The logical sum of these incidents should have been my freshly rented apartment somewhere in the East Village, near the wonderful La MaMa theater, or, at the very least, a modest cardboard box in strategic proximity to a warm subway ventilation grate. But pragmatic considerations once again overcame divine logic: in a far pocket lay a return ticket to San Francisco, and in a far drawer, a plan for a trip to my historical homeland.
“The homeland will always accept me,” I reasoned, “but who will let me onto a plane without an identity document?” And I went to my native consulate to complain.
I stood in line in a cramped little room, received helpful advice through the window and an expensive piece of paper. I was advised to go to the police with a report of passport theft and obtain a written certificate to that effect. And after I paid $50 to the consulate’s account, they issued me a certificate stating that I had filed a complaint with the consulate. (Watch the numbers; they play an important role in this story, as in life in general!) The consulate, alas, could not give me any paper that would help me get on a plane, neither immediately nor later: Ukrainian Californians must apply for such papers only in Washington.
At the police station everything went cheerfully and free of charge. After filling out a complaint form, I received from a black woman of a somewhat “homely” appearance in uniform a paper documenting my loss. Now, upon arriving home – on the West Coast – I was to send this paper (plus a money order for $80, a couple of photographs, and a copy of my birth certificate) to the Ukrainian consulate in Washington. In exchange for them, the consulate was to send a “Certificate for Return to Ukraine,” which would help the border service in Boryspil not mistake me for the rebellious Major Melnychenko and let me into the homeland without hindrance. After also calling airport lost-and-found offices, through which I had flown to Broadway, for good conscience, and hearing a confident “no” everywhere in response to the question about my passport, I went for a walk around New York. There were ten days left before the flight, the same number of lunches skipped due to forgetfulness, and two dozen museums.
At the airport everything turned out as well as could be: at passport control I showed the police certificate and a pale photocopy of a paper from the San Francisco equivalent of our traffic police, certifying partial permission to operate wheeled vehicles; I was let through. In San Francisco I breathed out the Pacific wind with relief, arranged Russian books from Brighton on the shelves, and gathered the “Washington” papers. The sending of the papers was preceded by a call to the consulate. A pleasant female voice assured me that processing the documents would take up to two weeks, after which the very certificate would be sent to me. I stuffed the papers into an express-mail envelope (two-day FedEx) and began to wait.
Two weeks passed. Another week passed. Overcoming a pioneer-like awe of the authorities, I called the consulate. “We sent a request about your passport to Ukraine, there has been no response. Call back in another week.”
I laid low for another week. I called. “No response, we are waiting along with you.” Then it occurred to me to find out what the mechanism for confirming passport data was. It turned out the consulate sends a request to the Ukrainian Foreign Ministry, which in turn forwards it to the local OVIR. To shorten the chain, I found out the fax number of the local OVIR and asked the consulate to repeat the request directly. This was kindly done, with an added request to reply by fax as well. Given the time difference, the procedure should have taken about a day, and I prepared to sign for the paper from Washington in four days.
A week later there was no paper. A call to the consulate. “No response, we are waiting along with you.”
For a month I practiced my spoken Ukrainian. After a month I began to get nervous: the time for the surgical operation was approaching, the necessity of which Kyiv doctors had once convinced me of, and it was time to buy tickets. (For those who don’t know: a San Francisco–Kyiv ticket in the off-season costs about $800 if you buy it a month before departure, and about $2,000 if a week before.)
In the next conversation with Washington, I presented these considerations to the clerk, delicately hinting that he would be one of those to whom I would appear in a white shroud at night after my imminent demise. The clerk became genuinely upset and suggested I ask someone from my Ukrainian relatives to visit the local OVIR and obtain the certificate personally, to then forward it to the States. This was done.
Don’t ask me why I wanted to see the certificate with my own eyes and forward it myself. Don’t ask either why a couple of days later I called Washington to find out whether the super-reliable FedEx had delivered my little document. I confess I was worried: the certificate composed by Taras Hryhorovych’s compatriots had two grammatical errors, one of them at the very beginning – “spravka” instead of “dovidka” – and the consulate might have asked to have it redone. Fortunately, it worked out (I suspected that the spelling errors were the best proof of the document’s authenticity). Having heard “received” from the capital, I reminded them that the consulate had a prepaid express-mail envelope and began waiting for the coveted certificate, which they promised to send immediately. Another week later I called again to remind them that I was still waiting for it. I think I was almost shouting and generally acting undiplomatically. Another week later, the “Certificate for Return to Ukraine” lay on my desk.
Guess twice whether I wanted to use it, pardon the double entendre, for its intended purpose? Well, no. I did buy a ticket to Kyiv, and not only “for medical reasons.” I love this city very much, despite the fact that its offices are inhabited mainly by non-humans. Although such love is probably also a medical indication...
It remains to tell just a little more. At border control in San Francisco, the officer glanced over my certificate and accepted the backpack. Everyone I had to show it to during the 20-hour flight looked at it just as absent-mindedly.
At Boryspil airport, a young border guard re-read the document for a long time and compared it with my cheerful photo and me, tired beyond belief. He went off to consult his superiors, setting me aside. Afterward he returned and asked for "some other form of identification." I produced my California state ID, and he again went off somewhere to consult. Evidently, the laminated card from the American DMV looked more convincing than the paper with the stamp of the Ukrainian consulate in Washington, because they let me through.
I reported the loss of my backpack at the baggage claim office and approached the customs officer. "Deportation?" he asked, seeing the certificate, and began methodically examining the contents of the small backpack that had been with me. After inspecting the most valuable items inside—a book of the classic American painter Edward Hopper, a fancy set of underwear, and a photograph of a fish on dry land—he let me go with God. Hello, Motherland.
AFTERWORD. The total time to obtain the "Dovidka" according to the described scheme is three months. To restore the lost passport, the OVIR demanded confirmation from Washington of the fact of the "Dovidka" being issued. No comments.
Restoration of the American visa at the consulate took two hours and cost 45 dollars.
A certain thought does not leave my head and makes me now torment my laptop keyboard instead of taking a walk in the fresh air. In this story, I found myself in a very advantageous position: I had a roof over my head, and I had enough money for international and interstate calls and correspondence, and at home my mother was waiting for me, ready to help. Fortunately—since none of the Ukrainian officials on either side of the border were interested in how much time and money I had at my disposal. And something tells me that they would hardly have agreed to lend money "for living" while awaiting the certificate to an illegal labor migrant (a nanny or caregiver, of whom there are many here), who suddenly found herself without money and documents. Even if she had asked for it in pure Ukrainian.