The past few weeks have been hellish; the stuff nightmares are made of. I was kept awake at night with worry about my indeterminate future; in particular, my ability to procure a French long-stay student visa scarcely five days before I am to depart. I tried to stay awake last night, so I wouldn’t sleep through my interview this morning (I’ve been getting up at 3pm lately -- the result of those sleepless nights I mentioned), first by dragging my roommates into a circular conversation until the wee hours of the morning, then by busying myself with meaningless blog-hopping. At around 6, however, my eyelids started to droop and I was forced to retire.
I had a brief and restless nap and shot out the door by 8am for my 11:30 appointment. Upon arrival, I was informed that applicants weren’t permitted to enter the building until the scheduled time so I wandered around the Upper East Side and had brunch at a charming café on 73rd. I then whiled away some hours on a bench in Central Park, going over my documents for the umpteenth time and organizing the placement of each sheet according to their position on the list of requested documents. As the hour of reckoning drew closer, I moved to a stoop in front of the consulate and entered a zen-like trance as I attempted to keep my nerves at bay. The minutes trickled by.
And then, it was my turn.
I sauntered up to the security guard, flashed my appointment card and identification, and was promptly ushered into (along with a handful of other 11:30am-ers) a narrow hall with glass booths on one side and a cluster of chairs on the other. I was first in line and made it through the initial processing with nary a hiccup. I was then handed a receipt and told to take a seat while I waited for my interview.
From my perch, I was able to witness the fate of the rest of my group unfold. The first person after me was missing her attestation (“What’s that?” she asked) -- denied! Thank you, come again. Your flight leaves tonight? Too bad. Second person’s parents are US citizens but were unfortunately born in Iran -- processing will take a minimum of three weeks. Your flight leaves tomorrow and classes begin at the end of the week? Sorry, government protocol. Please curtail your sobbing and histrionics, the French government is merely precautious, not racist. Next!
At this point, I started to lose myself deep in prayer. If middle-aged white women couldn’t get past the hawkish glares of French consular officials, there was no hope for an un-white, 20-30 year old boy like me (i.e. profiling anyone?). I was deep in concentration, trying to perfect my doe-eyed and impotent expression, when my name was suddenly called. I gulped and timorously made my way over to the glass booth. The proceeding events were a pleasant blur. There was banter (a bit in French, a bit in English), there were polite requests for copies of my documents, there were smiles, and there were snippets of advice on career and living in France.
A few minutes later, I was strolling down Fifth Avenue with a receipt for my passport and the knowledge that I could pick it up at 3pm that day. I was all smiles despite the fact that I was being sustained on two hours of rest. I decided to linger around the vicinity of the consulate while waiting to pick up my visa, so I went for lunch at some Italian place with gorgeous floral arrangements and sunny tables that spilled out onto the sidewalk. I also had a bit of a look around the area and peeked into some stores I must remember to revisit, stores that sold specialized artisanal crafts without a recognizable brand. [Note: Lexington Avenue, between 74th and 76th]
I picked my passport up at 3 and have been lovingly caressing the visa ever since. On the one hand, I loathe how much importance is accorded to this sticker in my travel document. In fact, I also hate that I don’t have freedom of mobility as evinced by the trials and tribulations I had to suffer through (mostly the stress before the interview, not the actual interview itself which in retrospect was a piece of cake) all for the sake of pursuing a Masters degree in a nation that is not my own. What is this ridiculous anachronism known as a “nation-state” anyway? But I digress. With this final piece of preparation taken care of, I am now gearing up for my departure on Monday.
New York has been good to me, but there is still so much more of the world to see.
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2 comments:
sigh. you slut. i don't know how many times i have to expound my jealousy. and the fact that you are leaving it all to pursue Europe. Once you leave you cannot return. How sad. New York will be so empty when I return :( I genuinely feel sad. But shall we start to put in place our plans for apartment swapping? A week or two at our pad, a week or two at yours? Please meet a nice French girl (or person) who speaks English in a French accent.
Bon voyage and bonne chance! Let me know when you get there. The boy has informed me you are flying Labor Day.
you say it in such absolute terms -- i can return and i will. too many ties here -- i wanted to come back for thanksgiving but realized it wasn't a vacation in france.
okay, done! soonest though is july/october of next year (long story). and doubtful about prospects of meeting anyone, am undeserving of affection. merci beaucoup!
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