Passports by Male
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Passports by Male By Deborah Gale, September, 2002 Once upon a time, this summer, I woke up with “nothing” to do…ok, it's a fairytale. Seeking passive entertainment I started cleaning out the worst of the junk drawers and stumbled upon the family passports. I noticed that four of my daughters’ passports needed renewal, by October. I found myself congratulating myself on: a) finding them in the first place b) spotting the renewal was nearing c) planning to participate in the Passports-By-Mail (PBM) scheme Passports-By-Mail sounds so expedient and thoroughly sensible, doesn't it? I had already successfully PBM'd our eldest daughter when I noticed that her prepaid trip to France with the 'leavers' was a non-starter unless we got her a new passport - VITE! Author’s Note: "Leavers" is another quaint English-ism for what we would call graduating or moving up. To my ear, leaver implies going but staying in neutral, whereas graduation suggests ascension.but there was no time to split hairs here. Our leaver wouldn't even be heading SIDEWAYS without her passport so I made the dreaded call to the Passport Unit at the American Embassy. There were six options offered by the polite computer voice system. I spoke clearly when prompted and waited for the magic envelope that would make queuing indefinitely at the embassy unnecessary. The day it arrived I took my first born to the chemist to get her shots...only kidding, to have her passport pictures taken. I mailed off the package with original birth certificates, my passport, and my husband's passport telling him he would have to postpone any plans he had to leave me, or the country in the next ten business days. Exactly seven days later my pre-addressed envelope arrived with all original documents, including my daughter's new passport. I already loved on-line catalog shopping but now I was hooked. PBM was the only way to renew. Still feeling some residual elation months later, I decided to go for the first ever attempt at a quadruple PBM last week. This required Olympic standard precision. I planned to mail the hefty special recorded delivery package the morning my husband returned from the states, 24 hours before we left for our one week holiday in Cornwall. By my calculations, this would painlessly tick off five of the expected ten business days this was supposed to take. I returned to the chemist with both sets of twins for four sets of passport photos. I was assured by the same pharmacist/photographer that despite the nasty rumors circulating about the US having changed the dimensions for passport photos and that you only needed two not four, we would be fine. I willed myself to believe him. I even managed to keep my Zen-like cool when my husband refused to surrender his passport and told me his CA driving license wouldn't work since it had just expired. I needed proof of his existence. I "borrowed" his UK driving license while he was napping and slipped the entire package into the mail on our way out of town. We returned from Cornwall to a mountain of mail. I randomly sifted through it and fell ill when I saw he American Embassy return address label. It turns out that the rumors were true. They had changed the photo size, thereby making every passport picture offered practically everywhere in the UK invalid for US passports. I noticed that there was a handwritten addition on the bottom of the letter saying that a photo purveyor called Snappy Snaps was an authorized vendor. I made immediate plans to get everyone to Windsor at dawn the next morning for a retake. Turns out that this particular Snappy Snap outlet didn't have the right camera and the closest one was Reading, a 30 minute to several hour train journey, depending on undependable British Rail. Disappointed but hopeful I went to every other camera shop in Windsor only to hear the same story. I instantly decided on the children's holiday activity for the next day. I could haul the troops into London on the train, tube it to the Snappy Snaps with the right camera in the general vicinity of the embassy and then hand deliver the new photos directly to the Passport Office. Voila! My husband thought I was insane. Why would I want to drag unwilling children through the underground during a heat wave, so that we could queue the best part of a day away at the embassy? He suggested I might rethink this. I promised I would. My 4:00a.m nightmare was getting separated from two of the four at a tube stop, during rush hour. I rethought. The next morning I dropped the only renewed and valid passport holding daughter in the family off at the neighbors. I hoped they were home. I threw the other four in the car and flew to the car park at the train station. Leaving the children in the car I jogged to buy the pay and display sticker. It was £2.60 for the day. For the first time in recorded history I had exact change. With five minutes to spare I confidently approached the inanimate but all knowing machine in control of my immediate destiny. It took the 50p, the 10p and refused my £2, repeatedly. I sunk to my knees and tore my purse apart in search of the two, one pound coins. I could see the two sets of twins singing along with the radio in our van, fifty yards away. I could not see another soul in the acres of parking. I did what anyone in my position would have done. I kicked the pay and display machine before I burst into tears. Seconds later a maroon sedan approached, slowed to a stop and a businessman emerged. I held out the £2 coin. He took one look at me, handed me his two one pound coins and vanished. I think he was an angel. We made it to Reading, found Snappy Snaps, got the pic's and then I did the unthinkable. I called the embassy, and begged to be connected to passport services. I promised someone named Mark that I would name my next born child for him if he helped me. He promised me that he would get my passport and my husbands driving license back to me so that we can make a trip to France next weekend. It will be our first trip without children in eons. Might Mark have a chance? At this writing I do not have my passport or the Brit's driving license and there is no sign of the four renewed passports. Oh well, I never planned on having any more children and producing a boy with our track record does seem a bit ambitious. But you'll know if I make it to France. I'll be telling everyone PBM really means Passports By Mark. About the author: Deborah S. Gale is a Pennsylvania native, loving mother of five daughters aged four to nine including two sets of twins. Married to a classically cynical, witty Brit with whom she enjoyed DINKY status briefly. She hasn’t held a full time bill paying or spa treatment-covering job since the children and spent most of the '90's as an expat. wife and mother in Paris and London. After 23 years of calling Silicon Valley home, she bid adieu to the South Bay in December 2000 when she made a permanent move back to the UK. She writes a regular column for the American in Britain magazine.
