Several dozen people gathered in front of the Canadian Embassy in Bucharest. All of them were dressed formally, some even festively. It was an unusual sight in a chaotic and poor city in the mid-1990s. All these people had the same goal: to apply for a Canadian visa, and they were all looking forward to being allowed to enter Canada. As always in such situations, after laborious waiting, with a noticeable delay, a sleepy employee shuffled toward the gates of the embassy and began, with elephantine slowness, to distribute the necessary forms to be filled. I also reached for a copy, and when I finally got one, I squatted on curb to prepare myself for a meticulous filling in. Crooked and bent, everybody did the same: some sat down like me with the forms on their knees, and some simply held the papers up in the air or against the embassy’s fence.

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     All of us were passionately immersed in the text, which was full of various, extremely personal questions. Everyone had to divulge all their details to the Canadian government: from marital status, number of siblings, profession, and education to even the maiden-name of their grandmothers. If someone failed the interview, their entry to Canada would have been blocked for the following years. Some questions were structured to identify those who had already been refused entry in case they changed their personal data afterwards, for example, if they adopted their mother’s maiden name or the name of some other relatives. However, most people seemed optimistic, and I counted myself in with this majority. There was no other way! I did not even want to think about other options. So, I filled the form as honestly as possible.

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     Even after all forms were filled out and collected, we were held in the scorching summer sun for some more time. They were probably testing our patience before finally letting us in. Inside the embassy, we were made to stand in a neat queue. After I had submitted all the necessary documents and paid the required non-refundable amount at the cash desk, I was invited into a special room reserved for interviews. I handed my passport through a slit under thick glass to a nice gentleman and sat down on the chair politely offered to me. In front of me, on the other side of the very thick, probably bullet-proof glass, sat a Canadian. He looked roughly as I had imagined Canadians to be: having inconspicuous appearance, slim, wearing fashionable glasses, and a little arrogant, perhaps because of harsh experiences in this country. On his right stood a slim, and well-behaved Romanian translator who reminded me of a schoolgirl at a matinee. Her task was to translate the words from the Canadian's mouth at lightning speed. Sometimes, through excessive effort, she even managed to translate to the beat of his breath. My average English was much better than my Romanian. So, after listening to her for a while, I refused the translation services. One thought immediately went through my mind: "Should I have gone to Moscow instead?"