In celebration of that, today (really this whole week) I got to live a situation not dissimilar to his novel The Trial. 

The protagonist, Josef K., awakes on his 30th birthday to find that he’s under arrest. No one will tell him what his offense is, and he goes on a wild goose chase that introduces him to a world full of unhelpful but well-intentioned lawyers, seductive women, wild hallucinations, lightheadedness, and mysterious telephone calls that invite him to hearings that never seem to take place. Oh, by the way, all of this takes place on the rooftops of run-down tenant houses, because Kafka can. 

This goes on for a while, but Josef never figures out what his offense is and often doesn’t even know whether the trial really is continuing or not. No one has anything helpful to say, but rather everyone speaks in riddles and half-truths. Eventually, they stop bothering him, and he nearly forgets about the trial.

Josef K. awakes on his 31st birthday and is seized by guards. They take him to an abandoned quarry and shoot him in the back of the neck. 

 

That is how my visa application process is going (so far we’re not quite to the end of Paragraph 2; let’s hope it stops there). Thanks to this, today I learned what it is to sit at a table with only a pint for company and stare morosely into space.

 

 

Anna Rose’s quest to buy a ticket to Cherepovets was equally absurd and frustrating, but so far seems to be heading towards a happier conclusion than The Trial (tju tju tju, knock on wood).

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