Getting There is Most of the Battle

Understanding that this will probably be the experience of a lifetime, I put a lot of my effort into getting here and none of it was easy in the slightest. The experience of getting here was bar none the worst thing I have ever had to go through. I have the zits to prove it. From wasting my time in a classroom to being yelled at in a foreign language, none of this was easy.

First was the class. At my school, there is a mandatory Cultural Awarness seminar for students who have chosen to study abroad and I am 90% sure this class is the reason we have such a small number of students interested in the program. Have you ever taken a class that made you feel like a dog in obedience school? The professor was great and my classmates were fine but I could’ve watched a 20-minute Ted Talk instead and I would’ve garnered the same amount of knowledge.

Next, I had to apply for a travel visa. Let’s take it chronologically: First, I collected nearly every piece of documentation that proved I was a human person. This involved getting everything notarized and then visiting an Apostille. -Don’t know what that is? Neither does spell check, as it keeps trying to correct it to “Apostle”.- An Apostille is a verification above a notarization. Basically it is a notary for your notary. I spent one afternoon in a fetal position on my parents bed, like 20-year-olds do, because I didn’t know what an Apostille was an how to get one? make one? find one? eat one??? Much to my chagrin one was conveniently located right on State Street in Chicago. When I pictured this office, I envisioned a large Eastern European Man scolding me for being from the United States, ripping up the document I needed signed, and making me eat sand. Fortunately that was not the case. The woman at the desk called me “baby” charged me two dollars, signed my document and sent me on my way. No sand consumed.

Finally I sent in my Visa Application, I even kissed the envelope so that whomever was sifting through my application could feel some affection. Then one day the United States Postal Service decided to pour hot coffee down my pants and tell me that my package could not be delivered as addressed. But not to worry; after another round of fetal position on my parents bed followed by being called “baby” at the post office, my love and my light, Luanne the manager, personally found my package and redirected it to where it needed to go. A week later, my visa made it’s grand entrance.

Airport trouble comes a dime a dozen to me and everyone else on this planet. So, I won’t bore you but I will sum it up in three small phrases and will not elaborate any further:
-Yelled at by man, in French
-Bag wanted to stay in Philadelphia for a few more hours
-There is a beer tap in the hotel lounge and I’m legal here.

Now I wait until tomorrow when I will make my way over to my host family’s house. I’ll try my best to make this a weekly sort of thing. Follow along if you’d like, or don’t, free will is pretty lit.