American vs. Mexican passport experiences

My passport was full and I’m starting an international trip tomorrow, so I spent part of today waiting in line at the San Francisco Passport Center. The bureaucracy was quick and easy; getting to the bureaucracy was the part that intrigued me.

The building the passport center is in is unmistakably a Federal building. Largely windowless cement walls, lots of cameras, a big sign on the door warning that the office is open only by appointment. Upstairs, in the office, was a scene that could perhaps be best described as cult-of-personality dictatorship meets Department of Motor Vehicles. After passing through the metal detector, I was instructed to take a number and wait a bit more than an hour in a big room full of rows of plastic chairs for my number to be called. An armed guard walked in circles around the room, constantly and intently scanning the crowd. The agents worked behind bulletproof glass. On the wall behind the agents were three pieces of decoration: A picture of George Bush, a picture of Dick Cheney, and an American flag.

Having finally been called up to one of the windows and been told to leave my passport and come back at 3, I walked down Folsom Street to my office. Passing through a sort of no mans’ land – a section of SoMa that neither Downtown nor Waterfront development has yet encroached upon, I came upon the Mexican Consulate, where the crowd was presumably on a mission similar to my own. Rather than being cooped up in a room, people milled about outside. Most intriguing, I thought, was the outdoor passport photography “studio,” set up in a vacant lot next door. I’m sure there’s lots of unpleasantness in the Mexican immigrant to the US experience, but the Mexican Consulate just looked like more fun than the American equivalent.