Adventures in Montreal
Feb. 9th, 2004 11:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hel_anaWe'll skip over the train ride from Toronto to Montreal that was an hour longer than it should have been, and the taxi ride to the hotel, and the check-in.
There, aren't you glad we skipped those bits?
The adventure begins at about midnight on February 8, 2004 in a third floor hotel room in the heart of Montreal's Latin Quarter. Having pampered herself with a shower, deep-conditioning, and facial mask (good one.. need to pick up another one of those), and having talked to her husband, our heroine settles into the final run through of her docuents, getting all the photocopies and originals into the exact order that they appear on the checklist.
Then, disaster strikes. The photos are missing. Our heroine had taken the requisite 5 photos, and gave two to the panel physician. The other three she was sure she had placed in the binder with all the other items.
But they were not there.
Panicked, she phoned her husband back. He, being the most wonderful man in the world, calmed her down, they made a plan to deal with it (involving getting more photos in the morning before the interview) and she went to sleep.
Waking up, she showered, talked briefly to her husband, attempted to get rid of the puffer-fish that had attached themselves around her eyes, and got ready to face the US Government. She took a taxi to the consulate, and asked the security guard about photos. Told she could look after that after she got her number and started the process, she got into the line. It was outside, and cold. But it gave way to inside, then the security, then she was upstairs on floor 19 of the consulate.
Then she waited a bunch. And a bunch more. Then a bunch more.
Then, a flurry of activity -- going to the window, then to another window to pay, then back to the first window to give all her docuents up, then downstairs and outside again to get change for the photo booth in the basement.
After taking the photo back to the lady at the window, she waited. And waited. And started her book, and read a bit.
Then, finally, she was called into the Little Room. The man behind the glass couldn't find her name in the computer, until he looked under her maiden name, and there it was.
He asked many questions -- how long had she been unemployed? How long had she dated her husband before their wedding? During that time, how much time had she actually spent with him? What did her husband do for work?
He left the room. He came back.
What was the treatment for her health issues? Was she covered under her husband's insurance? Did she have proof of that? Was the diagnosis made after she was married and covered?
He left the room again, to get a form he'd run out of. He said her visa would be issued today, and to come back at 2:30. She thought that he found the whole thing rather less exciting than she did, but thanked him, and wished him well.
Then she went back to the hotel, dropped her stuff, and went immediately to an internet cafe. (This part will surprise no-one who knows her.) The End.
So that's it. I'm sitting here kind of stunned that in 3 hours, it's going to be completely over. So much of me has been defined by this struggle to be with Ross. Now I get to focus on actually *being* with Ross, for the rest of my life.
Fortunately, I have several weeks to switch gears. Not to mention adjusting to the actual reality I'm now facing, moving away from the home I've had for 30 years.
And now, I'd like to thank the Academy.... No, really.. Thank you, each and every one for your support over this odessey. A special thank you, Ross for being you, and for being with me. Thank you 'nora for your friendship and support and love and sense of humour.
Love you all. See you soon.
There, aren't you glad we skipped those bits?
The adventure begins at about midnight on February 8, 2004 in a third floor hotel room in the heart of Montreal's Latin Quarter. Having pampered herself with a shower, deep-conditioning, and facial mask (good one.. need to pick up another one of those), and having talked to her husband, our heroine settles into the final run through of her docuents, getting all the photocopies and originals into the exact order that they appear on the checklist.
Then, disaster strikes. The photos are missing. Our heroine had taken the requisite 5 photos, and gave two to the panel physician. The other three she was sure she had placed in the binder with all the other items.
But they were not there.
Panicked, she phoned her husband back. He, being the most wonderful man in the world, calmed her down, they made a plan to deal with it (involving getting more photos in the morning before the interview) and she went to sleep.
Waking up, she showered, talked briefly to her husband, attempted to get rid of the puffer-fish that had attached themselves around her eyes, and got ready to face the US Government. She took a taxi to the consulate, and asked the security guard about photos. Told she could look after that after she got her number and started the process, she got into the line. It was outside, and cold. But it gave way to inside, then the security, then she was upstairs on floor 19 of the consulate.
Then she waited a bunch. And a bunch more. Then a bunch more.
Then, a flurry of activity -- going to the window, then to another window to pay, then back to the first window to give all her docuents up, then downstairs and outside again to get change for the photo booth in the basement.
After taking the photo back to the lady at the window, she waited. And waited. And started her book, and read a bit.
Then, finally, she was called into the Little Room. The man behind the glass couldn't find her name in the computer, until he looked under her maiden name, and there it was.
He asked many questions -- how long had she been unemployed? How long had she dated her husband before their wedding? During that time, how much time had she actually spent with him? What did her husband do for work?
He left the room. He came back.
What was the treatment for her health issues? Was she covered under her husband's insurance? Did she have proof of that? Was the diagnosis made after she was married and covered?
He left the room again, to get a form he'd run out of. He said her visa would be issued today, and to come back at 2:30. She thought that he found the whole thing rather less exciting than she did, but thanked him, and wished him well.
Then she went back to the hotel, dropped her stuff, and went immediately to an internet cafe. (This part will surprise no-one who knows her.) The End.
So that's it. I'm sitting here kind of stunned that in 3 hours, it's going to be completely over. So much of me has been defined by this struggle to be with Ross. Now I get to focus on actually *being* with Ross, for the rest of my life.
Fortunately, I have several weeks to switch gears. Not to mention adjusting to the actual reality I'm now facing, moving away from the home I've had for 30 years.
And now, I'd like to thank the Academy.... No, really.. Thank you, each and every one for your support over this odessey. A special thank you, Ross for being you, and for being with me. Thank you 'nora for your friendship and support and love and sense of humour.
Love you all. See you soon.
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no subject
Date: 2004-02-09 08:33 am (UTC)home is never further away than the sound of someone's voice, love. it's a little harder to just 'pop in for a visit", but there's always phone, and email, and websites, and other ways of keeping tabs on people who aren't within immediate grab-and-go distance.
and so, the count-down begins... :-)
no subject
Date: 2004-02-09 08:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-09 08:47 am (UTC)Quite an accomplishment, given the current US attitudes.
When you actually immigrate, take with you anything you can possibly imagine wanting with you; you get to take it all once, then it's no longer immigrant's goods, it's importing.
no subject
Date: 2004-02-09 09:16 am (UTC)