiping construction grit from my eyes, I figured that the journey might be best conducted as a tribute to the late Hunter S. Thompson.

I'd brought along The China Dream, Joe Studwell's chronicle of centuries of idiot foreigners trying to "crack the greatest untapped market on earth," as an ironic prop, but I didn't even get to open it. In the consulate lobby, feeling guilty about being oblivious to the plight of the Falun Gong protesters outside, I was shooed through the metal detector into a Department of Motor Vehicles-like waiting room. I took a number, sat in a plastic bucket seat beside an incongruous, rock-sculpture fountain, and began to fill out the visa form. Then, even without pharmaceuticals, the experience became vaguely Thompson-esque:

AFFIX PASSPORT PHOTO HERE. Passport photo! Oh, Christ, I've forgotten to get a passport photo. I've wasted the trip!

Wait, why do I need a passport photo? Why can't I just Xerox the one in my passport? And just my luck that this appears to be the only DMV waiting room in history in which I won't have time to hike to Times Square and back before my number is called. Oh, wait, there's an in-house photographer!

Of course there's an in-house photographer. In fact, the system has clearly been designed to make me use the in-house photographer. She no doubt charges Shylock rates—if she'll even take my picture. This is China—and I don't have guanxi!

No line, no bribes, a pretty smile, and a (relatively) reasonable $8 for a last-minute Polaroid? What's the catch? No catch? Just a quick blow of the hair-dryer on the Polaroid paper and I'm done? How do I say "Thank you" in Chinese? Should I bow, too? Do they bow in China—or is that just Japan? If I bow, will I trigger some deep xeno-driven offense ("The clueless bastard thinks all Asians look alike!")?
They're about to call my number! Quick—finish the form! Does "home address" mean "residence address" or "mailing address"? If I write my mailing address, will I be accused of fraud?

If I hadn't already been accused of fraud, I wouldn't be filling out this damn form. I'd be sitting at some cushy hedge-fund applying for a visa by mail—while looking forward to helicopter tours of the Great Wall and investor soirees in the Forbidden City with dim sum and chardonnay.

I finished the visa form and shoved it under the bulletproof glass to a scowling "Ms. Ding." She shoved back a receipt and told me to pick up my visa on Monday.