At the Consulate

It’s happening — I’m heading to the U.S. Consulate in Amsterdam to explain what on earth I’m going to be doing in the United States for six months.

Up early, a little tense; after all, they can simply decide the whole thing isn’t happening.

And there you are, standing in line outside the consulate. A customs officer signals for the next person. It all looks rather mysterious. From a distance I observe, just to get a sense of what’s coming. Security points at the next person’s backpack and asks him to turn it completely inside out right there on the street. It’s approved. The door opens — and quickly shuts again. Phew. Shuffle forward one more step.

The weather is beautiful — thankfully early in the morning, so we’re not all roasting in the sun.

Oh… someone is being turned away; his paperwork isn’t in order. Dejected, he walks past the ever-growing line on Museumplein.

And yes, I’m allowed to step up to the door. The microphone crackles and… the security guard is called away.

Inside

The security guard returns and I press my barcode up against the window. Wow 🤔 — you wouldn’t believe the thoughts running through my head. What an incredibly social and personal welcome committee this is. I feel truly respected and warmly received (that was sarcasm).

Digit by digit, they type the barcode in by hand. Imagine how easy this would be with a scanner, but hey — what do I know?

I’m asked to do a little spin so they can see I’m not carrying a bag. Should I take off my belt too, just to be safe? Gos, stay focused. Alright, alright — be serious, play along 🤗

The door opens and immediately shuts behind me. Phew. I’m inside.

I’m handed a tray and told to empty my pockets. Wallet, keys, documents, watch — oh 😯, sunglasses, sorry 😞. Through the metal detector I go, and… did I win? No beep. The tray passes through another scanner and… nothing there either.

“Move forward to the next room.” 🤐
Okay.

A small room with an old, creaking floor. The walls are lined with oak panelling, giving the space a dusty, dated feel. A winding path made of belt barriers guides me forward, and I’m instructed to follow it. At a small standing table, I hand over my passport, passport photo, and appointment confirmation. The clerk folds everything together and sends me on my way along the route.

There are four small wooden booths, separated by glass windows. It’s a tight fit — more people keep being ushered into the room. You can quite literally hear every conversation taking place.

“Next.” 🎤

Passport photo and ten fingerprints are scanned.
“I’m going to hike the Pacific Crest Trail.”
“Ooh, nice.”
“How do you ship your shoes?”
“Uuuh 🤔… don’t know yet. Probably by drop shipping within the U.S.”
“Alright. You can move to the next room and wait for your interview.”

Room Two

Room two is just as dusty and twice as small. Behind three tiny glass-fronted booths, the interviews take place. People stand so close together that you can clearly hear every conversation happening at all three counters.

A family is heading to Santa Monica for three weeks. Others are traveling for business, transit, study, work — and so on. It’s striking how much they want to know about everyone.

In front of me stands an 18-year-old woman. She’s just finished her vocational education and wants to travel for half a year. She’s originally from Ukraine, but has lived in the Netherlands for ten years. Her father works in baggage handling at Schiphol Airport, her mother takes care of the family.

Then it happens. A blue form with large letters: DECLINED. The disappointment visibly hits her. She wants so badly to travel to the U.S.

My Turn

“Why do you need a six-month visa instead of three?”
“Uuuh… because walking 4,500 kilometres doesn’t really fit into three months.”
“PCT?”
“Yes, the Pacific Crest Trail.”
“Ooh, nice. Issued!”

That was it. One minute 🤣
Passport handed over — it’ll be returned by courier.

And suddenly I’m back outside again. The line is even longer now, but my visa is approved. All that’s left is getting my passport back.