Outlanders: With $190 and a dream, you can at least make an appointment to apply for a coveted U.S. O-1 visa

(Okay, you're supposed to have, like, a Nobel Prize or an Olympic Gold Medal, but there appears to be some flexibility)


"[F]rom where does this accolade come? No less than the Embassy of the United States of America and, by extension I flatter myself, the President himself. It's going straight in my CV."

-- "conductor and stand-up comedian" Rainer Hersch,
in the August issue of BBC Music Magazine

by Ken

With immigration such a hot-button issue in the national discussion of issues we're going to be starting up anytime now in anticipation of the November elections, I thought DWT readers might enjoy this offering from regular BBC Music Magazine columnist Rainer Hersch, who's always described in his column bio as "a conductor and stand-up comedian." Although I've been reading his column for years now, I still don't have much of an idea what he actually does, but he's a pretty funny guy, and I thought the descriptions of his interfaces with American officialdom were kind of hilarious.

How I've made it to the top of the visa tree

Rainer Hersch
BBC Music Magazine, August 2012

You probably knew this already but now it's official: I am a person of extraordinary ability. Can't argue with it -- it even says so in my passort. To quote the citation in full, I have "demonstrated sustained international acclaim substantially above that ordinarily encountered" to the extent that I "can be described as prominent, renowned, and leading." And from where does this accolade come? No less than the Embassy of the United States of America and, by extension I flatter myself, the President himself. It's going straight in my CV.

Why this sudden elevation? Well, concerts in America mean visas and, among the jungle of US visa types, mine is the O-1 (temporary workers, extraordinary ability). My wife laughed, but if US immigration authorities were ornithologists, the O-1 would be an extremely rare bird indeed -- at the interview, even the steely embassy staff did a double take. Mind you, the road to O-1 glory is long and expensive. Just making an appointment for that interview costs $190, to say nothing of the accreditations and permissions which have to be assembled. Forget a few daft questions like if you will admit to being a terrorist, the O-1 is in a different league: "The applicant should should submit evidence of receipt of a major international award such as a Nobel Prize or Olympic Gold Medal," it says in the preliminary blurb. Presumably silver wouldn't be enough. I submitted both my Peace Prize and some video of me thrashing Usain Bolt, just to be sure.

This is rather extreme, but after gigs in almost 40 countries I can take any amount of bizarre probing in my stride. The alternative, in places where immigration isn't quite so scary, is frankly not to bother. "Just put you are a tourist," promoters often say. This sort of cultural imperialism can save endless red tape but is risky. Once, arriving to participate in an arts festival in the Caribbean, the official took me by surprise with some quite reasonable questions. "Where are you staying?" he asked. "With friends," I say. "What are they called?" "I've forgotten." "Where do they live?" "I don't know." Bizarrely, they let me in anyway. Wouldn't happen at Heathrow.

But back to the US. When it finally came to picking up my O-1, the guy behind the glass asked what it was I did exactly to deserve such an honour. Puffing myself up, I announced that I was a comedian. "Ha ha," says he. "I bet this is all going to end up in one of your scripts." I wouldn't dare.

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