Temporarily Permanent August 20 - 31, 2001 ... is our immigration status, since end of August.

	Monterey Aquarium is proud to maintain an exhibit of a kelp "forest". This is how it really looks down there, under water.

I got another internet acquaintance - Julie is a recent addition to Desideria, Sneer, Krouli, Křeček and (above all) Hippo. We're practically neighbours, Julie lives in San Francisco. She has, unlike me, a job. When a visitor arrived at Julia's place, on weekdays she was limited to hanging out in the City. I grabbed my opportunity and invited her for a trip.

After a certain amount of organizing, Líba (that's the visitor's name) and I met at a railroad station, we even recognized each other -- for that purpose, I marched up and down the platform sporting a hat Indiana Jones style. We drove to Martina's, borrowed passes to Monterey Aquarium and took off for an all-female ride.

Sid toiled hard into the night (finishing in the morning) on a re-installation of a notebook computer with a GPS, but I found out I could already orient myself in Monterey without the help of satellite technology. I found a parking spot, even the Aquarium. There we split, I went for my morning coffee (it was neither my first, nor - I hope - my last visit at the Aquarium) and then only to a bird section, to a pool with rays (you can pet them there) and see the Doc. It's really just an exhibit of collectibles about a man who became Monterey's legend. The Aquarium focuses mainly of deep sea canyon, which cuts the bottom of Monterey Bay; it's an exceptional rarity so close to shore, and very convenient for scientists who don't have to spend days on the ocean traveling to a place to research. The Doc was probably the first person who became interested in strange creatures washed out of the ocean's depths -- usually terribly deformed by change of pressure.

	Asilomar coast

Steinbeck's Doc was created by a real Monterey person, who's civil name was Ed Ricketts. If even half of what Steinbeck says was true, he must have been quite a personality. Doctor Ricketts's house became Pacific Biological Laboratories, Inc. Nobody knows how his company could survive twenty years; Ed sometimes did not even bother to open business letters (being far from reading them, or acting upon their contents); upon liquidation after his death, they could not determine how many shares were issued by the company and who owned them. I think that Doc was a prototype of a crazy scientist, who lives by his own rules. He did not lock a safe he had, so that prospective burglars would not damage the locking mechanism. Neither would he store any valuables there, only food (which withstood a great fire in the Cannery Row, where everything else turned to ashes). Although he managed to get wet from foot to eyebrow while collecting his specimens, he could not stand to get his head wet (he supposedly took his showers wearing an oilskin sou'wester). On a behest of a young lady who mentioned that his chin looked too receding, he grew a goatee -- and kept it until his draft to WW2. Children used to make fun of him and make goat's noises; he bleated right back! which is an ingenious defence. I think you would agree that I could not miss to visit an exhibit remembering this "outstanding individual"

From the Aquarium, we drove along a beautiful rocky coast to Asilomar, to have lunch at Fishwife in Pacific Grove. It is fortunate that Líba happens to share mine and Sid's deviation, so we stopped often and photographed and taped enthusiastically. We even managed to get back in time to the Aquarium, where a diver tried to force some food into obviously overfed small sharks.

Our favourite Point Lobos followed, and then I had the idea that we could enjoy sunset yet a few miles more south, where Big Sur begins. After some searching I even found a spot where Sid took me last year, so our green grass wintertime picture and a yellow summer one got a company of a red one with a sunset. Going back, somewhere around Gilroy I began to explain to Líba that it really was not humanly possible to catch the 9:26 train, but she convinced me to try it -- in the end, we had about twenty seconds to spare .

I really deserved this trip, as we were due for another round at federal offices. Sid's company lawyer congratulated us for green card approval, and was probably happy to close our case and get rid of us. We were happy, too, until she told us that we may visit the federal office anytime from Monday to Friday, seven to eleven a.m., but she personally would recommend three. A.M.!!!

On Tuesday, Sid went, posing as an advance scout. My Hippo located the federal building -- this time, they did not camouflage between Saigon Noodles and a night club. A rather large campus was tucked between two lots of unsuccessful car dealerships. Most show models still sported adequate number of tires, and some could even be suspect of self-propulsion ability. Sid chatted with an x-ray machine lady (one may enter the building after a security check comparable to one at an airport), who confirmed that a line of people reaches around three corners at the time she arrives to work, that is, half past five. People who get there by that time still receive Numbers.

	Líba at Asilomar, probably frowning because she can't take pictures and shoot videos SIMULTANEOUSLY.

Sid reported these facts during our lunch, after which we had our pictures taken at our favourite Chinese establishment of questionable appearance. The immigration services demand very specifically formatted and arranged photographs, with critical size, head angle, exposition darkness etc. -- all very different from a common passport picture. It is advisable to turn to specialists. Fortunately, our local Chinese IS a time-proven immigration warrior. He is versed in all procedures regarding immigration, with never-ending forms, fingerprinting, tax affidavits, and prescribed photography. It's an interesting way to earn your living, and he certainly does not suffer any shortage of clientele, though we may be the only whites in his care.

So we set our alarm clocks (including the feared muezzins) to four o'clock and pre-arranged all equipment: food, drinks, books, and very important - collapsible chairs and warm blankets. When we drove through streets devoid of people early in the morning, I felt kind of like a nut.

There was a whole congregation already present in front of the INS building. Some chose to make sure and spent the night there with sleeping bags and camp beds, some took it very easy. I felt pity for a young lady in the queue behind us who arrived wearing mini-shorts, and then kept shuffling, sitting down on a concrete curb with legs wrapped in a towel. It is quite cold even here in California, at five in the morning. Shortly after our arrival, a food bus came by with refreshments, obviously a good spot for a traveling business early on. I kick-started myself with the help of hot chocolate and looked forward to sunrise, hoping to get somewhat warmer then. Airplanes began to pass overhead for their final approach at six, guards rousted remaining sleepers out of their bags and re-arranged our queue around the building corner. This aroused the only permanent inhabitant of the place. A decommissioned office chair, her place of residence, was located right in front of the building entrance. First, I assumed her for one of the waiting immigrants, who's brain became too affected by the process, but sunlight revealed an apron over sweat pants, all a bit too filthy. She, unlike everybody else here, spoke fluent English, albeit without cease, incoherently, and toward nothing and no-one in particular.

	Point Lobos already made it to our journals, but there's always something to take a picture of.

The office opened its gates at seven, though it took another hour before we got in. I thought that the deranged woman lived at INS because she can be all night in a poor yet decent company, but another reason became apparent. No food or drinks are allowed inside, not even bottled water, hence this nice lady is regularly and opulently supplied.

We passed the X-ray and queued up for the Number. A counter was manned by a stereotypical K. & K. (think Austro-Hungarian Imperial Bureaucracy), who was mercilessly exercising a Vietnamese couple. During our wait in the line, he sent them back three times, to make necessary corrections in their paperwork - they had a six inch stack, which they kept re-ordering and writing onto. They got dismissed and sent out eventually, without a Number. We braced for the worst -- somehow we forgot mark our names on the backs of our photographs, then we thought that we will have enough time after we get the Number, but now, seeing those wire glass frames, we both felt cold sweat collecting on our foreheads. To our amusement, wire frames bounced merrily just as they saw us approach the counter. Perhaps we were the first English speaking, white couple in the whole bunch -- and it turned out that both of our SINGLE SHEET FORMS were in perfect order!!!

	Big Sur coast

We each got a Number (101 and 102). Besides indicating the order, the ticket had also estimated waiting time printed on -- 4 hours, corresponding with our own estimate -- during an hour since opening the gate, announcers got to Number 19. I sent Sid off to work and pulled out a book. After thirty minutes, I began to regret that I let him carry away my blanket -- the air conditioner was going full blast and I was trembling with cold.

Sid got back as the office was processing Number ninety. Just as we agreed that it actually went pretty fast, eleven thirty came and many windows closed with it. Only one clerk was left who did not go for lunch. She might have lost a wager, for I cannot otherwise explain her apparent "hostility". For one, she was Asian and I could not make out what she said. For second, she was so laconic that I was often left guessing at any possible meaning. For third, she was muffled by her window pane. Our conversation went about this way: A single syllable utterance in a mysterious language. My puzzled look. A new utterance. Now I'm concentrating to read from lips and arrive at possible word like "pen". I search my mind in vain, how could a green card relate to writing utensils. A new puzzled look. A frustrated: "My pen". Oh, I realize, she wants me to return her pen which I took to sign something and which is now located some two inches from her hand!!! And so on. In this fashion, the whole procedure took about fifteen minutes. Sid got processed much faster, his clerk (who returned from lunch) was nice, spoke in clear English, and left no room to puzzled looks, for she kept explaining hers and Sid's expected actions in full-bodied sentences (e.g.: "Sign it here, please.").

In a surprising turn, the office took away our beautiful, durable plastic cards that we received in May, and gave us this nondescript rubber stamp in our passports. The stamp includes a wonderful expression, "temporary permanent". That is our status now and real green cards shall supposedly arrive in mail (added the clerk, should they not arrive within a year, come back here). We'll be waiting.

Copyright © 2001-2005 by Carol & Sid Paral. All rights reserved.