The smiling faces of

Nice as the people down at the Washington Passport Agency are, I really hate them. Well, okay, hate being kind of a strong word, but they are seriously irritating.

When we last left off on Monday, I was about to go down there after receiving a letter telling me that I needed to submit my high school yearbook as further identification before they would give me a passport. Yes. Those of you who said, "Wuhhh?" were right in line with my reaction.

So I went. And there I sat for a few hours, with my yearbooks from third grade though high school, feeling like a complete idiot. I talked to several people, and finally ended up in a small, locked, windowless room with a couple of very nice but nosy and persistent people who wanted to know a great many things about me. Finally, I had cleared up whatever they wanted cleared up, and they gave me a will call slip and told me I could come back Wednesday at two to fetch my passport.

Cut to Wednesday. I get to the Passport Agency about a quarter before two, and head straight to the check-in window, where I know you can pick up your passport before the will call lines start building up. You can, but when I got there, not only did they not have my passport, but when the woman checked in the computer system, it said it hadn't been processed yet. So, true to bureaucratic form, she gave me a number to talk to a supervisor.

After about half an hour, the supervisor looked in the computer system again and agreed that there was no sign my passport had ever been processed. "Are you sure you filled out all the supplemental identification paperwork?" he asked. "Are you sure they told you to come today?"

Pointing to my will call slip, I insisted that, yes, I was sure.

So he figured out who I had talked to on Monday, and called her. After a few minutes of cryptic conversation, he hangs up and tells me that Miss Grant needs to talk to me again. She has a couple people in with her now, so he doesn't know how long it will be. So, heart in my throat, I sit and wait.

And I sit and wait. And I sit and wait. I watch the Winona Ryder verdict live on CNN. I chat with the Chief White House Correspondent for the New York Times, who needs a new passport by the end of the day to submit to the White House for visas for an upcoming presidential trip. (He, btw, looked exactly like the movie version of a chief WH correspondent. And he was very into the fact that he was, in fact, the CWHC for the NY Times. And he was quite put out that the woman behind the counter (a dead ringer for Queen Latifah, amusingly) was not nearly as into that fact as he was. This provided nearly an hour of entertainment, about six times as long as the Winona Ryder verdict).

So finally, 15 minutes after the agency is technically closed, Miss Grant comes down to talk to me. She is holding a beautiful, precious, coveted blue envelope. "I didn't know you were coming back for it today," she says, having apparently completely forgotten my frantic squeakings about my departure date less than 48 hours earlier. "Did I tell you to come back today? Do you have a will call slip? Oh, gosh, I'm sorry. I forgot. I had it sitting on my desk upstairs. I'm sorry. I hope you weren't waiting too long."

Sigh.

But I have it. They gave it to me, and I have it, and I'm going.

The smiling faces of

Nice as the people down at the Washington Passport Agency are, I really hate them. Well, okay, hate being kind of a strong word, but they are seriously irritating.

When we last left off on Monday, I was about to go down there after receiving a letter telling me that I needed to submit my high school yearbook as further identification before they would give me a passport. Yes. Those of you who said, "Wuhhh?" were right in line with my reaction.

So I went. And there I sat for a few hours, with my yearbooks from third grade though high school, feeling like a complete idiot. I talked to several people, and finally ended up in a small, locked, windowless room with a couple of very nice but nosy and persistent people who wanted to know a great many things about me. Finally, I had cleared up whatever they wanted cleared up, and they gave me a will call slip and told me I could come back Wednesday at two to fetch my passport.

Cut to Wednesday. I get to the Passport Agency about a quarter before two, and head straight to the check-in window, where I know you can pick up your passport before the will call lines start building up. You can, but when I got there, not only did they not have my passport, but when the woman checked in the computer system, it said it hadn't been processed yet. So, true to bureaucratic form, she gave me a number to talk to a supervisor.

After about half an hour, the supervisor looked in the computer system again and agreed that there was no sign my passport had ever been processed. "Are you sure you filled out all the supplemental identification paperwork?" he asked. "Are you sure they told you to come today?"

Pointing to my will call slip, I insisted that, yes, I was sure.

So he figured out who I had talked to on Monday, and called her. After a few minutes of cryptic conversation, he hangs up and tells me that Miss Grant needs to talk to me again. She has a couple people in with her now, so he doesn't know how long it will be. So, heart in my throat, I sit and wait.

And I sit and wait. And I sit and wait. I watch the Winona Ryder verdict live on CNN. I chat with the Chief White House Correspondent for the New York Times, who needs a new passport by the end of the day to submit to the White House for visas for an upcoming presidential trip. (He, btw, looked exactly like the movie version of a chief WH correspondent. And he was very into the fact that he was, in fact, the CWHC for the NY Times. And he was quite put out that the woman behind the counter (a dead ringer for Queen Latifah, amusingly) was not nearly as into that fact as he was. This provided nearly an hour of entertainment, about six times as long as the Winona Ryder verdict).

So finally, 15 minutes after the agency is technically closed, Miss Grant comes down to talk to me. She is holding a beautiful, precious, coveted blue envelope. "I didn't know you were coming back for it today," she says, having apparently completely forgotten my frantic squeakings about my departure date less than 48 hours earlier. "Did I tell you to come back today? Do you have a will call slip? Oh, gosh, I'm sorry. I forgot. I had it sitting on my desk upstairs. I'm sorry. I hope you weren't waiting too long."

Sigh.

But I have it. They gave it to me, and I have it, and I'm going.