When France Rejected Me

And I forgave it

A Little Girl Tries
Sep 3, 2018 · 3 min read

Hi! This is part of my “What You Wanted Me To Write” series where readers tell me what to write about. No topic is too hard! Today’s suggestion? Work Visas. Read the rest of the topics here.

This article is dedicated to Elise and everyone who keeps an open mind rather than conforming.


I once had this crazy idea to go to France.

I bought my phrasebook.

I learned how to take selfies that fit in the entire Eiffel Tower and prevented me from looking like an over-baked prune.

But there was still one task left.

I needed to find a way to get there.


To me and my tighter-than-tight budget, being a stowaway or hiding in a suitcase seemed like good, frugal options. I mean, oxygen is a luxury of the rich.

Until my mom said the word “visa”.

I can sometimes react to legal and right ways of doing things like my mom reacts to penicillin or my sister to the words “time for bed”. I clear the vicinity and try to forget what I have heard.

But, in this case, wiser heads prevailed.


We printed out documents.

Invented a pretend rich uncle.

Made it seem like I was going to France not to work but to “tourist” about and try some wine.

Finally, we went to the French Consulate to obtain my magical “visa”.


The L.A. traffic we had to fight on our journey to this place was only a glimpse of what lied within its walls.

In the French consulate, “football” played on the TV, I could not find any croissants, and, most disturbingly, the man in the elevator looked like he was from Europe.


Even after such creativity and cunning…

Even after scaling the walls of the foreign building…

I did not receive my visa.

“Why?”

I tried to make my voice sound like my mom’s when she sees a stain on the carpet.

“We do not tell you that.” The French monsieur on the telephone said.

There is not much left to a conversation after such an impasse so I hung up.

France? I don’t even want to go to France, I thought.


So what happened?

Was I to be found in my room three months later, still mourning my rejection by one of the world’s most popular coutries?

No. I went anyway.

Three months later I was probably putting onto the behind of a little French child his older brother’s underwear.

I was busy, exhausted, and slept on a couch every night.

But I had never been happier.

When I came back early due to not having a visa, I knew I came back at the right time.

But that is another story.


Oremus Pro Invicem.

Teresa

Do you think you have a question so hard I cannot write on it?

Or have a topic as basic as buttered bread but you want me to write a personal anecdote on it?

Leave them in the comments! I am up for the challenge.

A Little Girl Tries

Written by

Twenty. Nursing Student. Catholic. A soul capable of loving Him. Talk to me here: teresasideas@gmail.com https://www.facebook.com/LittleGirlTries99/

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