On Friday the Gentleman Friend and I went down to Lebanese General Security, which issues visas, to get our 1 month visas extended to a a full three months. It was simple and quick, but also rather more fun than expected. We went in, were given a token by a security officer (the token was subsequently ignored), then told that our photocopies of passports had to be in colour and the background of my passport photo had to be white not blue (I had hoped to dispose of some of the uglier photos). We were directed to the basement where there was a queue of Iraqis, Syrians and Ethiopians, the latter firmly escorted by their Lebanese madames. We had the copies done, and then a small window opened, a man leaned out holding a pocket camera and gestured to me to stand against a grubby wall that was a few shades lighter than the rest. So the photo was also taken. Then back upstairs to receive a different token numbered 511. The number on the screen was 9, and just as I said ‘it might be a while’ 511 popped up. We went through to the desk which was manned by a charmingly incompetent young man with far more competent women on either side. Fortunately I’d had the foresight to bring the address and phone number of our flat, as both were needed. There was a moment’s pause when writing the address, which was simply the street name, then I mentioned the name of the restaurant downstairs and all the faces brightened, and they wrote down the address as ‘upstairs from so and so restaurant’. Then, again, we were made to stand against a wall one by one and a quick photo taken, and that was that. We were handed a little packet and sent off to the chief for foreign applicants. This was a very handsome young man who took a look at our forms and exclaimed how he liked the restaurant downstairs from us. Then he told us about his trip to London. All in all, it was very like going to a Pakistani government office, except that the good looks were in an altogether different league. Perhaps in Naya Pakistan bureaucrats will be a little better groomed. Anyhow, the chief of foreigners signed our forms, and sent us through to another room. This was the chief of security or someone, a far more typical bureaucrat, with a bureaucratic belly, who signed the forms again and waved us through. Then to a counter where the man behind it was too busy disassembling his phone so another fellow ambled over, reached over to select a stamp and applied it to our forms. Done, here’s the receipt, come back in 25 days. Which seems rather a long time, given that our current visas expire in a week, and may mean we’ll have to postpone any out-of-town trips that need a passport, but at least it’s done.
Then a quick lunch, some shopping for necessities (labneh, cakes, pastries, olive oil, jams) and I am back at the flat with a cup of tea.