U.S. Consulate
I like opening stories with a post-card-like snapshot. Unfortunately, there is no friendly image of the Munich U.S. Consular building. But two blocks away is a bridge overlooking Eisbach (German for “ice brook”) a channel of the Isar River for surfers — a much pleasanter nearby postcard image in the heart of Munich. Since the mid-60s, I have traveled internationally and wherever possible visited our embassies or consular offices just for the pleasure of speaking “American” and having a momentary feeling of being home. All encounters have been pleasant. But times are changing.
In 2004 I went to the Munich U.S. consulate building on an exploratory visit to gain some information for a new visa for Christl to enable her to spend longer than three months in America. The building is an imposing structure with a huge American flag and ringed with tank-proof fencing and concrete barriers. As I approached the fence gate, an American guard came out and asked what I wanted. I introduced myself with a U.S. Passport. He explained that all visa business was taken care of in Frankfurt, not Munich. I explained that I was in no hurry and simply wanted to talk to someone about the rules and procedures. He replied, “You have no valid reason for my letting you in. Call Frankfurt.” I said that I had no telephone number and he left me on the cold sidewalk while he went in to the heated guard building and brought me a number. He was polite but kept repeating that I had no “valid reason” to come inside.
I pocketed the number with a polite but annoying ring in my ear of “Move along buddy.”
After following up on the phone number, we drove to Frankfurt in 2004 to secure Christl a ten-year visa allowing her to stay for six months on each visit. The Frankfurt US Consulate meeting went without a hitch. But I could not resist writing Daniel Coats, the U.S. Ambassador. (In 2017 he became the National Intelligence Director in President Trump’s administration after being the Ambassador to Germany and a Senator from Indiana.) I wrote:
“My lady friend alternate our lives with winters at my home in Florida and summers at her place in Bavaria — The best of both worlds.
In anticipation of new visa requirements, I accompanied my friend to Frankfurt to apply for a ten-year visa with biometric data. Although I understand the need for this visa, I would like to make your office aware of my reaction to the application process.
My friend and I drove 600 kilometers to Frankfurt to find a hotel room for an early morning meeting. We had called ahead for an appointment and were given a 7:30 am. Meeting time. We arrived at the consulate at 7:00 am. There were at least 50 people waiting, all with the same appointment time. Several times while standing on the sidewalk in the cold, we were warned not to bring in any electronic devices such as cameras or cell phones. The last warning came from an American security guard, saying that anyone ignoring this warning would be “kicked out.”
I wondered if the officials realized that someone with limited command of English might interpret this threat of booting literally. It’s unhelpful in these cultural-clash times to be seen as an “Ugly American.”
In addition to my embarrassment in front of my friend, I thought the trip was really inefficient and costly. The well-mannered consulate clerk accepted the forms, took an electronic fingerprint, and told my friend that the visa would arrive by mail. Except for time spent waiting in line, the process took all of 15 minutes. The visa did arrive as promised a day and a half later. A few weeks later the phone bill arrived showing a 15 euro charge for the per-minute charge to call the consulate for the appointment.
Surely there is an easier and friendlier way to manage the visa process.
On the way back from Frankfurt, we stopped in the small town of Biblis where my father was born, for a copy of his birth certificate to add to my family tree. The amiable town clerk retrieved a 1913 hand-written ledger, from among many dating back to 1580, and tuned to my father’s birth certificate. As I leaned over to glance at the document, she quickly closed the ledger and asked to see my passport before showing me the birth certificate. I was told that this is in keeping with Germany’s strict privacy rules. When I came back from the car with my passport, I was able to see the document as well as get a free copy. I noticed that the Germans during the Nazi period had added the middle name “Israel” to my father’s name. This was a common practice for identifying all Jewish males. The Jewish middle name “Sarah” was added to women in a similar fashion.
There was a certain irony to this moment in Biblis. On the one hand, today’s Germany is very protective of my dead father’s privacy. On the other hand, Germans during those terror times, twenty-years after his birth, had no compunction over re-writing history and giving my father a stigmatizing middle name.
After the pleasant clerk stamped and signed the birth certificate and handed it to me, I asked to see her passport. It took a while for the joke to register and then she smiled.
Twelve years later Christl applied for her visa renewal with an appointment at the U.S. Consular office in Munich. I accompanied her with my U.S. Passport. A young man in casual dress with a clipboard full of named individuals with that day’s appointments. She was on the list and allowed through the gate and had to give up her cellphone. I was politely told that I had no appointment and therefore no business at the Consular office. I hurried back to the friendly surfing area for a short visit before heading back to meet Christl.
On many occasions over the past two decades in the Munich area, I visited the lobby of the downtown Munich Hilton Hotel. It reflects American cheerfulness and values with its welcoming staff of smiling clerks and a bowl of apples for guests and wandering tourists. The U.S. Consulate, on the other hand, offers an image of strength and fear with barriers and uniformed guards. You cannot help feeling that terrorism has taken a toll by chipping away at our image and our lives.
