Passport photos and the disappearance of my principles...

I need to renew my passport.  What could be simpler, I hear those of you who live in the UK ask.  Well, many things.  Many, many, many things.  Like...  pushing a camel through the eye of a needle.  Finding your way through the Moscow metro system first time as a new arrival.  Getting your kids to proactively pack their school bags in the morning.  You know the sort of stuff I mean.

But renewing your passport as a British citizen from within Russia?  Not simple at. All.

And it's not about the forms, the supporting documentation, the references, or the amount of time the system takes. (Although...  No.  I'm not going there.  Not yet, anyway).  No, the main roadblock to getting a British passport renewed whilst you're living in Russia?  The ruddy photographs, to the point that when I next get back to the UK I will just get a whole load taken and put them away until needed.

Husband assured me it would be no big deal.  He would take me to a friendly photo shop he knew, he said.  Somewhere he always goes for his visa photos etc, he said.  Somewhere they are really helpful, he said.

This is why, on the way to said photo shop, he stopped the car, pointed at a random building at the side of the road, and said "Actually this one's closer.  Let's go here."

Me:  "OK.  Ummm - have you been here before?"

Husband;  "No.  But I'm sure it will be fine."

We walk in.  There is a small unwashed-looking gentleman lounging behind an office desk, surrounded by photographic equipment.  We look at him.  He looks at us.  We all look at each other.

Silence.

Husband (blinking first and losing face in the process):  "We would like some passport photos, please."

Unwashed gentleman.  "What?"

Husband  "Passport photos.  Of my wife.  Can you help us?"

Unwashed gentleman (yet to crack a smile or welcome us into his store), to me:  "Take off your coat, sit there."

I took off my coat, sat there.  He looked at me, critically.

"Tell her to turn to look to the side*."

Me:  "We don't have to do that for British passports.  We just look straight ahead."

"Tell her to push her hair back."

I push my hair back.

"More."

I push it back more.

"No, more!  Behind her ears!  We need to show her ears!"

Me:  "We don't need to show ears in Britain.  We just - oh, for pete's sake." I push my hair back behind my ears.

"Tell her to push her fringe off her forehead."

Me to Husband.  "We don't have to do that in - Can you just tell him to take the frigging photograph?"

Husband laughs.  "Don't get stressed.  Why are you stressed?"

Me:  "Because he's being so rude!  Why is that necessary?  I just want a passport photo...my fringe is fine..."  I give up and push my fringe to the side.

He takes the photo.  One photo.  I suppose it would be a waste to press that finger on the button twice.  He looks at the photo on the camera and sighs heavily.  I am clearly not Russia's Next Top Model.  Glumly, he downloads it to the computer.

He then starts messing about with the cursor.

Me:  "What are you doing?"  No answer.  "Husband, what is he doing?"

Husband, barely holding in the mirth.  "Photoshopping your hair, darling.  Apparently it needs work..."

Me:  "He's what?"

Husband, smirking:  "Calm down.  We're in Russia. It's what they do."

Me:  "Well, it's not what they do in England.  We just use the photos of us, as we are.  And if he starts to mess about with my face I'll never get the passport."

Silence, whilst unwashed gentleman - who has ignored me throughout - begins to adjust the photos to the correct size.  I consider my options, then turn to Husband.  "But, since we are in Russia, maybe you could ask him to tighten my jawline whilst he's at it?"**



*Many countries require a slight turn to the head so that they can see half profiles in passports.

**OK.  I didn't ask him to do that.  But god, the temptation...

On looking forward...

I think I saw my future today.  Well, one possible version of it, at any rate.

At the consulate this morning to collect some documents, I was in line behind a young couple with a little boy of only a few weeks old.  The father was British, the mother was Russian, and they were there to apply for a passport for their baby.  When they reached the head of the very short line, the mother went to sit down and feed the baby, whilst the father had the following exchange with the lady on the desk.

"I'm here to apply for a passport for my son."  There was an expectant pause.  Which went on.  And on.  Finally, the clerk asked for the paperwork, at which point the father stood there a little longer before fishing it out of a plastic bag and handing it over.  From then on, all went smoothly.

I'm not quite sure what the (probably sleep-deprived and no doubt exhausted) new father had been expecting to happen on making his initial announcement, but remembering something of the extraordinary sense of pride a first-time parent feels in their offspring, I suspect he was waiting for the clerk to offer him her most heart-felt congratulations on the safe arrival of his no doubt brilliant child.  Perhaps, even, the popping of champagne corks and party poppers wouldn't be out of the question?

Needless to say, it was not forthcoming.  This lady probably deals with 5 - 10 such applications a day and was unimpressed.

You may be wondering why I think this little exchange could be a snapshot of my future.  Well, it's not - not directly.  But as I sat there watching this couple going through a key rite of passage for their baby son, it suddenly occurred to me that somewhere, probably back in the UK, there is a grandmother for whom this morning's events will be hugely important.  That this little boy getting a passport will mean she gets to see more of him growing up.  That she probably feels she's missing so much of his growing up already, and that when her son makes a call to her at some point over the next few days and tells her the passport application is in process, a heavy weight will lift from her shoulders and she'll start to make plans for their visit 'home'.

Last summer a good friend mentioned to me in passing that she wants to be back in her country of origin before her children are teenagers.  She feels that getting them back 'home' at that age is her best defence against her sons and daughters marrying people who will pull them not just one or two hours away from the family home, but a four or five hour flight away.  She wants the opportunity to be a part of her children's lives as they raise their own families, in the far off distant future.

This hadn't occurred to me before, but what she said stayed with me.  And when I saw a young family this morning who may or may not choose to make their home in Russia rather than back in the UK, it occurred to me that in years to come I might be that woman with sons who have married far from home, waiting for confirmation from them that being a part of my grandchildren's lives just got a little easier.

It sent something of cold chill through me, I have to admit.