10 Steps to International Drivers License acquisition

My love and need for bureaucratic government departments doesn’t seem to die out. It even instills in me this generosity to make available details of the application process on my blog. Now that is some love I’d say.

1.Requirements: Ability to breathe in depleted oxygen levels and a dash of resilience for the sporadic brusqueness that may come your way. Apart from these two pivotal requirements (I say pivotal because their absence can spin your head oh so round) you’d also require a pen, glue, original license, original passport, original visa , photocopies of the before mentioned three documents and 4 passport sized photographs. (it’s actually 3, but in case you find a cute guy/girl lined up behind you, you can inadvertently drop the extra photo with your number written behind it.:) In case you were thinking, if that’s how I meet men, then no you’re wrong. Transport Department has boring crowd. Try the same at the Passport office. ;)

2. Queues are a myth created by mankind but fear not -some gumption goes a long way : The enquiry counter is always the hotspot at places where a lot can go wrong( and it does go wrong). The place in question here, also had one of course with a motley crowd standing around it. My attempts to locate a queue were in vain because there did not seem to be one. So three very kind gentlemen see right through the very opaque looking me and manage to get ahead in the crowd, I realize it’s time to put the next man in place. And put him in place I did. Excerpt from the conversation:

Me: Do you mind Sir? There is a queue here. (No there wasn’t a queue, but I got there first!)
Disgruntled boy: Frowns (in reply)
(Crowd in front of me thins out, and as I head towards the counter…)
Disgruntled boy: (to man behind counter) I’m a tool. I’m a tool. I’m a tool. (Of course he didn’t say that, I don’t really remember now -*malicious grin* )
Me: Aap ko samajh nahin aaya? Queue! (Don’t you get it you doofus, there is a Queue here)
Disgruntled boy: (amidst grunts and snorts) Kya queue? (What queue?)
Me: Push-Nudge-Look defiant. REPEAT.

3. Room 217: The beautiful symphony of application for the international driving permit is conducted from this room. Kind of like the Vatican of the International License application process. Here, you must produce your passport and license, quickly grab on to a form handed out to you to fill and listen to the list of documents required to be submitted (mentioned above in the same post) in sweet rapture.

4. Medical Examination-Fear no more!: Now one of the documents that need to be provided is a medical certificate. Not having had the foresight to have thought of this prior to my decision to embark upon this joyous mission, I realized I’d have to pay a visit to the in house doctor at the transport department building who had a room juxtaposed to room 217. (No, I exaggerate, it was down the hall☺). On indicating my desire to get a medical certificate I was instructed to fill another form. The doctor then proceeded to sign the same and ten minutes and fifty bucks later I had a certificate attesting my good health and happiness.

5. Room 217: See, it all comes back to room 217. You can’t do one thing here without the approval from Room 217. So I was going to do just that.
Me: “Look at my shiny new certificate! What prize do I get for it?”.
ANSWER from Room 217: “ You get to pay the fee and get the hell outta here!”
( Note: This conversation happened ONLY in my head)

6. Paying the fee: Now there was a serpentine queue outside the room you go to deposit the fee. This freaked me out a little bit. Thoughts of self doubt starting crawling down my back, later I realized it was perspiration. A few questions later, I realized that was not the queue I was suppose to be a part of. As it turned out there was no queue for depositing the fee for the international driving permit. So that was pretty darn quick. Five hundred Rupees, does the trick.

7. Room 217: Fill up a booklet (which is going to be your LICENSE btw) and sign your name in a couple of places with a flourish, after presenting the receipt for depositing the fee. You are then told to come back in the afternoon.

8. The return: This happens in the afternoon. Did for me atleast. We are required to hover around Room 217. (Remember-the temple?). A nod beckons us inside, and we are handed the documents and booklets and instructed to go to room 211.

9. Room 211: Not as important as Room 217 as you may have figured. But this room holds the key to cementing the entire process. The holy grail of all of the twenty million signatures that are required on the booklet.

10. Room 217,Yawn: So now, you know you’re almost done. So you have a smile playing at the corners of your lips. You present the documents with an unparalleled confidence. The guy stamps it at a zillion places, and just when you think that there is no surface area left for the green stamp to leave its mark except the wood on the table, the guy looks up with triump. Woohoo! It’s done!

Dissipating winds
Over lands wet,
Wet from the rain
Over prolific thoughts
Of people and places
Dissipating winds
Displacing leaves and faces
~

Life Lessons Over Greek Salad

As the Camarero brought the salad over to my side of the table, I was curious as to taste that it would have to offer. It was no surprise though, when it turned out to be devoid of any mote of salt even. Not to be deterred by the absence of sodium chloride and other flavourful substances, I promptly proceeded to spruce up the multicolored salad (which had guest appearances by feta cheese and green pitted olives) with salt, oregano, olive paste and chili flakes. I intended to make the most of my culinary moment. My gastronomic ambitions can not be crippled so easily I thought to myself, as I instructed the garcon to sprinkle freshly ground black pepper on the revamped salad.
Maybe it was the salad or maybe it was the dim light at the Italian restaurant or the fact that I was eating a Greek salad at an Italian restaurant, either way, I realized in a state of stupor, that little moments in life or hell, life itself, is like a plateful of insipid salad. Agreed, the salad was more edible than some of the grotesque things that comes our way on a daily basis (if you’ve hit a particularly low point) or the one of those dementor like apparitions that confound us once every full moon with the occasional werewolf like demons. But really, those dark ghosts and ghouls aside, life mostly deals us raw vegetables without seasoning.
Now, the first reflex of any individual who unknowingly ordered the insipid salad, who is obviously looking to broaden the horizon of his/her palate, would be to grimace, look around helplessly, crib/complain to fellow diners then settle down deep in the seat with a submissive shrug. Some individuals with particularly resilient and pugnacious genetic material would argue some and get their order replaced with a run of the mill spaghetti arabiatta. Same applies for banal life situations. A boring day, a lonely hour, a particularly hackneyed moment.
What I would advocate is (by virtue of sheer experience-not that I have much of it, but I am writing this so yes, read on), a sincere look around the table. Oft, there are enough spices and condiments to make that moment come about. I sure found the requisite amount to save the Greek salad from the abyss of the garbage dump.

Thoughts of España….and some other nebulous ones thrown in for good measure

A year ago, when I watched Thierry Henry score a splendid goal for FC Barcelona at Camp Nou against Real Valladollid, little did I know that at this time of the year I’d be packing my bags to move to the country of Paella, Flamenco and some kick ass football. Living in France for three odd months I knew I had a special affinity to this part of the world, what with the Café Crème’s, Lemon Meringue’s and leisurely walks around the streets in the ear numbing cold, becoming a daily ritual of sorts. Ofcourse, there were the evenings fraught with loss of dexterity at the impending thought of preparing a meal to feed myself, but I somehow managed to survive courtesy goat cheese pizzas, crazily concocted fajitas, hash browns, baguettes, gouda cheese and Haagen Dazs.
At this point, I am mighty curious as to what life of a doctoral candidate would entail. I can picture myself with thick glasses (thicker than the ones I wear now) bent over Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations or Hofstedes Culture’s Consequences in dim candlelight with a magnifying glass. (I guess my imagination is fueled from some book written in the1800’s). Apart from this mental image from the dark ages, there are the reoccurring thoughts of travel to Prague which have me walking on the Charles Bridge at midnight listening to the Moonlight Sonata as the light from the nearby houses bounces off the sparkling river. As I am lost in this reverie, a part of me brings my thoughts back to Spain.
I am the kind of traveler who loves all things travel. The pre-planning, the planning, the journey, the travel, the wandering, the unpacking. All of it. Even the wait at airport is something I can take in without much grumbling.(No, I am not on Prosaic)So of course, the days leading up to the date I leave for Madrid, are of as much significance as is the actual arrival and the post arrival days.
Visa application, Ticket Booking, accommodation hunting online, opening a bank account, purchasing insurance and several other mundane tasks that ought to be carried out in this phase, make one feel even closer to the destination than they might be in reality. So having visited the Spain Embassy twice now and looked at a thousand apartments virtually, I feel I am already there, living the Spanish life, the Sombreros and the Siestas all included.