A FedEx package from The Embassy of Pakistan's Interests Section of the Islamic Republic of Iran. My U.S. passport would hopefully be inside, as they promised ("we are just going to check it and send it back to you," they had said on the phone).
I tore it open right there in Union Square and, sure enough, my U.S. passport was there.
Then my father called. "I just got an email message saying you picked up the package." I love that my dad is being updated of my every movement by the embassy. It's such a nice, condescending feeling. I reached inside the package and extracted more papers: My application, and some kind of form letter written in Farsi, check-marked with a red pen.
I don't read Farsi. So I took a picture of it and emailed it to my dad to read. I feared that perhaps I hadn't filled out something right, that they were sending my application back because they wanted me to fill it out again, that they were writing me to say what was missing. I scanned the document to see if I could figure out if it was a reprimand or just a confirmation.
"It doesn't say anything important," he said, after opening his email and reading the image. "It just says that they've sent your application to Iran and now it's in the hands of the Iranian Republic."
Resigned to my mission by now, my dad then added, "Now, you just wait."
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