There are moments in life when you find yourself stopping and trying to explain to yourself how you got there, sweating, to 2 Lehi Street, Bnei Brak, to a courier mail warehouse surrounded by a fence and weeds opposite the train station, at five o'clock because they close at five, in order to send documents to the American embassy, to an address that is much closer to home to you than 2 Lehi Street, Bnei Brak.
I've had a long account with Israel Post since that time I sent a complaint to customer service about a clerk smoking inside the branch, and the next time I got there, he asked me why I couldn't just ask him nicely. Now all I have to do is pray that I won't get packages at this branch anymore, because I've already tried all the more mundane solutions. If I were him, I'd probably already put makeup into the package of sports socks from Next. We'll have to hope he doesn't hold a grudge like I do.
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The guy sitting in Botka with the sliding window in the courier mail warehouse was very kind and participated in my sorrow. He also closed the window to show me the note hanging there, as if we were in an Ephraim Kishon movie, stating that they haven't sent documents to the American embassy in 11 months, and go argue with a sign. Yes, it's a bit of a shame that it's hanging there and not, say, where I could have seen it before I drove all the way to 2 Lehi Street, Bnei Brak. But there are probably things that even Israel Post can't do.
I was a girl and also an old man, I signed a mortgage and submitted annual reports. Bureaucracy is no stranger to me and I'm no stranger to it, and some might say (I am, because no one else cares) that I'm even pretty good at it: after all, someone had to submit all these 17 forms for the whole family. Someone had to change the names on all the bills in all three of our apartment moves in the last six years. Someone had to appeal to the municipality because the little one was sent to the wrong kindergarten. And that child, gentlemen, is me. But nothing — I repeat, nothing — prepared me for the seven sections of hell that are issuing a U.S. visa to my two young offspring.
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It all started with a phone call from the producer, who wanted to tell me that I was probably invited to perform in the US in September, and that I had better make all the necessary arrangements. Since the father of these children is also my guitarist, and since no one is interested in our children except us, it looks like they will have to come with us. I wish you didn't know this, but the website of the U.S. Embassy in Israel doesn't have a page with less than seven paragraphs, totaling about 500 words, and I, thank God, have read them all. For those of you who have been spared the pleasure, I will tell you that you have to fill out a 28-page questionnaire that if you don't save, you have to start it all over again.
Even when it comes to visas for my two-year-old son, the questionnaire includes amazing questions such as, "Have you ever been arrested or convicted for a felony or felony, even if you have been pardoned?" Well, the answer is unequivocally yes. The boy has been sneaking onto the balcony at every opportunity for two months and throwing toy cars, clothing items and various foods onto the neighbor's balcony, which furiously throws everything in the trash and sends me voicemails at increasing volume, but I didn't mention it in the questionnaire. "Have you been or are you a drug user?" (No, if you don't consider Nutella), "Do you intend to engage in terrorist activity during your stay in the US?" (Yes, but no more than usual), "Have you ever been deported from any country?" (No, but wait.)
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When you finish the questionnaire, you receive a barcode. The barcode must also be printed and not printed, brought with you for an interview or sent by email or brought with it to Lehi Street, or Second Lehi Street. All the answers are correct, and neither are they. Here and there there are pearls like "For information on renewing other types of visas, please visit the website".
Well, I'm already on the website and there's a huge pink slide with a big red exclamation point with "Urgent Information for Visa Applicants," but this information isn't that urgent and it took me a week to realize that I had to scroll 1.5 feet down to get to the information I'm actually looking for, which right now is "safe ways to commit suicide."
Then you have to upload a picture of the children in weight and file dimensions that are not indicated anywhere, but what you uploaded is not good, and in addition, and regardless, you have to take them to take a passport photo in a dirty shirt from ice cream, because you have to somehow also bribe them to agree. After that, you have to pay a handsome sum on another website, on credit or in cash at the Postal Bank or the Bank of Palestine, of which I currently trust the other more. Then you get another barcode, but another, which you have to paste on the envelope that you may or may not send from 2 Lehi Street, Bnei Brak, 11 months ago.
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I would love to end with good news and tell you that the documents have arrived at the embassy and at a good time my children have received a visa and can fly with me to the US and destroy hotels along the West Coast, but the truth is that I have not yet been able to send the documents. Another piece of good news is that the exemption Bibi promised every Israeli from a visa to the United States is advancing by leaps and bounds. After all, everyone knows that Bibi's word is a word, and it hasn't happened yet just because he intends to collect all the passports and sign them for all of us together during his visit to the White House, which will happen as soon as hell freezes.
And if someone from the embassy happens to be reading this column, I would like to convey that you are amazing, excellent, doing holy work, you are the best representatives of the best country in the world, and I would be really happy if you would forget everything written above and just approve my visas.
Good Bells America!
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