1987
by
Agnes Wall
"I can't understand why our Traveler's Checks aren't good," I complained to the woman behind the Intourist counter.
"But they are! What makes you think they're not?"
"The lady who sat here yesterday said so."
"You obviously misunderstood her."
Both Cathy and I had heard her. Why must one official say one thing and another something else? The woman interrupted my thoughts. "I understand you wish to pay for your room for three more days. I'm sorry, but you can't."
"Why is that? This hotel is not nearly full." I slipped a package of nylons onto the desk. Her lips curved into a wide smile.
"It's not marked on your visa that you want to stay in Moscow this long. The dates should have been marked on your papers by our embassy in Ottawa."
"The travel bureau in Winnipeg didn't inform us of such a regulation. What do we do now?"
"Go to the Canadian Embassy at this address. Have them write a letter asking if your visit in Moscow may be extended."
Chase all over this huge city just because we needed a number on our visas to stay in a hotel? I remember a friend telling me, "Don't be surprised at the unexpected. The Soviets have their own way of doing things, so you never know what they will do. Keep your cool."
The lady spoke up, "When you have the letter take it to Ovir."
"What is Ovir?"
"Their office processed your visas and passports. They grant you further permission to stay. We here at Intourist then can make you comfortable to enjoy your visit."
At last! Something logical and simple! We set out to hail a taxi. After an hour and a half, a cab, smelling of stale tobacco smoke, stopped for us. The cabbie made a sour face when he found out where we wanted to go. He took us to a certain street corner, stopped and pointed to a large Canadian flag waving above the entrance of a building. Clearly this was as far as he intended to go, so we got out and walked.
The attaché at the embassy agreed to write the letter. "You may come and pick it up tomorrow."
When we informed the friendly woman at the Intourist desk, she said, "In that case, you may stay, of course. How do you like Moscow?"
"So far we haven't seen anything. Since Red Square and the Kremlin aren't far from here we'll go and have a look around." Everything was already closed.
A steady rain fell the next morning. As promised, the embassy had prepared our letter. "You understand that we have no authority at Ovir," the attaché said. "It's still raining, so the least I can do is give you an embassy driver who'll take you there."
We entered a room jammed with people. The driver offered to take our documents to an inner office. "That should speed things up," I said. And we remained with the others. One man, pressed against my side, started a conversation. "I need to immigrate to Israel. So far I've waited three years for my papers. All the men and women here want to leave the country," he said softly.
After an hour and a half, Cathy whispered, "I have a horrible premonition. Our driver will come back and tell us to come here tomorrow."
That is exactly what happened. We stayed on another night. Next day we had train tickets for the country where we wanted to meet with relatives. After queuing up again at Ovir, we got our visas back. No dates were marked on them.
Oh, Rodina, land of my birth, what has become of you?