This weekend I went back up to Chicago to visit the family and go back to the French Consulate for Please Give Me A Visa: round 2. As one would expect, because this is me, it was a bit of a debacle.
Before we even left for Chicago I was rushed out the door, still printing out instructions and paperwork because I was a little sidetracked last week by all of the new job excitement. Also in typical me fashion, I had left several tasks I could have done here at home left incomplete.
- Get financial guarantee notarized
- Print and fill out two more forms
- Get passport photo taken
- Purchase a pre-paid, pre-addressed Express Mail envelope
We had surprisingly easy access to a notary, so the item I expected to be the biggest hassle was probably the easiest. One down, three to go. Easy.
In the French government’s continued efforts to fuck with me, clicking the “English” link just produced the form in French. I mentioned this before, but it’s still true: I am certain that someone with a sense of humor constructed these sites deliberately to mess with me. (Other people too, I guess, but I’d prefer to keep my thoughts within my Everything Is About Me bubble.) This is exactly what I would do if I were in charge of such things. “Oh, you want to come to France? You want to come to France and you can’t read French? Oh sure. Just click that link there. Yeah, no problem — it will be in English … LOLJK! HAHAHAHA. Cute.”
I knew what a few things were, and I started to fill out the others via my awesomely sexy Droid phone’s Google Goggles, but that was super tedious and I remembered from my previous attempt that the forms were available in English there, so I would just go early and fill it out.
Next I had to go to Walgreens. Naturally the first Walgreens I went to / stood in line at would tell me that their machine was down. Figures. I should have anticipated this running theme. Fortunately I was staying with my grandparents in the south loop and you can’t walk more than about eight feet in Chicago without running into a Walgreens. The passport photo setup at next one was really just a cashier with a camera. This man turned out to be quite nice and entertaining, but he was displeased with my readiness for passport photography. Hair back. Don’t smile. Add a dash of washed out photography and you have your friendly neighborhood serial killer:
Obviously I showed that picture to everyone because I think it’s hilarious. AND NOW I CAN SHARE IT WITH THE WHOLE INTERNET! Delightful.
Moving on: the Post Office wasn’t an option, because it was the weekend. There is one right in the middle of the four blocks between my grandparents’ apartment and the consulate office, so I figured that this too could be handled in the morning before my appointment.
Have I mentioned that I don’t do mornings? Tim King and I recently discussed the epic bloodshed-free, wordless battle we could have if our morning selves hung out. Don’t talk to me until I have had my breakfast and at least two cups of coffee. Ignore that advice at your own peril. My bitch face was honed in US public middle schools. I just got my refresher course as a substitute teacher.
My appointment was 10:30 on the 5th. Naturally I did not consider my failure with mornings or how long it has been since I actually went out in my Independence Night celebrations. As all well-organized, prepared people do in these situations, I came home drunk a little before 3am. That gave me six whole hours to sleep it off! Never mind the fact that in my year of what-the-hell-is-my-life I have grown accustomed to more of a nine-to-ten hour range.
I did get myself out the door by 9:50. Only 5 minutes behind the schedule I tried to set for myself, but at the expense of my morning coffee. I still had the following things to do:
- Buy envelope
- Fill out hopefully-in-English forms
I reached the post office door before I realized that I forgot my passport. Of fucking course.
Whatever. I still have time. Everything is very close. No problem. Buy the envelope and then go back for the passport.
OH HEY, THEIR MACHINES ARE DOWN. Is this a thing that I do? Do I walk into buildings and break nearby computers with my presence? I stood in disbelief for a moment, but before I could even think about getting directions to the closest alternative, I remembered that I had to run back for the passport.
I was starting to feel that glorious July-in-Chicago humidity.
Why is it so hot? How could I forget my passport? That’s pretty much the most important thing, you incompetent jackass. Stop it. Get passport. Get envelope. You have 30 minutes. You’ve got this.
I had almost exactly the right amount of cash to pay the visa fee and thus could not afford to get a cab to this mythical Post Office whose location I still did not know.
All right. According to FourSquare I can just walk straight for about eight blocks and I’ll get to one. I have twenty minutes. Cool.
I arrive at the post office at 10:25 to a ridiculously long line, a self-service machine that is fully functioning with the exception of Express Mail stamps (of course) forcing me back into the line. I made a frantic call to my mom to try to book me a new appointment. I was maybe freaking out a little. Just a little.
At 10:50 I finally start heading back, jogging and crying a little. I admit it. It was early (before noon! it was actual morning!), I was without coffee, and hungover.
AND WHAT THE HELL IS THAT HUMIDITY?
I arrived at the building at 11:00 and went through security. Only one of the two forms I neglected to fill out was available and I didn’t bring a pen. I decided that getting all of my shit together should come before approaching the desk and pointing out that I was obviously not there when my name was called.
I borrowed a pen from a fellow applicant and tried not to think about the fact that everyone else appeared well dressed while I sat there in my t-shirt, shorts, and rubber flip-flops looking like the hot disheveled mess that I am.
At 11:30 a miracle happened and they asked if anyone was there for a long-stay student visa. I was the only one.
Miracles continued: the left window was a somewhat persnickety woman who I encountered on my previous trip. The right window, the one I had been called to, was a much younger and distractingly attractive guy who turned out to be incredibly nice. I was a fidgety disaster of a human being, trying really hard to pull myself together. I knew I was failing, though, which only exacerbated the aforementioned fidgeting and generally disastrous (lack of) composure.
He took my paperwork, and when he got to my missing form, he printed it out for me (it only exists in French, so the English link was a lie!) and explained, without my even having to ask, what each box was asking for. In hindsight this might have been more condescending than kind, but at the time, it felt like the single nicest thing any human being had ever done.
They took another picture that I didn’t see, but based on my previous work and my general condition, I am sure it was amazing. I’m just trying to send a message to the French that I am not to be trifled with because I am obviously crazy.
I paid and was sent on my way. I thanked the guy a little too profusely because he’s just filing paperwork, but in my mind he was the one saying, “Why yes, you can go to France after all. You haven’t been telling people and planning your life around this only to be denied and sulk shamefully back to your parents’ basement where you will cry yourself to sleep.”
Or something like that.
I’m withholding the official victory dance until that envelope arrives with my passport and its shiny new stamp. We’re in the Victory Dance Choreographing phase. Pre-dance flailing has definitely begun.