24 Hours in Chicago

Yesterday Dad and I left around 9 for Chicago. Obviously, then, we got there with plenty of time to visit art supply stores and enjoy a lovely meal. I went to bed around 10 after having spent a half hour trying to lay everything out for this morning. Of course, I couldn't sleep and have no idea when I finally dozed off. I got up at 5:30 so that I'd have enough time to get ready, get my stuff packed up, eat breakfast, check out of the hotel, put our bags in the 4Runner in the parking garage, and hop a cab to the corner of Michigan and Illinois. My study abroad advisor had made it very clear that I needed to be there early since the office is only open from 9-12:30 and people line up in front of it before it opens. Accordingly, at 8:20 Dad and I walked through the rather non-descript entrance beside a Bank of America in an innocuous building, whose sidewalk was lined with scaffolding, and up to a receptionist. After we stated our business, she politely informed us that the building did not open until 9 and that as there was no waiting area, no line was permitted to form in front of the office. She would see us back in 40 minutes. We left the building and wandered around, ending up in the sitting area of a Marriot since none of the surrounding shops had yet opened for the day. At the appointed time, we returned, signed in, and rode an elevator up to the 18th floor with a number of people, two of whom were conversing furiously in Italian (not that I understood very much: pomeriggio...consulato...dicembre...anni...*sigh*...capisco). When I walked in, I was greeted by a security guard, American, who asked me my reason for visiting the consulate. I told him and he gave me a list of items that looked as though it had been faxed, copied, faxed again, emailed, and then Xeroxed, all in about 8 point font, instructing me to make sure I had every single thing listed there or else "[the visa department would] not even process [my] application." He gestured to a strip of seats and I looked around. I was in a long room, the far short wall of which looked like a glass-enclosed box office surrounded by salmon-pink plaster. The opposite wall, nearest the consulate's entrance had a reception area, also screened by glass. The Italian and European Union flags stood nearby. The long wall with the strip of seats also housed the entrance door. In front of this was a series of similar box-office type windows and counters with labels in Italian and English. The same salmon plaster surrounded these. The security guard directed me to sit in front of the window titled "Visti/Visas" and informed me that the lady already standing there was first in line. I looked over the list, checked my documents and found that I had everything! I waited to see what would happen.
After quite a while, a very surly looking man showed up at the window. He spoke very rudely to the woman and she slid him some documents under the glass. He asked for another which I suppose she didn't have because when she started to say something he actually began to yell at her about not wanting to hear any complaints and quite a lot of other things I was too shocked to remember. After sending her away, it was my turn. I said hello and good morning and he asked me if I had everything on the list. I said I did and he said that I should look at it again to be sure, and then began to quiz me, I suppose, on which items needed copies. Then he said that the indication of this requirement was given on the left side of the page (actually, it was on the right) and told me to step aside and double check my documents. In the meantime, all I remember about his "friendly conversation" with the next unfortunate lady was something about how he "didn't want to hear about [her] complaining to the receptionist since she had nothing to do with what happen[ed] up [there]." Then he popped his head around and asked if I had everything together. I'd had it together since I left Iowa so I began sliding my application under the glass when he asked if I had a letter proving my enrollment at the University of Iowa. I froze. I did not have one of those. I had two from SACI, but not even one from UIowa. So, I told him this and said that I had thought all I needed was the English letter from my study abroad school and apologized. But he kept asking for other documents, and I kept handing them to him until we reached the Italian enrollment letter. I had been instructed by SACI to request to have this sent back with my passport, which I did at that time. He flared up about schools telling their students to instruct him on how to do his job, saying that he knew perfectly well that he had to stamp that letter, fold it up, and staple it into my passport. I put on my best sympathetic look and apologized again. He took the rest of my documents (but not most of the copies he had been so concerned about), clipped them together, made a note on my application after I had signed it, and told me that I could get the letter and, instead of coming back, mail it all together in a USPS Express envelope to him. I could hardly believe it. After his final gruff warning not to mess up the order of the papers, I thanked him and Dad and I left. My face was red and burning but I had stayed calm and resisted the urge to tell him that his hair was messed up in the back.
Outside of the building, we began to exclaim quite a number of things but my favorite description of the visa officer came from Dad: "a petty bureaucrat" whose "empire consisted of that one small little window." We're pretty clean-mouthed, you see. We were both shaky so we walked it off, ending up at the Art Institute of Chicago. I mention it in the account of my study abroad experience only because while we were walking around the Baroque section, we noticed a gallery had been closed and went over to read a sign in front of it. The Institute was going to play host to the Gates of Paradise by Ghiberti from the end of July to some time in October. Normally housed in a museum in Florence, I had been looking forward to seeing them! Oh well. Dad said that if they were the only thing I missed then it wouldn't be so bad. I guess I'll still see the reproduction panels on the Baptistery.
Suffice it to say, I am now home. I got an email back from my Italian professor who told me that my products are probably all sold in Italy and that prices are not so much higher that I would save money by sending toiletries over. So that settles that and I will call UIowa tomorrow (my birthday) regarding that letter of enrollment.