This is Serious Business

After literally two months of document preparation, four visa interviews and one 10 page fax, I can confidently proclaim our visa applications are complete and in the hands of the French Consulate. The fate of our next year rests in the hands of some individuals locked up in an Boston office on St. James Street, secure behind a bullet proof counter (I'm serious).

I don't know what I expected of our interview last Thursday, perhaps something more along the lines of a job interview; sitting in a conference room or office, across the desk from a friendly Frenchman (or woman) eager to hear about the exciting adventure we have in store. Smiles. Encouragement. An "Everything looks in order. You can expect to hear from us shortly" type thing.

Instead there were locked doors. An armed security guard who barely spoke English (I'm still trying to figure out where his accent was from), A room akin to a doctor's waiting room with out-of-date posters of French points-of-interest and harsh florescent lighting. A bullet-proof "teller window" with a "privacy screen" so people can hear every word without having to feel rude for staring. Whispering isn't an option because the glass separating you and the teller holding your destiny is about six inches thick. As a result, the four of us (yes, the children were required to appear for their visa applications) aided in solidifying the worldwide opinion that American's are loud, obnoxious and pretentious.

David was up first. That was a mistake. Being that I was the one who prepared our four folders, thick with papers proving our good intentions, on more than one occasion David contorted himself around the "privacy screen" and with a not-so-hushed "Hun?" asked me about this or that. Luckily the room didn't fill with other "patients" until my turn and by then we had acclimated more to our surroundings.

That is until it was my turn for getting the photo taken. Silly me. I smiled. Beamed actually, anticipating my two months of work was culminating with the words, "you've been approved," or something like that. In an overly polite manner which I can only assume is foreign, if not specifically French, the soft-spoken woman behind the glass whispered out to me, "I'm so sorry. Actually for this photo there can be no smiling." And in an overly rude manner, which I can only assume is American (as that's what I am) and attested to the thickness of said glass, I answered with a rather loud, "Huh?" To which my husband, eager to be of some assistance, used his beautiful projecting voice to announce, "Hun, you're not supposed to smile."

When's the last time you were told not to smile? I would stake my life on the fact that this caused you to then smile harder. Then giggle slightly. Which then grew to a chuckle.

David and I just don't do serious well under these circumstances.

We eventually managed to get me not-smiling, get the kids photos taken (also not smiling) and leave having spent a mere one hour and fifteen minutes.

I never did get my encouraging parting words. Unless you consider "You just need to re-write this letter, add a cover letter to each application stating your motivation for coming to France for a year, and acquire repatriation and evacuation insurance (for a mere $472). Fax all this to this number and we will begin processing your applications. Have a nice trip," to be encouraging.

I did not.