The Visa Wall

At last, the little stash of euros in the biscuit tin was enough to cover the application fee for a US visa. Every cent earned through exhausting extra shifts, swallowed pride during tourist caricatures, and sore muscles from cleaning boat hulls made it feel like holding scorched earth when the notes were crumpled. It felt like setting fire to weeks of unrelenting work to turn it in electronically through the awkward embassy website, with no assurance that it would be returned.

But it was the first thing that had to be done. The labyrinthine DS-160 online application form required Mateo to spend hours bent over his phone screen. The English were bureaucratic and dense. Fearful of making a mistake that could ruin everything, he double-checked every phrase using online translation tools.

The trip's goal is tourism. In comparison to the immense, dream-driven pull pulling him across the Atlantic, it sounded so weak, so insufficient. Still, he typed it.

Expected Length of Stay: He estimated three weeks, which seemed both unrealistically long and too short.

Tell us where you plan to stay in the United States: He felt a wave of panic. He didn't have an address or a hotel reservation that he could afford. In a dream, Seraphina had mentioned a particular park close to her home, he vaguely recalled. He searched frantically online and, hoping no one would actually check, typed the name of a cheap motel he found several miles away from the wealthy neighborhood he suspected she lived in.

The financial and job sections were harsh. He struggled to get his bank statements from the small local branch, which revealed small savings and sporadic deposits from odd jobs and the café. Though it hardly shouted stability, he listed the café under 'Present Employer,' knowing that Senhor Alves would reluctantly confirm his employment if called. What explanation could he offer for the patchwork of other small jobs? When he felt so hopelessly lost, how could he measure his "ties to home country"? He had no property or substantial assets, was young, single, and rented a room in his family's impoverished home. He appeared to be the type of person who might attempt to overstay a tourist visa on paper. With each 'next' button click, it was like entering a minefield.

He filled out the form and felt sick to his stomach. It was finished. The mandatory interview at the US Embassy in Lisbon had to be scheduled next. The bus fare alone would cost him two days' worth of portrait earnings, so it would be another obstacle and expense. He made an appointment almost a month in advance, the earliest one that was available.

The weeks that followed were an agony of forced patience and anxiety. He persisted in his unrelenting work schedule, the biscuit tin gradually and agonizingly building up money once more, this time for the bus ticket and, perhaps, amazingly, the actual flight. The dreams continued, a haven of seraphina connection, but now they were tinged with the stress of his waking life. During the strange, shared twilight of their minds, he found himself confiding in her about his visa concerns. Although her experience with private planes and diplomatic clearances provided no useful analogy, she listened with quiet empathy. But her worry felt genuine, like a thin line of support through the emptiness.

The day of the trip to Lisbon came overcast and rainy. Mateo boarded the early morning bus with a battered folder that held his passport, bank statements, the DS-160 confirmation page, and a brief letter from Senhor Alves verifying his job ("Mateus Silva works part-time at my café"). He arrives on time."), and family pictures – thin paper barriers against bureaucratic fire.

The US Embassy was a massive, contemporary structure with mirrored glass and sharp angles that exuded unbreakable authority. The tight security reminded him of the walls around Seraphina, but they were colder and more impersonal. After going through metal detectors and standing in sterile lines, he eventually entered a vast, emotionless waiting area with dozens of other applicants, all of whose faces displayed a universal range of anxiety and hope.

He heard names being called, saw numbers ticking over on electronic screens, and watched people approach the interview windows. Their brief encounters frequently ended with a standard dismissal slip and a returned passport, or sometimes the coveted approval. At last, his own number flashed. His ribs were pounded by his heart.

He walked over to the window. A consular officer, wearing a sharp suit and maintaining a professional expression, sat behind the thick glass. He slipped his papers beneath the divider.

The officer glanced up at him after scanning the confirmation page. "Good morning. Kindly provide your full name and birthdate.

Mateo obeyed, his tone a little shaky.

With eyes darting between Mateo's documents and the screen, the officer typed quickly. "Purpose of your visit to the United States?"

"Tourism," Mateo said again, attempting to sound assured. "I'd like to travel around the nation. California, possibly New York.

"And how will you finance this trip?" The officer took a sharp look at the bank statement, which showed a balance insufficient to pay for a reasonable hotel stay in Los Angeles for a week.

Mateo announced, "I have saved money," pointing to the assertion. "And I will be careful, stay in budget places."

The officer's eyebrows went up a little. "Your current employment is part-time at a café?"

"Yes. I also work at other jobs. occasionally maintaining a fishing boat. Mateo added, "And I sell drawings," but quickly regretted it because it sounded erratic and desperate.

"I see." More typing. "What assurances can you provide that you will return to Portugal at the end of your intended stay?"

He was afraid of this question. Mateo said, "My family is here," as he moved the pictures a little forward. "My sister, my parents. My work... Knowing how unconvincing it sounded, he trailed off. He had no waiting spouse or kids, no permanent contract, and no mortgage. The unbreakable, intangible bond that drew him to America rather than Portugal was his strongest bond.

With his eyes evaluating, the officer twitched his fingers. Mateo felt trapped, his whole life and his unlikely quest reduced to a screen full of negative data points.

The officer finally spoke after what seemed like an eternity. "Mr. Silva, at this time, I cannot approve your visa application under Section 214(b) of the Immigration and Nationality Act." He slipped Mateo's passport and a standard form slip under the partition. "This section requires applicants to demonstrate sufficient ties outside the United States that would compel their departure after a temporary stay."

Mateo felt his stomach fall. Refusal.

However, the officer continued, "Furthermore, based on the financial documentation provided, your application is also being refused under Section 221(g), pending further information." He gave the form slip a tap. "Before your application could be reviewed, you would have to present much more convincing proof of your financial stability and strong ties to your homeland. Proof of significant savings, property ownership, or a steady, well-paying job contract are a few examples of this.

He smiled dismissively and tightly. "I appreciate your application. Next.

With the form slip feeling like ice in his hand, Mateo stood motionless for a moment. Although it wasn't a definitive "no," it could as well have been. More solid financial proof? A long-term agreement? These were completely out of his grasp. It was an official, courteous way of saying, 'people like you don't get in.'

The sound of the waiting room faded into a dull roar in his ears as he numbly collected his papers, muttered a "Thank you," and moved away from the window. Feeling completely defeated, he made his way out of the embassy and back into the grey drizzle of Lisbon. The visa was more than just a barrier; it was a strong wall based on rules and specifications intended for lives very different from his own. The wall hadn't even shook after he had spent weeks of arduous effort and valuable money striking it. The cold, harsh reality of official paperwork and inadequate funding made the dream seem more distant than ever. The trip appeared to be over before it had really started.