19 September 2011
After a cozy night in Salzburg at the youth hostel, we managed to execute an early start and were on the rainy motorway by 8:15am, headed for Munich.
The drive was entirely uneventful. The rest of the day was not.
While Costas and Ally checked out bag drop options- with the intent of heading to Oktoberfest for the afternoon before our 9:30pm flights- I headed straight for the Sixt desk to negotiate some sort of reimbursement for the headaches earlier in the trip. I spoke to them on my own- trying to play the single-helpless-female-left-stranded-with-a-spare-tire card to boost our case even more. We managed to get the cost of the tire and phone calls removed from the invoice- whether this holds true on the final credit card billing remains to be seen. We had a quick coffee before heading up to the Lufthansa desk to check our bags.
Paul had purchased the tickets in one group and collected our passports to run them through the check-in kiosk.
When mine was scanned, an error message came up:
"Passport not valid for travel."
Paul turns around, "Um....Bonita, it says your passport is not valid."
Right. Hm.
We try again- this time reading the screen more carefully- it says something about three months of validity from the time of travel.
We skip my boarding pass and try Ally's passport, which seems to have some sort of technical trouble. We move to the real person agent to try to get things sorted.
The lovely woman dressed in traditional Bavarian attire at the Lufthansa desk confirmed what the kiosk had told us- in order to travel to greek Cyprus I needed a passposrt that was valid for six months from the time of travel.
Mine was not.... and not even really close, at it expires on the 9 November 2011. I was well aware of that expiry and have a trip home for the purpose of renewing the passport. Seemingly not soon enough.
The agent was surprisingly sympathetic for what is really very a stupid mistake on my part.
"Do you have an ID card?" she asks. I hand her my drivers license, and she tries scanning that instead.
She frowns. Nope, that didn't work either.
The agent loosely explains the Schengen Area- a group of EU countries (but not all) that allow for tourists to
travel between them under the same visa and passport rules- ie. carrying a currently valid passport for the duration of stay is sufficient. Despite it's status as an EU country, Cyprus is one of the exceptions and is not part of the Schengen area. Noted.
She then calls the flight manager who comes over- the circumstances are relayed in german and she turns to me with another frown...
"I don't think we can get you in," she says with a faint British accent. "I can try calling our Cyprus contacts and see if there's someone there who can agree to let you in, or you can try going to the consulate in the city."
It was now 1:30pm in the afternoon- fortunately our flight was not until 9:00pm- so at least I had some options. Elated with her willingness to help, I asked that she try calling, but that I would also make a trip to the Canadian consulate and see if I had any passport extension or renewal options. The flight manager even took my mobile number and offered to call in the event she had any news from Cyprus.
The reality of the situation was begin to fizzle out the optimism of my being able to get on this flight. The other three had checked their luggage and I dropped mine off at an in-airport baggage storage. They were headed into town for Oktoberfest- I was headed to the Canadian consulate. With the exceptionally efficient and helpful airport staff, we were on the train with a map and directions to the consulate.
The sad goodbyes began when Costas, Ally, and Paul got off the train to go drink beer and I stayed on the train.
It was now 2:30pm and knowing that consulates keep obscure, limited hours, I had tightened my shoe laces and tightened my handbag to make for a mad dash once the train stopped. The Marienplatz central station is massive and I got lost underground for the first ten minutes, depserately hunting for an exit upward. I reached the busy city street where it was still pouring rain and tourists were milling about. Terrible conditions for making a mad dash in a unfamiliar city.
I completely shelved my usual desire to avoid asking for help and searched to find someone who appeared to know the area. With a loose handwave from a bicycle tuk tuk driver, I headed down a nearby street. I glanced up and spotted the Canadian flag hanging high above further down the street- sopping wet in the rain.
I ran.
I jolted to a stop in front of an electronics store- this is what was below the flag. What the heck?
Past the shoppers streaming in and out, I noticed a small door to the side with a brass nameplate for various offices above the shop. The hours for the consulate were posted:
Mon-Fri, 9am-12noon.
It was now nearly 3:00pm. I buzzed the Canadian Consulate button desperately hoping someone might be there. A woman's voice spoke up, in a french yet german sounding accent,
"Hello. Canadian Consulate."
In my out-of-breath and fairly panicky voice I tried to describe what I needed,
"I'm a Canadian," I say, panting... "I have a flight... tonight... but my passport is not valid."
The woman's voice comes on, "Ahhhh...." she sounds unimpressed and very confused.
"Is there someone I can speak with?" I ask in a not-very-fake distressed female voice.
The buzzer goes and I open the door, taking the stairs two by two. The consulate is in a quiet office building, with the corridors lined with doors to various other office spaces- some with discreet plaques out front and some with no labels at all. I reach the third floor and at the end of the hall is a giant bronze plaque of some sort of diplomatic arms hanging above the solid wood door. Another buzzer.
I push it and wait.
No response.
I push it again- not wanting to agitate but with little patience remaining.
Still no response.
I push one more time, holding it down.
The door buzzes and I open it up to a spacious but sparsly furnished reception area- with a red carpet. The room is dimly lit.
I see an older woman standing behind a desk with a high glass screen- almost like at a bank.
As I approach, she says to me "You know we are closed, right?"
Not a great start.
"Yes, so I've just realised... So I appreciate you letting me in," I reply in the friendliest voice I can muster.
I explain my situation, but my circumstances are met with little sympathy. I mention the Schengen area, as I had since realised that the UK is not part of the Schengen area and I might also face troubles returning to England- despite my having a valid student visa. My favourite part was when she replied saying,
"Oh no. We have a special agreement with England, you see, with the Queen being our founder-" she kind of trailed off, but left her hand hang in the air, pointing to a giant portrait of the Queen on the opposite wall.
Right. After all the hoopla I went through with my student visa, it's clear this woman does not appreciate the limited extent of this "agreement." The woman then starts typing away- but had made it quite clear there was little she could do. She printed off the details of the Schengen area- LESSON LEARNED- and handed me a passport renewal package... for 15day processing.
I said my thanks and shuffled out of the consulate entirely deflated. This was the last shot at making the flight- it was official, I would not be going to Cyprus that evening. I felt a bit foolish feeling all sad when I stepped back out into the rain and, amongst the bustling shoppers, were the usual big-city homeless people resting in sheltered corners between shops. It was a much needed dose of perspective.
With no internet cafes in the area to check out what my next steps might be, I decided to get in touch with the others and meet them at Oktoberfest. I figured there is no harm in wiping the day's drama from my memory for an hour over a big stein with friends, surrounded by entertaining German culture. My brief taste of Oktoberfest was a good one- we visited two tents and enjoyed tasty brews and great traditional music despite the continuing rain. Weiners and crepes rounded out the beer tasting experience as we headed back toward the airport in the early evening.
I said my goodbyes as Ally, Paul and Costas as they headed off to catch the flight- and I stood waiting in line to
speak to the airline and try to fandangle a credit. That flopped. I wandered around aimlessly for quite some time- not really sure about what I was going to do. With Oktoberfest going, accommodation was next to impossible to find- and was certainly at a premium. Over our beers we had joked about my traveling to Turkish Cyprus in the north and trying to get into greek Cyprus that way. According to the people at Turkish airlines at the Munich airpot, the same rule applies for northern Cyprus... that said- things are a bit different on the northern half- trying will make for good adventure either way.
Assumming there are no Cypriot authorities following the blog- this currently stands as my plan of action. I bought a flight to Istanbul leaving at 7:30am Tuesday morning.
There is something very peculiar about booking a fight while sitting at the airport- and looking up at the screen to see it click onto the big board. I sit here reciting the day's adventures as the Munich airport begins to quiet down after midnight. Despite German rigour and rules, I'm surprised to find people scattered about, clearly spending the night here- stretched out and sleeping on benches, chairs- and even with sleeping bags. Come to think of it, I do have my tent with me...
I fell asleep for an hour or two, and this time not woken up by rain or a sore neck, but rather the snoring of a 60-year old italian sleeping on the next bench over.
No comments:
Post a Comment