Ducks in a Row

Having been a bridesmaid at least five times (I eventually stopped counting), I am well-acquainted with the “behind the scenes” planning that goes into a wedding.  The similarities to the process of getting to Le Cordon Bleu are uncanny.  In the beginning it felt like my departure date would never arrive and that I had all of the time in the world while the last month is sending me into a panicked frenzy of activity.

Add to that the move, the crazy expenses, the change of lifestyle, the legal mumbo-jumbo, and the ominous, ever-present possibility of the “engagement” being called off, and all that I’m missing is a white gown.  I will have a white chef’s uniform, but that was included in my tuition—maybe the better parallel would be the hideous steel-toed, slip-proof clogs that I still need to purchase.

Almost no step in this process has been independent of the other steps.  Before securing an apartment I wanted to be sure that I had my student visa.  Receiving a visa can take up to three weeks after the appointment at the French consulate.  Scheduling a visa appointment required first that I register with Campus France and receive their confirmation e-mail, another three-week process.  Registering with Campus France required an acceptance letter from Le Cordon Bleu.  Receiving the acceptance letter required paying off the tuition balance in full.  Paying off the tuition balance in full required the sale of my house (and a 99.9% certainty that I wasn't going to change my plans).

Throughout the preparation and confusion, my one battle cry has been, “Surely people dumber than I am have done this before and succeeded!”  It’s only recently that I have begun to have my doubts.

On Tuesday morning at 11:00, I finally made it to the visa appointment.  My goal was to arrive at the French Consulate in Atlanta as early as was reasonably possible – a missed appointment can take up to three weeks to reschedule – so mom and I drove to my sister’s house in Grayson on Monday night just to put me a little closer.

Google maps told me that the time between the house and the consulate was 45 minutes, so naturally I left 2 hours and 45 minutes early.  I had brought a book and scouted out a Chick-fil-A in Lenox Square, the same mall housing Buckhead Tower where the consulate is located.  The extra time gave me a chance to check over the required documents for the one-millionth time and just to relax with my spicy chicken biscuit and coffee while I read.  I was momentarily distracted by a table of employees-in-training for a new Chipotle that was opening in the mall.  For a fleeting moment I pictured myself sitting among them a year from now, but I shook off the feeling and went back to my book.

This pre-appointment relaxation was necessary because I have a tendency to fall apart under scrutiny.  My friend Leslie can verify – on a trip to the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs several summers ago I completely lost my ability to communicate with the entrance guard, giving off the vibe of someone who had an AK-47 hidden in her trunk.  Even explaining to the parking attendant at the Biltmore House that I want to drive straight to the Conservatory causes my palms to get clammy.

Obviously I don’t have a perfect past, but I've stayed away from any “permanent record” kind of activities.  There was that one time that I overstayed my passport stamp expiration date in Cyprus by about three months, but it was prior to September 11, 2001 and the magistrate just gave me a mild scolding and made me promise not to do it again (he may have instructed me to do something else, but I was only a few weeks away from leaving the country and "forgot").  Nothing else in my history stands out as a possible red flag, but my demeanor under scrutiny is one of, “I have explosives strapped to my chest.”

Upon entering the French consulate I read a sign telling me to deposit my belongings into a plastic bucket to the left of the metal detector.  Wanting to be as compliant as possible and to overcome the automatic and unwarranted feeling of guilt, I started to place my purse and documents into the bucket, but a man sitting behind a plexiglass window began beckoning to me saying, “Just come through.”  Confused, I continued trying to stuff my possessions into the bucket while he waved his hand harder, repeating, “Come through!”

“You don’t want me to put my stuff in the bucket?”

“No, just come through.”

“With my stuff?”

“Yes!”

The metal detector beeped loudly as I passed through, so I paused, once again unable to formulate normal speech as I held my purse and the envelope in the air with an apologetic look on my face and mumbling something that sounded like, “My bag.”  I’m fairly certain that he rolled his eyes as he simply replied, “Why are you here?” ignoring my efforts to offer him my purse.

I did apparently manage to get across the message that I was applying for a student visa, staring nervously at his appointment sheet as he found my name and crossed it off.  He directed me into an adjacent room where two more people sat behind plexiglass windows.  The woman on the right summoned me to her station, and the next several minutes consisted of me trying to look nonchalant and innocent as she leafed through my documents, typing and stamping and picking up the phone to babble off something in French that I probably would not have understood even if I could have heard her better through the glass.

[I also have a problem with forced facial expressions, so “nonchalant” and “innocent” probably came across as “jerk” or “mental patient.”]

The appointment ended abruptly with little more than an, “Okay, you’re done.”  I started toward the door, but just to be safe, turned around and said, “I can leave?”  She offered a condescending smile and nodded, waving me out the door with no final words of how good my documents looked or when I may expect to receive my visa or what actions might follow.

But I had survived, and the whole process took maybe fifteen minutes.  The optimist in me is assuming that everything was fine and that the UPS man will be delivering the envelope to me in the next week or two, while the pessimist in me jumps whenever the phone rings, imagining that it’s someone calling to inform me that I've been added to a terrorist watch list.

The only major task remaining at present is to find a place to live in Paris.  Thanks to an upbringing on musicals, memories from An American in Paris already gave me a pretty good idea of what to expect.

My requirements for an apartment are fairly basic by American standards: 1) it must have a toilet; 2) the toilet must be inside the apartment; 3) it must have a shower with a shower head that attaches to the wall above my head; 4) the apartment must have an elevator if it is located more than four stories up; 5) it must have a washing machine; 6) it should not be located in whatever is the French equivalent of a ghetto.  I am willing to give up such frivolous amenities as air conditioning and toilets located outside of the shower; nonetheless, the options within my budget are limited.

[Number five might sound like a luxury, but admittance to class each day requires a clean, pressed uniform.  Anyone who knows me or who has ever seen me work in a kitchen will understand that without a washer, I will be spending every evening after classes in a laundromat.]

While my apartment specifications are mostly solidified, the decision to secure an apartment before I leave for Paris or to wait until after I get there is up in the air.  Obviously the security of having a place waiting for me is desirable, but I'm not sure if it's a couple of thousand dollars desirable - the approximate cost of using an agent.  On top of that is the concern over putting down money on a place without seeing it in person.  By "money" I mean "five to ten months' rent up front," the general requirement of landlords when a renter cannot provide a guarantor.

Relatively minor remaining tasks include figuring out what to do about my cell phone, deciding what to pack and what to ship, buying the aforementioned ugly shoes and a locker padlock, determining how much cash to take with  me and how much to transfer, securing my plane ticket, and moving my dog to his foster home (sniff, sniff).  There’s plenty of time…

Wait, where did April go??