Oh No...

I knew this would happen. Look at me; it's January 25th and this blog is backed up to mid-October. Ouch. Something of a self-fulfilling prophecy. I mean, I have excuses: I was busy when I got back, there was too much to write, I had homework, I was busy spending every weekend exploring Paris's museums and graveyards, I was busy all break baking cookies and going out with friends I had been an ocean away from and spending quality times with my parents and my dogs and my full-sized mattress (you saw that picture of my apartment in Paris), but the fact still stands that I have left quite a lot out between now and then and I still would like to get most of it down for posterity. What to do, what to do? I left off right before I headed off to Dublin, and I suppose I'll have to start back there.

Actually, I could start before that, since the Monday before I was supposed to depart I had a doctor's appointment, something to do with finishing up the absurd visa process I went through in order to stay in Paris a mere two weeks longer than the 90-day-we-don't-care-you're-only-visiting-thus-do-not-need-a-visa period. Well I got on the metro in the morning for my 10am appointment and found the street I was looking for in my handy-dandy Paris Pratique map, but the address I was looking for was not there. I double-checked the letter I'd been sent, and it turned out that the address was actually in Montrouge, just South of Paris. Great. I find the nearest metro station, meanwhile calling the program director in Spain, which was not at all helpful, figure out how to get to Montrouge, and that it will take me an additional 20 minutes. Needless to say, I am quite late. So I call the office that I'm supposed to be finding, in hopes of notifying them that I went to the wrong place and was getting there as fast as I could and was not blowing off my appointment. Of course, I must do this in French. I was pretty sure I got the message across that I would be late, but the response of the irritated-sounding woman on the other end of the line was entirely a mystery to me.

Finally, I get to the right stop, find out that the building I'm looking for is only half a block away, get there, wait in line, and entirely break down in tears in front of the receptionist. It may have had something to do with the fact that I'd gotten hardly enough sleep, was probably a little hung over, had been running all over Paris to find the damn place, and had only eaten a baguette for breakfast. Luckily, she was a very kind woman and spoke English, and she assured me that my tardiness was not a problem, I could just go sit in the waiting room until I was called, which I did. Finally I am brought up the stairs into a strange assembly-line-like medical examination procedure, where in one room my height and weight were taken, in another I took an eye exam (during which the nurse said things like "do you really think that's a three?), in yet another I went into a little stall to remove my shirt and undergarments but not my jeans or shoes and then had my ribs and lungs X-rayed by an Indian man, then I went to one last room where a Chinese woman looked at the X-ray, listened to me breathe, and made strange jokes. I got to keep the X-ray as a souvenir. As exciting as all of that sounds, the real story begins now. I took my signed bill of health and went into one more waiting room. When I was called, I went into an office to get whatever amendment to my visa that was needed for me to travel outside the Schengen States (yes, Ireland would be outside of that area), only to discover that I had neither the necessary proof of residence in France, nor a proper photograph of myself, nor the 55 euro stamp that for some insane reason was not sold there but only in tabacs and treasury-type establishments. I freak. I am trying to explain to this woman in French that my host family is in Venice and thus cannot sign a statement that I live with them, and that I am leaving for Dublin on Wednesday and am terrified that I will not be allowed back into France. After this goes on for a while, she finally finds someone else who speaks better English, and it is explained to me what I can do to get these documents and where I can find the elusive, ridiculously expensive stamp. I am told I can come back tomorrow, and I go on a quest to find all of these items.

1: Proof of residence. I go to the office of the "Gardien" of the building to ask her to write that I live with the Bijassons and she knows this because she is the gardien of the building. I also have to get a copy of her ID to prove that she is such a person. I must explain all of this in French to a person I have pretty much only ever said "bonjour" to. She does this for me, though she seems a bit confused, and I find out later when I come back that "gardien" does not mean landlady like it does in the States, it essentially means cleaning lady. She was apparently very alarmed and embarrassed by my request, which Geraldine informed me (somewhat angrily) after my return. Oh well, one document down.

2: Absurd stamp. I go to a tabac and ask for it, showing them the picture I got in the mail. They say they don't sell it, but another place does. I go towards (or what I think is towards) the other place, and stop at yet another tabac on the way. They don't have it. I continue to look for the one I was told to look for, and realize that I don't exactly know where I am going. Somehow, miraculously, I end up at the Nieully treasury office. I go in. They have the stamp. I fork over 55 euro for a tiny little piece of paper with adhesive on the back side and some purple French person on the front. I am furious, but also relieved.

3: Passport-sized photograph. They have these machines in the metro that take your picture, since apparently in France you need passport-sized pictures pretty much daily. They need them for everything from government forms to job applications (can we all say "discrimination"?). So I went to the nearest metro stop. They didn't have the machine. So I take the bus to where I get on the metro to go to school. They don't have the machine. I take said metro to the stop I get off of to get to the Skidmore center, where I am sure they have the machine. I get in, pay my 2 euro, and pose. The machine takes the picture and prints out 5 passport-sized copies. But I don't know where they printed out. I spend at least 5 minutes trying to find the slot in the little booth and finally decide to go to the desk in the station to explain that the damned machine had just cheated me out of 2 euro. On my way out, I realize that the strip of photographs comes out a little chute in the front of a machine. Idiot. At least I look like I'm heavily drugged in my picture. Again, great.

So now I have to go back to the OFII office the next day to give these pieces of evidence for my eligibility for a French visa. I go in and although I have been told I can just go up the stairs any time after 9am, I am told that no one is in the office and I must wait again in that waiting room. I am finally let up and go back into the other waiting room. Then I go into the little office and make a fool of myself in French in front of probably the most attractive man I have ever seen. Ever. He looked at my documents, he put a funny yellow sticker in my passport, then covered it with another, clear sticker with one of those holographic un-counterfeitable designs, smiled at me, and sends me on my way. I am off to Dublin!

I think I will end this post here, in order to create the illusion of my actually putting up separate posts for my adventures. Also because maybe I should get ready for class... But more because I am further procrastinating about writing out everything I did for five days in Dublin. Sorry, that's all folks.