Our Visas Have Landed

After weeks of anguish, gnashing of teeth and biting of nails, we have our prized French visas in our very grateful hands. Yes, the embassy gods cooperated. They heard our pleas, smiled down upon us and granted our wish yesterday when for the second time in a month, we presented ourselves at the embassy. We handed over the missing insurance paperwork, tried to look confident (although I was sure the clerk could see I was shaking) and waited an agonizing 40 minutes while the officials reviewed our file. “Here are your visas,” were the sweetest words I’d heard in a very long time. The final obstacle has been removed and we can make our way to our gap year starting blocks. Let the trip begin! 

The Final Countdown

We leave for Paris four weeks from today! The last countdown I recognized was last September, when we had one year to go until we left. I’m now going to start counting the days. It’s hard to believe that it’s actually going to happen and that our departure is almost here. Our packing dress rehearsal showed us that all we want to take will indeed fit into our bags (a rolling duffle, an overnight bag and a backpack each), we’ve decided to lighten our loads somewhat. At some point during our travels we may regret having certain things behind, but I’m betting that the benefits of our lightened loads will outweigh the items we miss.

An update on health insurance: getting a revised letter from Kaiser was worse than pulling teeth. Repeated calls finally resulted in reaching a supervisor who shared the news that repatriation expenses are not covered under our plan. They’ll pay emergency healthcare expenses but won’t bring our bodies home if we fall off an Alp or are run over by a Vespa. Lovely. So, we had to resort to purchasing supplemental travel insurance that includes repatriation. Not a happy thought, but over the past two weeks, we’ve had to deal with the whole possible death issue in one way or another as it relates to health insurance, our bank accounts and other assets. Necessary, I guess, but not fun to think about. As soon as I receive the new insurance paperwork, we have to show up at the embassy, present the new documents and fingers crossed, “pass go.” I so fear that as Dorothy is instructed by the Wizard of Oz, “bring me the broom of the Wicked Witch of the West,” we’ll be told that there’s something else we need to secure and present before the embassy will give us our visas. And that scares the living %#@* out of me!

Twenty-eight days until we leave...the embassy gods willing.

Relaxing is Hard Work

I have to work really, really hard to relax. It can be so difficult to sit still, unwind and take things in. Those afflicted with my struggle to slow down will understand that there is always something that needs doing: there are bills to pay, financial spreadsheets to update, messages to send, articles to read and things to be organized. And with so much to do, why not do two things at once? I mend my blouse while watching a movie, pay the bills while listening to a podcast and switch back and forth between projecting our finances and doing email. My natural state is to continually be working on something -- to always be producing. Perhaps it’s my atavistic need to gets things accomplished, to get things done, that continually pushes the possibility of relaxation further and further to the side.

My to-do lists give structure to my days, whether I’m working, going to school, or hanging around the house. Now, I don’t believe that creating and following my lists is necessarily a bad thing. They have served me very well for 55 years and have helped me accomplish much. However, one of my goals for our year abroad is to simply relax, clear some quiet space in my mind and consciously take in and appreciate my surroundings. There’s a Pascal quote that says something like, “All men's miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone.” Well, I want to make sure that such miseries have no place in our gap year. We need to build in plenty of lazy expanses of unscheduled time to simply sit quietly and look around, whether in a rustic gîte or comfortable inn, on a mountaintop or park bench. While it may go against my “get-it-done” nature, I’m determined to slow down and resist the fast pace of cities, not worrying if we miss a few must-see sights. It will be more important to genuinely take in, enjoy and remember those we do see. I also want to spend as much time in nature as possible, absorbing the pleasure of simply being there and allowing the power of the outdoors to nourish us. I’ll continue to use lists to help define our days – I’m not planning to fundamentally change who I am, after all. However, consciously choosing to relax – to sometimes just sit and be -- will be added to the list. Unwinding may not be the very first thing at the top, but it certainly won’t fall to the bottom as it does now. The big question is: will I be able to accept that relaxing is indeed an accomplishment? Only time will tell.

Francophilia, Grecophilia and Other Passions

Why does one country fascinate me and another leave me cold? Why does my heart flutter at the mention of anything French, my spirit light up at the thought of a Greek isle, my muscles relax and my mouth water at the sight of an Italian taverna, but I feel little enthusiasm for discussing our upcoming visits to Berlin or Budapest? Is it because I know so much more about France and Greece and Italy than I do of Eastern Europe? Is it because I speak French? But wait -- I speak no Greek yet all things Hellenic appeal to my every sense. And while I can get by in an Italian restaurant, I don’t speak Italian. I often try to determine what it was that initially piqued my interest in France. It wasn’t simply that I learned the language. I took Spanish years before I started studying French and while I thoroughly enjoyed mis clases de español, once I walked into my very first high school French class with Mr. Stefanek, I was smitten. Mesmerized. Committed.

Every night on the News Hour, we listen to Russian history experts or post-colonial Indian specialists or PhD’s on Libya’s economy expound on their specialties and I always wonder what drew him or her to a specific field? Is it nature/genetic? Or is it nurture/exposure? Or is it something else? I often consider the possibility that I was a French peasant in a former life because of what seems to be my innate appreciation for all things French. I’m sure I wasn’t royalty because the flamboyant French court is definitely not my style. It’s amusing to think about, especially when I can connect some of my avocations to the life of a peasant: my love of gardening, getting my hands dirty, and making a plot of land my own, my affinity for the countryside and uncharted walkabouts, my powerful need to retreat from the crowds and sounds of the city to enjoy the landscape and go inward. I could spend hours in a museum taking in French medieval tapestry and learning about the stories behind them, not necessarily because I’d like to hang them on my walls but because I’m fascinated by the people who made them.

Would I like to visit just about every country and city in the world? Yes, absolutely. I would like to be able to imagine them when I read news reports and novels that are based there. But do they all make me breathe a little faster or sit up straighter when I hear their names? Do they all take hold of me emotionally? Well, no, not really. They appeal to me intellectually but don’t speak to my soul. Joe and I were lucky enough to go to Singapore two years ago (I was asked and funded to speak at a Southeast Asian book publishers meeting) and while I was thrilled to make the trip, I just didn’t have a feel for the culture. I certainly knew more when we left than when we’d arrived, and our brief visit piqued my interest such that I want to learn more about this diverse crossroads region, but it didn’t grab my heart the way France and Italy and Greece do. So, I’m still left with the question of why France? Why Greece? And why the other countries that take hold of me and won’t let go? Why do these places and their possibilities make me feel that my life will be incomplete without them? Perhaps I’ll discover that there are other countries, territories and cultures out there just waiting to seize me with their pleasures and treasures. Will it be Morocco? Turkey? Corsica? Spain? I can’t wait to find out.

Good News and Bad News

Time is ticking and still no letter from Kaiser. We did receive a gracious communication from the embassy stating that our file is “approximately” complete. We should present ourselves in person, no appointment needed, once we have the precious insurance documentation in hand. All else is in order. Kaiser’s “Customer Care” office has assured us that the letter is forthcoming, but I won’t believe that they’ve handled it correctly until I have the paperwork in hand. I’m a very trusting person by nature and I want to believe that we won’t have to resort to Insurance Plan B. But I can’t help but ask, are we waiting for Godot?

Print Book Guilt

Joe gave me a Kindle for my birthday in March, but I have yet to take it out of its box. There are way too many printed books in the I-must-read-them-before-we-leave pile to start an e-reading queue. There are 3 or 4 books I plan to take with me, in addition to a handful of travel references, but I’m doing my best to reduce the number of yet-to-be-read titles before I inaugurate my Kindle. I have a lingering compulsion to first read all the printed books I own and feel guilty buying ebooks while my bedside pile awaits. I’ve read some terrific books over the past couple of months, several of which have been in my reading queue for a long time including So Much For That, The Paris Wife, The Road From Coorain, The Perfect Heresy and Drive. And since we’ve already packed up and stored the bulk of our belongings that will remain stateside, I’ve been giving away each book as I finish it. In the past, I either lent each book I read to someone I thought would enjoy it, or it was added to our personal library. However, since I’m in absolute relinquishing mode, not wanting to hang on to any possessions not coming with us, I’ve taken to leaving books wherever I finish them. If I don’t have a friend or sibling I know will enjoy a particular title, the book gets left in a cafe, at a fast food joint, poolside or in the dentist’s office. And each time I abandon a book, I keep my fingers crossed that it won’t just get tossed in the trash, but that an interested reader will pick it up. And each book I give away gets me closer to firing up my Kindle so I can test-drive it before we leave. 

Health Insurance Will Get you Every Time

We made our much-anticipated visit to the French Embassy in Georgetown last week to apply for our long-stay visas. To put it mildly, the morning had its ups and downs. I had spent hours researching and preparing the visa requirements, collecting bank account statements, writing letters stating that we did not intend to look for work in France, getting passport-sized photos taken, printing out the Paris apartment lease, drawing up our itinerary and completing the applications. As the good Catholic schoolgirl that I am, I follow directions well. I diligently prepared the documents we needed according to the exact instructions provided -- paying special attention to the smallest detail -- made two copies of everything, stapled and clipped all the necessary paperwork together and organized the piles in two neat folders: a red one for Joe and a blue one for me. In typical “Marianne style,” I fretted about all the specific requirements, especially these:

* an English translation of the “long-stay” application (yes, I went though and translated, word-for-word, the French visa application into English);  

* a notarized copy of a year-long lease (all I had was a letter of agreement for a month-long lease in Paris);

* proof of medical coverage in the form of a letter from our insurance provider with some very specific clauses.

I took the directive that “one passport number equals one visa appointment and paperwork file” very seriously. In an effort to cushion the possibility that our initial visit to the embassy would not actually yield the desired approvals, I adopted the assumption that it would take at least two visits to the embassy to get our visas. We would be confronting French bureaucracy at its best (worst?) and I needed to go in with diminished expectations. We arrived at the embassy gate, primed for our interviews and ready for battle, armed with our meticulously prepared paperwork.

The first indication that the morning might not go perfectly was the sign announcing that there was no parking for visa applicants. What? Isn’t granting visas a major mission for an embassy? But they don’t provide parking for the supplicants? Already they were making things adversarial. And so began the ups and downs of the process. We put the car in reverse, backed away from the gate and despite Washington’s summer haze, heat and humidity, did our best to stay calm and cool. We drove a quarter mile down the street to the Georgetown University Hospital parking garage, paid our $20 and walked back to the entry gate. Wilted and wetter than on our first approach, we surrendered our drivers’ licenses to the guard and made our way into Building B, just minutes before our scheduled appointment times. We made ourselves as comfortable as we could in the molded plastic chairs of France’s version of the MVA. After about 20 minutes, it became apparent that we were there for the duration when they called the young woman with a 9am appointment at close to 10 o’clock. So much for obsessing about arriving on time...

We remained calm and sat back to listen to the travails of the applicants called before us. First came the young Bulgarian woman accompanied by her father who would be studying in Paris. For some reason, her plan to visit her country for two weeks before she landed in Paris was causing a major problem. And then came the two head-scarved teenagers with Algerian passports, again escorted by their father. They presented their story to the woman behind the glass in muffled tones. The exchange quickly became heated as the patriarch took over the interview. “It’s because we are Muslim, isn’t it? Who is your supervisor? This is an outrage.” And with that, father and daughters stormed out. We then understood why the processors are behind protective glass. Emotions can boil over quickly when the stakes are high. Next up was the loud talker whose every personal detail of her fellowship to teach in France became known by all in the waiting room. At close to 10:30, I mentioned to Joe that it was July 13, the day before Bastille Day, and that if all went as planned, we would be in Provence for the French National Holiday fireworks in 2012. “Maybe not,” he said, “we could still be here.” And at that very moment, they called our names.

The first part of the process went without a hitch. We presented our identification paperwork to the lovely woman at window #1. She took our fingerprints electronically, asked us a few questions, snapped our pictures and we sat back down. So far, all was in order and our next stop would be window #2. We were pleased and relaxed and thought, maybe this won’t be so bad.

Wrong. After about 20 minutes, we were called to report to the next window. It had gone so well at the first window, but then our luck changed. A not-so-dashing Inspector Clouseau-like figure who spoke English with a thick Italian accent (he must have been from Marseille?), had an attitude from the start. It seems that none of our paperwork was right and he was going to make sure we knew it:

-- “No, these are the wrong applications – these are the 2009 versions. Fill out these new ones.” And he threw two forms at us.

-- “Your last 3 pay stubs.” (When I protest that pay stubs weren’t on the list, he rudely fires back that he’ll print me the requirements from the web site – extended pause – Madame.) 

-- “Proof that you live in DC.” (This wasn’t on the list either!)

-- “Show me where this letter says you have health coverage in France.” (We highlight the sentence which says “outside the US” and he throws it back saying it’s inadequate.)

We retreat to our chairs, humiliated, after he scoffs one final time at our file and dismisses us with, “Sit and wait. You will be called.” On the verge of tears, I desperately wanted to strangle the man. Lucky for him, he was behind the protective window. Yes, emotions do run over. We dutifully completed the “new” form he’d given us, but WTF!  It was EXACTLY the same bloody form, except that the 2009 printed in 5-point type in the lower right corner of our forms said 2011 on his. And as I sat and fumed, I reviewed the list of requirements I’d printed from the web site: it said nothing about residency proof and pay stubs. I just wanted to scream.

In the end, we left the embassy after having an audience at the final window -- #3. The sympathetic young man gave us a to-do checklist and graciously explained the three items we still needed to provide: a one-page narrative about what we plan to do for a year; an explanation of how we sold our MD home and were living with friends and copies of our drivers’ licenses, our friends’ licenses and a utility bill proving their DC residence; and, a revised letter from our health insurance provider with some very specific language about coverage in France. He didn’t offer much hope about our ability to secure the proper insurance letter from Kaiser Permanente (“they NEVER do it right”), but wished us good luck. His parting suggestion left us feeling defeated: you may have to find a new insurance company. OMG!

I needed several hours that afternoon to calm my nerves and ease my frustration before I contacted Kaiser about a new insurance letter and started to prepare the other missing documents. Everything has now been faxed to the embassy and all we’re awaiting now is the Kaiser letter. Our visas now hang on obtaining this all-important document and I won’t breathe easy ‘til I have it in hand. Why does health insurance always have to be so difficult?