First Reseda and Then the World

These people are going places.

But to get there, they must stand still.

Soon they will know the unparalleled wonders of world travel. They will wake up in a faraway land, experience life through a different lens, discover similarities and marvel at differences.

They will bring back souvenirs, photographs and memories.

But for now they stand 30 deep in a hallway in the Reseda post office, lined up in front of a door like antsy school kids waiting to be let out for recess.

What lies behind the door is more important to the globe-trotter than any travel agent or tour guide.

And so their journey of a thousand miles begins with one humble step: an obligatory visit to the wizard of world travel, the diva of destinations--the tireless government clerk who processes applications for passports.

Applying for a passport in the central San Fernando Valley takes fortitude and heart, the same sort needed to nab a good sidewalk spot at the Rose Parade. Or to get Pearl Jam concert tickets.

Travelers can apply at the Federal Building in Westwood or at designated post offices throughout the county. It’s the post office’s version of 7-Eleven, one-stop customer convenience: buy stamps, register for the draft, take care of a crucial part of your international travel plans.

“It was a joint effort with the Postal Service to provide a very valuable service in the local community,” an alternative to driving to Westwood, said Barbara Brophy, customer service manager for the Los Angeles Passport Agency.

But aside from Burbank and Glendale, Reseda has the only post office in the area that accepts passport applications. Many thousands of people apply through the office every year.

Each non-holiday weekday, from 10 a.m. to 2:30 p.m., a solitary clerk sits behind a window at the end of a long hallway, tending to a line that keeps reproducing itself, like those animals that can grow limbs back after they’ve been chopped off.

By 8:40 a.m. on a recent day, with the opening more than an hour off, four people have already staked out positions, most of them returnees who saw the line on a previous day and left.

People who wait in this line do what most people in lines do: They strike up conversations with complete strangers, they commiserate with each other, they find ways to pass the time.

Today, Young Ma and her husband, Chong, who are planning a trip to Seoul, are first in line.

“I came here yesterday, but the line is so long,” she says. “I went back home. That’s why I’m bright and early today.”

While she waits, Ma reads from a daily prayer book and chats a little with Alfredo Orozco). Behind Orozco is John Arias of Santa Clarita. They talk and discover something in common: Both have roots in Guadalajara, Mexico.

Behind them, Sharon, as she wants to be identified, sits on the floor, back against the wall, legs stretched in front of her. She will travel with her fiance to India and Australia, her first trip abroad.

“Actually, the only place I’ve ever been is Cleveland to visit my old boyfriend,” she says, her voice trailing off, as if she’s just realized this fact.

Some grumble about the wait, the curtness of government workers, the inefficiency of having one window. But many here are also pleasant and helpful to each other.

Throughout the morning, newcomers walk in, looking lost, needing to know where to get an application.

“On the other side” of the building, several people say in near unison.

“We should put a little bucket up here for tips,” says Peter Miller, another returnee, seated on the floor with his daughter Rachel and his companion Deborah.

Lots of people in line use the time to come up with ideas for improving the lot of those in line.

“They should have punch and cookies here,” Deborah says. And “some nice music.”

“Fitness videos,” Sharon says.

“They should have coffee,” Peter Miller says definitively.

Some people don’t grumble or propose things. They think about the places they will visit, the people they will meet and the times they will have.

“I’m going to Israel. It’s my first trip,” says Ruth Rothman of Encino. “My son is a rabbi. I figured I’d better get there now. I’m 73.”

Right at 10 a.m., the doorknob clicks and the line begins to flutter.

“Good morning,” the clerk says, emerging from behind the door.

People pick themselves up.

“In order to move this line,” she says in a loud voice, “you guys must read the signs.” She does not say “or else,” but people pay close attention as if she had. Not to the signs but to the clerk, who has a very distinct, take-care-of-business, no-time-to-waste air about her.

“New citizens, sign your certificate. Put today’s date on line 22. $65 for adults, $40 for children. It takes four weeks. I don’t take cash.”

It costs an extra $30 to rush an application, and on and on.

And then the kicker.

“If you have all your stuff ready and signed, it only takes two minutes.”

Two minutes?

The clerk disappears behind the door, then reappears at the window. The Mas are not quite ready. They have signed something in the wrong place, and they haven’t filled out their checks, and before you know it, four minutes have come and and gone and the two Mas are still at the window.

“Now the rest of you guys are going to be ready,” the clerk says, peeking over their heads to those in line behind them.

“Right?”

There are nods, and many in line stand up straighter.

A few people finish swiftly, but two minutes is clearly an idealized goal. People sign their names in the wrong places, people don’t or can’t read the signs, people don’t bring the proper documents.

Sometimes customers don’t know which name to sign. New citizens must sign their names as they appear on their citizenship certificate, the clerk says.

“Don’t let me have to scratch your name off and write it,” the clerk warns. “You have a lot of time in line. Every little thing takes time.”

Occasionally there’s entertainment.

An elderly man with a baseball cap and a slow gait, punctuated by his jingling keys, walks in talking loudly to everyone and no one in particular.

“Look at that line,” he says on his way to collect his mail from a row of nearby postal boxes. “I’m-a get in that line one day. And I’m not coming back.

“I don’t know where y’all going,” he calls out, “but y’all come back, you hear?”

People smile.

All day the clerk does the same thing, says the same thing, while people read, talk on cellular phones, quiet crying babies. Shortly before 2:30 she announces that she will take a short break.

“When I get back, be ready,” she says. “Two minutes per customer.”

She emerges from behind the door and hands a lavender card to Gene Mathews of West Hills and his wife, Sue--their credential as the last customers she intends to accept that day.

“Well, you just made it here,” a woman about four people in front of them says, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Who’s she?” Mathews cracks. “The hall monitor?”

It’s after 2:30 p.m., but people keep coming.

Mathews tells them he’s the last one. They think he’s joking and so they stay.

“OK,” the clerk says when four people behind the Mathewses make it to the window. “If you have your stuff, I’m going to take you. No more exceptions. No more exceptions.”

“See,” someone says. “There is a God.”

By 3:20 p.m. they’re all gone, a typical day, the clerk--who doesn’t want to be identified--says to a reporter. For three years, she has worked the job, mostly alone. And she is not complaining.

“These days you got to do what you got to do,” she says. But after spending so much time handling passports for others, to what distant places does she travel to escape?

“Not me,” she says, with one hand on the window, ready to close it. “I’m scared of planes. I don’t go.”