Two weeks from now, I’m supposed to leave for Spain. Unfortunately, there’s a downside: I need to apply for a visa but I have an extreme phobia of bureaucracy.

Actually, the campaign to get a visa has been in progress for at least six months. That’s when my invitation to attend an international conference in the beautiful University town of Tarragona was confirmed. I tell myself that I must start the visa application right away, so I visit the online website of the Spanish consulate in the US, in January. I download forms and my hosts send me an invitation letter, hotel booking and airline tickets. I read the online instructions, I print out the lists and I even fill out a form as a trial-run.

All the while, however, I feel a thundercloud of uncertainty building up over my head. I am convinced that my attempt is going to fail. I simply do not trust myself to get all the papers that I need in time to go to the consulate, in Boston, to submit the application. Every time I look at the list of requirements — three years’ worth of tax records, three months’ worth of bank statements, credit card statements — the screen of my mind goes blank and I must play a few rounds of Spider Solitaire to calm myself down.

Bins, who knows how much I hate anything connected to forms and procedures, does his best to be helpful. “Why don’t you tell your hosts that you’re mentally unfit to apply for visas?” he asks. “That will save you so much trouble. You can instead stay right here in Elsewhere, go for walks in the evening and make hot chocolate at night. Your carbon footprint will be shining like a star! And you will not chew up your nails, worrying about the visa!”

“I promised my friend Liz that I would go for the conference,” I say. “I can’t let her down.” “Then you must fill up the forms and go to Boston,” says Bins. I groan aloud and play frantic rounds of Spider Solitaire until I pass out from eye-strain. Weeks pass before I set up the all-important appointment in Boston. Time is running out, my departure date is looming and Bins has already returned to India. Then my sister drives up from Hartford, drags me to Boston and books a room at the Taj Hotel. It’s really wonderful except that I am practically in a coma from the anxiety.

The next morning, we arrive at the consulate half an hour ahead of time. I get to the counter with a stack of papers, photocopies, photographs, print outs, originals and finger-tips ready for printing. Everything is calm, friendly, non-threatening and ... successful. Two hours later, the nice lady tells me that she’s granting the visa and to please return in 10 days to collect the passport. Wah! Joy! We emerge into the sunshine, enjoy the park and eat hot dogs, feeling grateful for everything.

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column