Terra Firma

I made a quick visit to the U.S. yesterday. Yes, that's right: I'm being annoyingly coy. I took Blake to the American Embassy.

Happy now?

Oh my God, Passport Services is exactly like the DMV in Herald Square. I mean, I think they used the same decorator. And it had the same little holding pen where people wait while staring at the completely nonconsecutive numbers flashing up at various windows with no hope of predicting whether theirs might eventually come.

This is where being a U.S. citizen was a nice thing. First of all, the layout out front made it really look like we were just cutting to the front of the line. I felt a tad like Paris Hilton while all the non-Americans glared as we were waved through.

I was, of course, carrying this giant stupid computer thing that I don't even know what it does, because apparently Nick didn't know either before buying it, and I had to return the damn thing later that afternoon. Try explaining that to the security guards at any embassy. I dare you.

Really, we were whisked from line to line; it was no big deal. The cool part, though, was the eavesdropping. I started keeping a running translation for Blake, because we had front- (or eighth-, whatever) row seats to all of the windows. And apparently, if you're a non-citizen trying to get an extended U.S. visa, you're in for some very invasive questions.

"Do you work?" asked the woman who spoke French with a horribly Midwestern accent. I mean, it was like she wasn't even trying. "No," said the 20-something on the tiptoes of her fashionable shoes. "Then how do you plan to pay for this trip?" "My parents are paying." "Okay. So what do your parents do?"

I mean...right? She also asked that girl about 15 variations on "Why did you choose California?" because the girl clearly had no clue what she meant. No, she had no friends or family there. She finally settled on "For the sunshine," but Counter Lady was obviously skeptical. Because she kept asking.

The one I really felt for, though, was an elderly woman born in Somalia, who wanted to visit her friend in New York. She was turned down--loudly--by the same Counter Lady, who explained that she just did not have enough ties in France, and was a risk to overstay her visa. Like the U.S. should be worried? France has universal health care, and a list of social services that would make you dizzy. You can't be kicked out of your apartment in the winter, even if you don't pay your rent all winter. They have the best bread in the world, and anyone who disagrees should just come try the place down the block, and then you may make your "point."

Who the hell would want to leave?

This is all, of course, just a lovely foreshadow of what I can expect when I apply for my French visa in June. I wonder what they will think of me? I was trying to pick up pointers, but the thing is that my ties in the U.S. are not all that impressive. Between now and then, I will be spending an awful lot of time working on my spin.

And working on my French, of course--the last couple of days have not been impressive. Trying to return the aforementioned stupid huge unhelpful computer thing? I went to three counters before being told that I would have to actually exit the building and go somewhere around the block to make the return. I swear, by then I thought that they were just screwing with me. And the man I could understand was busy, and while I was waiting for him a man I could not understand at all--I mean, at all--came up and offered to help. And keep in mind that at no point during any of this did I actually know how the French say, "I would like to return this, please."

I think that we have a store credit, or something. Nick will have to use it--it's time-limited, and there is no way that I will be ready to face that place again in the next 90 days.

But this morning the guy at Chaumette taught me how to say "crowded"--apparently we're seating three at a table for two tonight. And he was very polite when I realized that I hadn't been using a 24-hour clock when trying to make my reservation. "It's okay!" he assured me anxiously. "We say 8:00, too, sometimes."

So things are looking up.