I'm sitting in Catherine and Philip's living room in Dublin, where things are winding down after a lively fourth birthday celebration for their son Matthew. I've spent the past couple days in Dublin, enjoying the company of Catherine, Philip, and Matthew, as well as my friend Cathal, thanks to the breakdown in diplomatic relations between Iran and the UK after the 2011 attack on the British embassy in Tehran. Since that time, there's been no Iranian embassy in London, and Dublin's the closest place to go for a visa. Getting the visa gave me a healthy preview of some of the highs and lows of travel.
As far as I could tell, the best way to get a visa was to go through an agency in Iran: the embassy in Dublin never answers their phone, and the best way to avoid spending several precious days in Dublin (and an uncertain number of them, which is a problem when it comes to booking flights) waiting for them to process the visa seemed to be to pay an agency to sort things out so that all that would be left for me to do would be to show up at the embassy with an authorization number and walk out fifteen minutes later with a visa. So I did that back in February, got my authorization number, and showed up at the Iranian embassy in Blackrock in south Dublin this morning. The embassy opens at 9:30, and when I arrived at 9:15 there was already a crowd milling about outside. With one exception, I was the only non-Iranian, and (including the other non-Iranian) it seemed almost all the people there had travelled to Dublin from somewhere in the UK. I imagine the business passing through the Dublin embassy must have mushroomed in the last year.
I then sat in a cramped little room for two hours trying to memorize lines for the play I'll be acting in in April before my number was called. I came to the desk, gave the guy my passport and authorization number, he went to a binder with all the visa authorization numbers, and told me that my name was nowhere in his binder (like Mitt Romney, he has binders of women, but nothing on me). He also somewhat irritably told me that this was the second time someone had come with an authorization number from this agency that they had no record of. This raised my heart rate somewhat: my flight was leaving in less than 24 hours and I really didn't want to have to incur the cost and loss of time involved in changing my flight, not to mention strain the hospitality of my hosts in Dublin. Following the instructions of the guy in the consular office, I ran to the post office, got some passport photos and a money order for €40, ran back, gave him these documents and he told me he'd do his best. An hour later, I walked out of the Iranian embassy with a visa in my passport. Whew!
Despite the near disaster (it's generally a good idea with these things to leave yourself a few days' leeway but the desire to maximize my time in Iran led me to cut corners this time), the whole experience left me with a good feeling about Iran. The people sharing this cramped little waiting room with me were good-natured, chatty, and helpful. And the guy behind the glass was likewise. He's probably the first official representative of the Islamic Republic of Iran that I've ever met, and he was compassionate, efficient, and dealt with us all with a gentle sense of humour that made the long waits less frustrating. Best of all, I was chatted up as I left the embassy by Elnaz*, an Iranian-British dual citizen who lives in Manchester, who gave me the number of her artist sister in Tehran, telling me she could introduce me to the Tehrani cultural scene. So far the Iranian reputation for hospitality is getting full marks.
* I should note now that, although I don't plan to say anything controversial in this blog, I'll not use the real names of any Iranians I meet.
So now we're all set to go. My alarm goes off at 6am, Philip's heroically offered to drive me to the airport to get there for my 8:15 flight to London, I then hang out in Stansted Airport for three and a half hours before going on to Tehran via Istanbul. I'm scheduled to arrive in Tehran at 4am on 15 March. I have a hotel booked in Tehran that's open 24 hours so I can take a taxi there and collapse until I feel a bit rested. And through couchsurfing.org (which is apparently big in Iran) I have a new friend who's willing to host me in Esfahan the next day. So everything seems under control (knock on wood).
The time in Dublin's been great. Matthew's growing into a delightful bundle of joy, whose current obsession is the Disney film Cars, and he generously invites me into whatever game he's playing. Last night Philip took me to the Abbey Theatre to see a production of King Lear. I've had some nice chats with Catherine, and a walk along Sandymount Strand this evening after Matthew had been tucked into bed. And in addition to being generally good company, Cathal went well out of his way to let me use his office at University College Dublin (where he's a post-doc in philosophy) for a Skype job interview I had today with a cultural institute in Berlin. Which seems to have gone well.
And there's a new pope. I'm sure that will be the talk of Tehran.
As far as I could tell, the best way to get a visa was to go through an agency in Iran: the embassy in Dublin never answers their phone, and the best way to avoid spending several precious days in Dublin (and an uncertain number of them, which is a problem when it comes to booking flights) waiting for them to process the visa seemed to be to pay an agency to sort things out so that all that would be left for me to do would be to show up at the embassy with an authorization number and walk out fifteen minutes later with a visa. So I did that back in February, got my authorization number, and showed up at the Iranian embassy in Blackrock in south Dublin this morning. The embassy opens at 9:30, and when I arrived at 9:15 there was already a crowd milling about outside. With one exception, I was the only non-Iranian, and (including the other non-Iranian) it seemed almost all the people there had travelled to Dublin from somewhere in the UK. I imagine the business passing through the Dublin embassy must have mushroomed in the last year.
I then sat in a cramped little room for two hours trying to memorize lines for the play I'll be acting in in April before my number was called. I came to the desk, gave the guy my passport and authorization number, he went to a binder with all the visa authorization numbers, and told me that my name was nowhere in his binder (like Mitt Romney, he has binders of women, but nothing on me). He also somewhat irritably told me that this was the second time someone had come with an authorization number from this agency that they had no record of. This raised my heart rate somewhat: my flight was leaving in less than 24 hours and I really didn't want to have to incur the cost and loss of time involved in changing my flight, not to mention strain the hospitality of my hosts in Dublin. Following the instructions of the guy in the consular office, I ran to the post office, got some passport photos and a money order for €40, ran back, gave him these documents and he told me he'd do his best. An hour later, I walked out of the Iranian embassy with a visa in my passport. Whew!
Despite the near disaster (it's generally a good idea with these things to leave yourself a few days' leeway but the desire to maximize my time in Iran led me to cut corners this time), the whole experience left me with a good feeling about Iran. The people sharing this cramped little waiting room with me were good-natured, chatty, and helpful. And the guy behind the glass was likewise. He's probably the first official representative of the Islamic Republic of Iran that I've ever met, and he was compassionate, efficient, and dealt with us all with a gentle sense of humour that made the long waits less frustrating. Best of all, I was chatted up as I left the embassy by Elnaz*, an Iranian-British dual citizen who lives in Manchester, who gave me the number of her artist sister in Tehran, telling me she could introduce me to the Tehrani cultural scene. So far the Iranian reputation for hospitality is getting full marks.
* I should note now that, although I don't plan to say anything controversial in this blog, I'll not use the real names of any Iranians I meet.
So now we're all set to go. My alarm goes off at 6am, Philip's heroically offered to drive me to the airport to get there for my 8:15 flight to London, I then hang out in Stansted Airport for three and a half hours before going on to Tehran via Istanbul. I'm scheduled to arrive in Tehran at 4am on 15 March. I have a hotel booked in Tehran that's open 24 hours so I can take a taxi there and collapse until I feel a bit rested. And through couchsurfing.org (which is apparently big in Iran) I have a new friend who's willing to host me in Esfahan the next day. So everything seems under control (knock on wood).
The time in Dublin's been great. Matthew's growing into a delightful bundle of joy, whose current obsession is the Disney film Cars, and he generously invites me into whatever game he's playing. Last night Philip took me to the Abbey Theatre to see a production of King Lear. I've had some nice chats with Catherine, and a walk along Sandymount Strand this evening after Matthew had been tucked into bed. And in addition to being generally good company, Cathal went well out of his way to let me use his office at University College Dublin (where he's a post-doc in philosophy) for a Skype job interview I had today with a cultural institute in Berlin. Which seems to have gone well.
And there's a new pope. I'm sure that will be the talk of Tehran.
if you hadn't got ur visa, I might not have found a great friend like you!
ReplyDeletelucky me!! :D