Now, acquiring a visa to Paris is a wearisome process within itself. Some visas you can apply for by mail, and having done just that for my trip to Vietnam last winter, I expected nothing different for France. Alas, I soon found that this was not so, and that a trip in person to the Consulate of France was in order. As a Washington state resident, "my" appointed consulate is the one on Bush Street in San Francisco.
So began the search for a time to fly to out to the Bay, and for tickets as cheap as humanly possible, and for the twenty-odd documents the monsieur at the desk in San Fran would demand from me. I was dreading the trip for the Bay from the start. First off, I hate flying. Can't stand it--even the smell of airports halts my digestive process and activates my sympathetic nervous system. So not only did I have to deal with something that frightens me (I've recognized it's the whole everything's-out-of-my-control deal), but I had to give up one and a half precious days of Thanksgiving break for this damn visa. Add several other reasons and being sick... I was not anticipating the trip of my life.
My flight was scheduled for 5:35 pm on Monday, November 22, and my appointment at the consulate, which was scheduled in an impersonal manner weeks in advance, was for the following morning at 9:30 am. I didn't know what I would do with that time. Anyway, while I was worrying how I would spend 9 waking hours in San Francisco, dear Seattle experienced a bit of its own crisis. Several hours of snow later and winds that, according to my news-following brother, reached 74 miles per hour, Seattle shut down.
Meanwhile, my dad and I planned accordingly and left the house early, accounting for the slowness and danger of the traffic and roads, respectively. Everything started out normally until, 7 minutes into the drive, we merged onto 99-South towards SeaTac. Eight and a half hours later we were just two miles from where we had merged onto 99. I am not shitting you. Oh, this was just the beginning of a fun-filled night.
The seven hours we spent on I-5 South were alright. No, really--it was me and my dad, and we had eaten before we left the house, so we were in good company and not hungry or anything. We had snacks and two bottles of water, and half a tank of gas. The whole situation was funny. I kept breaking into giggles every time I looked around and thought of the thousands of frustrated drivers trying to decide whether it was worth it to turn off their engines every fifteen minutes. The "driving" went like this: stand still for 15-20 minutes, turn on your engine, roll forward a quarter of a block, stop, turn off your engine. And it went on. FOR SEVEN HOURS. And the most hilarious thing was, I kept thinking I'd make the flight until 30 minutes before it departed. Then I decided I'd make the next flight. But seven hours later, I kind of learned to stop "deciding" I'd make the next flight, because at this point, just getting to the airport, not running out of gas, or getting stuck in the ice was an unknown.
People all around were abandoning their cars and bundling up to walk. I have no idea where they were going, because at any given point we were at least 1/2 a mile from an exit, and it was below freezing. I actually saw a dude in Crocs braving the storm. CROCS. Without socks. Which would normally be the way to do it if you were to wear the atrocity in the first place, but not on that day.
Anyway, my dad intimated at some point in this long wait that we may be better off just turning around and going home, and trying to reschedule my meeting with the Consulate. Too bad that was not an option, I told him. If I missed my appointment, I was in deep shit. So instead of worrying about being bored and anxious in San Francisco, flying, smelling like an airport, and sitting next to a flirtatious overweight businessman on each side (all things that happened, actually), I was worrying about not being allowed to live in Paris. Except then I would realize that worrying only fueled more worrying, and so I would shake it off and crack a joke to my pops about the guy next to us trying to take a piss without thirty people seeing his junk.
I'll spare you the details of how we finally arrived at the airport, at 12:25 am. Obviously I had missed all the flights into the Bay for the evening and night, so I went to inquire about the earliest flight for the next morning. Of course that only happened after standing in line after dozens of other impatient citizens who had also missed their flights, battling with the poor women of Alaska Air, staring them down with their crazy no-sleep eyes and railing on about the inefficiency of the System.
It was my turn and I willed myself into consciousness to carry on a conversation. All flights to San Francisco for the morning were booked and had lengthy stand-bys. BUT there was ONE spot left on a 6:10 am flight to Oakland! Oh God, YES! I would have to be upgraded to first-class for free, was that okay?
My dad left the airport in the vicinity of 4 am and I almost cried because I was so out of it. I think I actually whined "I want to go hooooome" with tears in my eyes like the four-year-old brat I am.
Long story short (okay, it isn't short at all and I don't even know why you would be reading this..honestly writing this has been a personal catharsis), I boarded the morning flight, made it to Oakland exactly one hour before my appointment, was picked up by a family friend and driven to the consulate, entered the doors sweaty, full-bladdered and foul-breathed two minutes before my appointment time, and GOT DAT VISA. Then I was taken back to the person's home, whereupon I took a hot shower and tried to pass out to no avail because--irony of all ironies--I was too exhausted. Got on a 5 pm flight back to Seattle. I hardly noticed the fact that I was flying and, naturally, should be nervous. Several minutes after takeoff I looked out the window to my left and watched the gentle folds of the Pacific Ocean. I actually cried. I was looking at all the water and crying, and I know it is normal to be emotionally moved by a beautiful sight, but I can't say I would not have cried if the person next to me had dropped one of their salted pretzels, or if the hostess had reprimanded me for not yet having turned off my cellphone. Let's just say I was in a fragile state.
So I made it home and am living proof that even a person who is a wreck when she doesn't get nine hours of sleep a night can survive 39 hours without sleep. Granted, I was probably drooling in public after 15.
I am happy to say that I am safe and somewhat warm at home now, but still experiencing the effects of sleep deprivation which means I become emotional easier than normal. So here I sit, tearing up at Katy Perry's "Fireworks" video and talking to my cat (fine, I do that on any given day).
