Jitterbug

He sat next to us at one end of a row of three connected chairs, at the American Embassy in Ankara; a kid of maybe 20 waiting solo for his chance to charm a visa out of the consular officer. He wasn't particularly notable aside from tiny beads of sweat accumulating on his forehead in the air conditioned room, the stubby fingernails he'd apparently eaten in anticipation of his visit that day, and his near comic inability to keep any one part of his body still.
Exuding enough anxiety for all three of us, his constant nervous tics and jitterbugging in the seat gave me a sideways kind of permission to relax - we'd been through this once before after all - and I slung my arm over my darling's black-clad shoulder (posing as Johnny Cash in honor of an American hero, Hamid had opted for a crisp fitted black dress shirt, untucked, and faded blue jeans) and planted a kiss on his gorgeous cheek.

We waited patiently, alternately holding hands and taking turns triple checking our paperwork as we kept the seats in place for our fidgety neighbor and listened intently to the conversations at the interview stations before us; we were amazed to hear that the Embassy seemed to be handing out visas left and right that day as the very cheerful people behind the counter smiled and twittered sweetly at their applicants over the fabulous plans each had for their arrival and respective lives in the United States.

One wanted to work on a cruise ship, another - a pretty blonde Turkish orthodontist, planned to open offices in New York. There were students transferring to stateside universities, grandparents wishing to visit family with a new baby, and a married couple hoping to emigrate. There was only one girl who was denied entry for lying on her forms about having successfully completed her courses that year. Even though she'd been dishonest I still felt truly sorry for her when she got the news and her shoulders slumped; her previously optimistic posture reduced to nothing short of devastation with the defeat of her purpose.

We watched as each approached their designated window and shuffled their paperwork through the slot, every single one leaning forward on tip-toes while they waited to answer their own series of questions as if it was an assigned part of the process. [Step 1: Please press the fingers of the right hand firmly onto the digital fingerprinting-thing. Step 2: Repeat with left hand. Step 3: Press your nose against the window and stand in a demi pointe with aplomb. Plie is optional.]

When it was our own turn to be interviewed we must have shocked the still-twitching young man out of quite a worrisome reverie because he nearly fell out of his seat with the sudden imbalance caused by our absence; I could hear him collecting himself and resume foot tapping behind us as we settled ourselves in at the window. [You are number 202 - this ticket does not necessarily represent the order in which you will be called. Please do not approach the window until you see your number is signaled above one of the interview stations.]

We answered a total of five questions, each of which was put to us in a friendly manner and without even the slightest twinge of grinch we'd experienced at the consulate in Chennai, and were told without pause or ceremony that Hamid's passport containing an immigrant visa would be delivered to us at our local hotel within the next three days.

When we turned to leave, wrapping ourselves around eachother in astonished silence, I glanced at where we'd been sitting and our dancing queen was nowhere to be found - he'd gone already and I've no idea if he received that much coveted visa, but for the sake of what was left of his fingernails I certainly hope so.