Sunday, April 14, 2019

I mistranslate the name of this office as "The Ministry of Faces." It's more like "The Ministry of the Inside." I show up on time, take a number, and only have to wait for four people ahead of me before I am summoned to the worker's cube. I'm there to get my passport. I have all the right paperwork, and have paid the fee ahead of time online. I can understand most of what the worker is saying, but not all. When I get stuck on a few words, she says them again in English, but we speak Hebrew for most of the encounter. Some of my trouble understanding her is due to the language. Some is due to the noise. Not only is the chattering of dozens of people ricocheting off of the tile floor and hard plastic partitions, but another person has barged into the cube. He stands behind where I'm sitting and yells over the plexiglass at another worker, often drowning out what I'm trying to hear. When it's time to take my fingerprint, the worker gestures for me to put my finger on a small scanner. After a moment, she says "Don't --" something, the word obscured by the bellowing behind me. I lift my hand. That's what I wasn't supposed to do. She takes hold of my wrist, puts my finger back on the scanner, and holds it there with her own finger until the scan is done. With a photo of my face ("Look down -- no, not that far down -- and take off your glasses"), a scan of a finger on the other hand, and a few more signatures, we're done. As I wait for the elevator, a man standing next to me says something several times, gesturing back at the room. What he's saying is probably funny, but I can't quite hear him, and can't tell. "Just English?" he finally asks. I nod. "Ok," he says. "Have a nice day." We ride the elevator down in silence, then head back out into the warm sunlight but a surprisingly chilly breeze.