I've joined the ranks of Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan. No, I wasn't arrested for DUI, but I did get my mugshot and fingerprints taken on Thursday.

Whenever I work in the United States, the Department of Homeland Security has to approve and issue me what's called a Class P2 visa. (This is the case for all non-US citizens who work in fields like music.) My management applies for one each time I have an engagement in the States. The application goes through the American Federation of Musicians, gets processed in Vermont, and a piece of paper arrives in the mail for you to present to immigration officials before you enter the country.

Through negligence, I failed to realize until about five days before my flight to Boston that the P2 hadn't arrived. The visa had been approved, but the paperwork had gotten lost in Vermont. I had nothing to present at the border. I was told to explain the situation to the regular immigration official, who would then take me to a special room where this problem would be taken care of.

The conversation between myself and the regular immigration official might as well have been in two different languages.

“You can go through.”
“But I'm missing my P2.”
What do you need a P2 for?”
“I'm doing a concert.”
“Are you sure it's a P2 you need?”
“I'm…pretty sure.”

Doubt creeping in…

“I think that's what I always get, but I can call my manager and ask…”
“No cellphones allowed.”
“Can I use your phone then?”
“No.”
“I was told I have to go to a special room.”
“Oh, it's right around the corner.”

I entered the special room and timidly approached the reception desk. The lady behind it looked at me sternly and snapped, “I'll be with you once I'm done with this file, ok? You'll have to wait your turn.” I looked around, but, try as I might, I didn't see anyone I could possibly stand behind. So I just stood there, waiting my turn behind an imaginary someone in an imaginary line.

After ten minutes of this I shifted forward, the lady sighed, looked extremely bothered, and asked me what I wanted. I handed her my passport and ticket and told her my story. She pointed a webcam-type object at me and took a photo that I assume makes my passport one look like a glamour shot. It turns out that mugshots and prints are a standard procedure in these cases. I haven't figured out why.

“I need to take your fingerprints.”
“Yes?”

I was waiting for ink and paper but she gestured some device not unlike the thing that checks your heartrate at the emergency room. I placed my left index finger on the thingy like she told me to. Nothing happened.

“Wipe your finger, it's too sweaty.”
“But my finger is perfectly dry – my hands are almost never sweaty.”
“It's sweaty, it's not working.”
“I assure you, my finger is not sweaty.”
“It's dirty then, or oily – wipe it.”

I wiped and replaced it on the thingy. Nothing happened.

“Let's see the finger.”

The culprit turned out to be my crusty callous – my dry and clean crusty callous.

“Give me the right finger”, she said, disgusted, though I'm not sure whether her disgust had to do with the situation or the crusty callous. The right finger worked.
“Go sit down. You'll have to wait your turn.”

I joined the saddest-looking group of people I've seen since a subway problem in Toronto prevented a whole crowd from making it on time to (what was advertised as) Anne-Sophie Mutter's farewell concert. One lawyer had been waiting three hours. An Eastern European couple just gave up and left. I looked nervously at the clock – only two hours to boarding, and I was starving.

I was eventually called, short of the 90 minute mark.

“Why are you here?”
“My visa got lost in Vermont.”
“So you don't have a visa?”
“No, I do have a visa – it's just not here.”

I felt ridiculous, like I was telling this man my dog ate my homework.

“Do you have any documentation at all?”
“Well, I have this application number on the itinerary my management gave me.”
“Ma'am, this isn't an official document.” (Voice rising.)
“Well, yes, I know that, but you can use that number to get one.”

Utter annoyance and some investigation on the computer.

“Yeah, it seems like you were approved.”
“So I have a visa?”
“No, you don't have a visa, but there's no point in getting one now, because you'll be back before it comes through. It's ok: you were approved.”
“Huh?”

I've been thoroughly confused since about whether the term “visa” refers to permission to enter the country for work or the piece of paper that verifies your having the said permission. I'll work it out someday.

My consolation prize to myself for this whole semantic misadventure was two slices of pizza and a vitamin water. All was promptly forgotten.

I'm en route back to Toronto, having arrived here from Yerevan, Armenia a few hours ago. (I hope you'll forgive that I stopped for some steak and fries before committing these thoughts to screen.) It used to be the case that the time I rotated 180˚ onstage while playing solo Bach was the most noteworthy thing that ever happened to me on a concert trip (I'll tell you about it some other time). That incident has now been trumped by the witnessing of my first political uprising and army crackdown. It's very calm here in Paris, so it's hard to believe that I woke up this morning to find several tanks and a large army outside my hotel, or that I passed dozens of burnt-out cars and broken windows on my way to the airport, or that I was unable to play my concert last night because of a government-issued ban on public gatherings.

I arrived in Yerevan six days ago at around midnight. (Through some coincidence, I always seem to arrive in Yerevan at an ungodly hour.) I went to bed as soon as I got to my hotel room. I skipped breakfast the next morning (bad, I know) and worked on my Elgar (good, I know), before going down to one of the hotel's restaurants for lunch. I was staying at the Yerevan Marriott Hotel (formerly the famous Hotel Armenia in Soviet times), which overlooks Republic Square, home of Armenia's government buildings. That was when I first noticed something was weird: a group of Italian businessmen was huddled by a large window in the restaurant, staring out at a massive collection of people who were brandishing signs expressing support for the government.

Here's what was happening. The Republic of Armenia held presidential elections last month. Although international election-watchers agreed that everything went smoothly, one of the losing candidates decided that he…well, didn't lose. His supporters were holding demonstrations in another part of the city, and the president-elect's supporters were holding counter-demonstrations in this part of the city.

The “other part of the city” turned out to be more relevant to me than I had guessed. All of the APO's concerts are held at the Aram Khatchaturian Concert Hall, which is part of a building known as The Opera (the other part of The Opera is the hall actually used for operas). Most of Yerevan's cultural activity takes place here. The election protestors couldn't use Republic Square (since it was being used by the counter-protestors), so they congregated around The Opera. The situation pretty much remained the same throughout the week: I'd pass the protesters on my way in and out of rehearsals. They were very loud and apparently very fond of sunflower seeds – there were seed remnants strewn everywhere. At one point, the APO actually locked all of the entrances to the hall, because the demonstrators had started wandering in looking for bathrooms! (I don't know whether or not that had anything to do with the sunflower seeds.) At one point I was personally affected: I slipped on some loose pavement on Friday trying to take an alternative route and pulled a neck muscle. But no worries – there's a fantastic massage therapist at the Marriott's spa. Look him up if you're ever in Yerevan. His name is Spartacus. No joke.

The situation did change – rather dramatically - the morning of the concert (yesterday). When we showed up for the dress rehearsal, The Opera was surrounded by riot police, who let us in only after a not unsubstantial amount of explaining and pleading. Maestro Alber did manage to get through his entire Rachmaninoff third symphony once we were finally let in, but we were only about a quarter of the way through the Elgar when the orchestra manager came in and announced that mass gatherings weren't allowed for the rest of the day. So no concert. In response, Eduard Topchjan (the APO's music director), threw on his coat and said, “well, how about dinner?”.

Things got even stranger after that. The dispersed protesters started rioting and soon many of the major streets were lined with soldiers. The concierge at the Marriott slipped notes under our doors cautioning us to draw our curtains and to stay away from the windows – for once I was grateful they'd run out of good rooms overlooking the square and I'd gotten stuck in one facing some random alley. (That view actually reminded me of the kind I've had out of every Manhattan hotel room I've ever stayed in.) Eduard Topchjan's dinner plans hadn't included walking back to the hotel accompanied by sounds of yelling and machine-gun fire, but we got that anyway. It was really surreal, like something out of a textbook I was quizzed on in first-year history. The government has since declared a 20-day state of emergency. Everything was disturbingly quiet this morning when I was driven to the airport.

So…that was my week. I'll sign off now and go prepare for my Beethoven recital in Toronto this week. I don't think that one will be cancelled – unless something crazy happens, like six inches of snow.