I was beginning to feel a bit like one of the Volga Boatmen running back and forth to the Russian Embassy in Rome. Another day there, a little more suffering. A little more suffering, a little more insight. I'm living a Dostoevsky novel, apparently--The Idiot, perhaps.
Check out this video to get the full flavor of my morning:
The Vice Consul was unaware when he sold me the 95-Euro visa that the new computer system at the consulate could not be coaxed into issuing a visa on a passport that had less than six months to live. It was an honest mistake. "So since it was your honest mistake," I asked politely, "hows about a refund?" The response was a resounding "Nyet."
On the brighter side, it looks like I will get most of my money back on my apartment reservation and air fare. The airfare requires some sort of documentation from the Russian Consulate for a full refund. Stay tuned for "From Russia Without Love 3."
Hot on the heels of yesterday's pain-body attack, I managed to remain conscious throughout all of this bad news, laughing off the visa's final death knell.
But on the way home, I'd had enough. I needed to take some personal time, do something just for me. That's where the addictive behavior came in.
