Author: sandybarker

Third Date

sandybarker

I have been very candid about my month-long love affair with Seattle dating back to January of this year. We had a rocky start, though. It was a Seattle rain storm that took from me a favourite hat and an umbrella, but we soon made up and I embarked on a whirlwind romance with the city. I loved its restaurants and vistas, its culture and its people. I was smitten.

We had a brief fling in April – 6 days of five-star luxury while Ben attended a conference. We flirted, Seattle and I. I dressed pretty, I let the sunny days kiss my nose, and we drank each other in. Brief, yet passionate.

Now I am back, and this visit is a little like a third date. Now I know I am moving here, Seattle is starting to let its guard down, and I am seeing sides of it I haven’t seen before. Some are delicious, like the nooks and crannies of the Pike Place markets, where Ben and I bought aromatic oils and spices the other day, and some a little too revealing this early into our relationship.

I went for a run yesterday, and waited patiently for the pedestrian signal to change from red to green. The roads are wide thoroughfares – 6 lanes – so this took a while. I didn’t mind. It was a sunny day and I was in Seattle, working out new running routes for when I move here. I eventually crossed and started running at a warm-up pace. I got about two blocks before signs indicated that the ‘sidewalk’ (I read American) was closed and I would have to cross to the other side. SIGH. I hit the signal button, then waited, and waited, and waited. The light did inevitably turn green, and a couple dozen cars waited impatiently – or patiently – I couldn’t really tell as I jogged across the street. Of course, now I was back on the wrong side. And I was in ‘Butt-crack America’.

This is my affectionate term for those parts of the states – here in Seattle, or anywhere – that do not exactly show the country off at its best. That stretch of road, just three blocks from home, with its cracked pavements and warehouses, its homeless wanderers and youthful loiterers, is almost certainly the butt-crack of Seattle. I kept looking ahead to see where the pedestrian bridge Ben had promised was.

Like a beacon in the distance it stood proud and beautifully constructed, unaware that it was in the midst of decay and mess. I hit my third little round button of the day, and waited, and waited, and waited. “Oh, come the F@*k on!” I was losing patience. So far my run had consisted of two sprints and a lot of waiting. FINALLY the light turned. I headed up and over the bridge which traverses the railroad tracks, and started my ‘run proper’.

It is hard to marry the waterfront parkland with the street parallel, because they couldn’t be more different. On the other side of the bridge are tracks for pedestrians and cyclists, lush green grass, and park benches. On clear days you can see across Puget Sound to the Olympic mountain range in the west. The frightfully large seagulls of the northwest, duck and weave along the shoreline, and fishermen lazily dangle their lines in the water.

Once I actually started running along the waterfront, my tetchiness eased and I hit my rhythm. The air was salty and clean, and the sun hot on my shoulders. I glanced at the scattered few who were lying on the grass and soaking up the late-season sun. They had the distinctive look of ‘locals’ – comfortable enough in their environs to casually lounge around in public. I wondered when I will start to feel like that, but this being only my third date with Seattle, that is a little way off yet.

I hit a natural ‘turn-around’ point, and started running back towards the footbridge. I had already decided to overshoot it and find another way home. I knew that if I kept running and passed the apartment, I would get to another crossover closer to downtown.

Running back towards the city lends a spectacular view. The skyline has its distinctive icons, but there is so much I have yet to explore I wandered with my eyes, taking in as much as possible. I am starting to place myself within this city. I am learning street names, shortcuts and landmarks.

Just before the crossover to the other side of the tracks, there is an outdoor sculpture gallery. It is a favourite spot in Seattle, because it is a junction of sorts. The waterfront, downtown and our neighbourhood converge there. It is 5 minutes from the apartment, 5 minutes from Ben’s work, and right on the waterfront, where cafes and storefronts jut out over the water. Oh, and the sculptures are kind of cool too.

Not long afterwards, I made it back to the apartment with the sense of satisfaction I have after a long run, but also with something else. I am getting to know this city, much in the same way I got to know Sydney when I first moved there and discovered its many delights and frustrations.

At the moment I straddle two cities. I curse the Sydney traffic as I crawl along each afternoon, and think about living in a city where traffic is much lighter, and ostensibly we will likely live without a car. However, I know I will miss the coastal walk between Coogee and Bondi beaches, because there are few views in the world more beautiful. I will enjoy living in a city where there are literally 100 restaurants serving the cuisines of the world, but am mindful that the minor frustrations will reveal themselves soon enough.

No place is perfect to live in, but there is always more to learn about, more to appreciate and more to love. I think I am ready to ‘go all the way’ with Seattle.

P.S. Check out Ben’s FLICKR page for some more recent shots, including views from our roof.

Do what you love

sandybarker

I have a few mantras that I bandy about, depending on my mood, the situation, or how I am being affected by the constellations. One mantra, which forewarns everyone to ‘get out of my way’, is ‘People Suck’. I do not indulge in this mantra too often, because it is a little negative, and tends to alienate even my most loyal friends.

Another mantra, one I have mentioned here, is ‘Traveler, traveler, traveler’ which reminds me to have a positive mindset and to see people, places and situations with untainted eyes. It is, I suppose, the anti-thesis of ‘People Suck’ because it elicits empathy and patience.

But the one mantra that guides my current path with a firm hand, is ‘Do what you love’. I mentioned this here a little while back, when I was talking to a group of students about their choices for the future, and I had another taste of it the other night.

My senior students were showcasing the work they did for their external exams in Drama. We collated their monologues and short plays into a showcase for family and friends, and they performed under lights and on the stage, the way theatre is meant to be. At the end of the night, they offered some thank yous to staff and students who had helped them this year, and then my seniors acknowledged me. I walked up to accept their gift of flowers, and I started to say a few words, but some of those words caught in my throat. “These are your girls, and I know you must be proud of them, but they’re my girls too, and I love them and will miss them…” and it about here that my voice broke and I finished my thoughts through tears.

As many times as I say, “I have to get out of teaching,” I am really only ever referring to the mountainous piles of paperwork, politics and pandering that comes along with it. The stuff that happens in the actual room, the interaction with these young minds and spirits, I love that. It is just a shame that the profession comes with so much negative accoutrement, because the JOB, well that is something special. I do love to teach, and maybe I will be a teacher when I move to Seattle. Maybe I will find some other way of ‘teaching’, and working with young people. They are, after all, extraordinary. It has been my great pleasure and privilege to teach many of the students who graced my classroom in the past 14 years.

As I pack for my next trip to the city I will soon call ‘home’, I am more mindful than ever of this mantra. I will need to find work there in January, and I am starting the ground work for that next week. I know that it is a big move, and I am not sure what sort of work will be available, but the move is about ‘doing what I love’. And right now, that is being in the same city as Ben. A great job will follow…

Spring has sprung

sandybarker

Today is the first day of spring. And in Sydney, spring is my favourite time of the year.
Wisps of white
Dark mornings of drizzle give way to pink and orange sunrises, and the midday sky turns a vibrant blue. The air smells fresh, like grandma’s house when she throws open the windows and gives it a good airing. And in spring, I forget about all those winter afternoons I arrived home after dark to a cold house.

I fell in love with Sydney in spring. I had come here for the Olympics. I was a volunteer, so spent several weeks dressed in daggy chinos and a hideous, over-sized polo shirt with bright yellow sleeves. Nevertheless, it was easy to forget how ridiculous I looked in my white straw hat and bright blue bum bag, because the city of Sydney put on a bloody good show.

Each day was perfect. 28 (82) degrees, a light breeze and the aforementioned blue skies. Every day! It was as though the organisers had placed their order for optimum weather, and nature had delivered.

I was utterly seduced by Sydney in the spring of 2000.

I flew back to Perth post-Olympics and announced to anyone who cared (and some who didn’t) that I was moving to Sydney. Three months later, I lived here. I arrived on the 30th of December, because I liked the symbolism of seeing in the new year in my new city.

But here in my new city, in the middle of summer, reality bit – hard! Gone were the blue skies, and the gentle breezes. Gone were days of 28 perfect degrees, and in their place were the brooding, heavy skies of the Sydney summer. I had been duped.

You see in my hometown, Perth, summers are my favourite time of the year. The days are hot, yes, but the skies are clear, and the heat is dry. I love summer in Perth, but when I tasted spring in Sydney, and expected more of the same only hotter, I was being naive.

No, the summers in Sydney are grey-skied and humid. Sticky, hot days are threatened by low-hanging thunder clouds. And just when the air gets so dense you can feel it pushing down on you, it pours: fat, hot drops of angry rain that make the streets steam and the air smell like grease.

And indulge me for a moment while I mention my hair. A Sydney summer is the natural enemy of naturally curly hair. Mine grows so big in a Sydney summer, it needs its own postcode. Honestly, if I had wanted to live in the tropics, I would have moved to Queensland.

So, how do I cope with this abomination of summer?

I leave.

Ever since that first summer, I have actively avoided being in Sydney from late December to the start of February, which is fortuitous, because that is when school breaks for summer holidays. I cannot really see my principal being sympathetic to tales of woe about my afro. “But I simply cannot stay. You see, it is summer, and I cannot deal with that many bad hair days in a row.”

Summer is no fun when you look like Donna Summer.

I have spent many of those summers back in Perth. Ahhh, Perth. Perth is where summer was born, raised, and will never die. The beaches are powdery white, and the surfers deeply tanned. The air is briny, and the sky is so brilliantly blue, it is almost iridescent.
Cosy Corner
Stunning!

So, why has a girl so in love with summer agreed to live in Seattle? Isn’t Seattle the home of, well, rain? And isn’t rain the opposite of summer? Ah, yes, these are all valid questions. But you see, Seattle hides a secret. I does not actually rain there nine months of the year as often reported. It is more like eight months, but those other four…sigh…are beautiful.
Seattle Waterfront
See?

So, when I move there in late December (that whole ‘new year – new city’ thing), I will take my umbrellas (plural, ’cause you never know when one will be sucked into traffic by a gust of wind), and I will look forward to the Seattle summer of ’09. I am promised blue skies, gentle breezes, and about 28 degrees. Sound familiar?

Aussie Aussie Aussie Oi Oi Oi

sandybarker

My barrista is Slovakian.

I know this, because I went in for coffee today, and I asked where he was from. The Olympics was playing on the huge flatscreen suspended on the wall, and I wanted to know who he was rooting for – so to speak.

“Hey, you guys just won a bunch of medals, didn’t you? In the kayaking?” I have no idea where I pulled that fact from, because I haven’t really watched the kayaking much.

He smiled. “Yeah. Three golds, in the paddling.” We chatted a bit more about that, which was far more interesting than our usual patter about the weather, and I could see that it made him very proud to talk about his country’s success.

I totally understand. Last week, I stood in a crowded classroom at lunchtime, surrounded by students and fellow teachers, and staring up at the giant TV screen on the wall. We were shouting “Come on!” to Stephanie Rice, as she swam half a body length behind the American girl. In that last 20 metres she surged forward and touched first to win her second gold medal and break the world record. The room erupted as we celebrated her win with all the other Aussies around the world who were within sight of a television. I was so proud – of her, and of Australia.

Last night I had tears in my eyes as I heard the Australian anthem yet again. We won gold in the 470 sailing – men’s and women’s – and as the young Perth women stood on the podium, grinning their faces off, I grinned with them – so proud. Then came the women’s triathlon result – Gold and Bronze! Brilliant! And that feeling is compounded as the medals keep coming.

Yes, there is little like the Olympics to inject a shot of national pride in even the hardest of hearts. Having said that, I do have one small confession. On the 18th, when Michael Phelps and the U.S. relay team were competing against us, I quietly hoped that we’d get Silver. I just wanted Michael to get his 8 medals. At any other moment I would have been screaming at the television, willing our guys to win, but the 8 medal thing transcends borders.

And we did win silver in that race, which is still incredible. You see, we are just a tiny country population-wise, so our pool of talent is much smaller than the U.S or even Great Britain. Yet we are hovering between 3rd and 5th on the medal tally. China has 61 times our population, but only twice as many medals. (I did hear yesterday, that if Michael Phelps were a country, he’d be 6th on the medal tally).

Australia has medaled in kayaking, diving, equestrian, sailing, triathlon, track, swimming, shooting and rowing – so far. We have much to be proud of.

So, when I hear the chant “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie” coming from the Olympic stands, I can’t help but reply, “Oi, Oi, Oi!” We’re noisy buggers, but it’s ’cause we’re bloody proud to be Aussies.

The Second Drawer

sandybarker

So, here’s the thing. Having made the decision to move to the states at the end of the year, I am kind of already there in my head. I look around my apartment, and mentally take stock: to get rid of, to store, to take with me. The latter of the three lists is growing. “I’m going to have to buy a cheese grater,” I exclaim to a baffled Ben. “You could just bring it with you,” he responds, hoping he is being helpful. Perhaps he is. Perhaps, emptying the second drawer in the kitchen (you know the one – the one with all the utensils and weird kitchen gadgets) into one of the packing cartons I am shipping, is the smart way to go. It might just cost less to ship all those odd little gadgets, than to replace them. And I can hardly expect Ben, who is a self-professed non-cook, to understand my need for a honey drizzler, a citrus reamer, and the little battery operated whizzer that makes hot chocolate in a jiffy. And there is my dilemma: Store or Ship?

Perhaps these frivolities amongst the giants on my ‘to do’ list are merely a distraction. I am obsessing about the citrus reamer, but seem to think that selling my car won’t be a problem at all. Nor will selling, giving away, or lending permanently all my furniture. No, I am up at night wondering which shoes to take, and which to keep here. I informed Ben today that I have ‘quite a few pairs of shoes’. He referenced ‘Sex and the City’ when he asked, “Have you spent $40,000 on shoes?” “No!” He re-phrased the question, “If you had spent $400 on each pair, would you have spent $40,000 on shoes?” I had to think about that for a second, but I was confident when I replied ‘no’ a second time. He is right to be nervous. The stuff from the second drawer here will presumably fit perfectly into the second drawer of our Seattle apartment’s kitchen. The clothes, shoes, coats, bags and accessories currently residing in my 12 foot long closet, I may have to pare back a little.

All of these things, these thoughts, concerns, worries, and reasons to spend hours online researching, are actually an indicator of something bigger, something amazing. I have made a big, happy, wonderful decision, and I am champing at the bit to bring it to fruition.

This is not to say that I do not love those people in my Aussie life. (I am especially enjoying time spent with my Irish friends who have recently moved back to Sydney after two years away – I say that they have moved back ‘home’.) It just means that at the moment, my heart is in two places. I am mindfully enjoying the things (and people) I love about Sydney, while looking ahead to my life in Seattle with Ben.

“We’re going to have to make friends,” he said to me, not long ago. I have thought about that. I would love to pack everyone I love from here into those shipping cartons, to be unpacked into this new life, but…

Instead, we will make new friends, and when they come for dinner I can dazzle them with culinary delights I have whipped up in our new kitchen with my old kitchen gadgets. Yep, I think the second drawer is coming with me.

36 Things

sandybarker

This meme comes from Charlotte’s blog, and Helen’s before her. Helen got it from Lilian, who took it from Jennifer. It had 40 things on it, but Lilian didn’t really like three of them, so then it became 37 things. I could go through Jennifer’s 40 Things and seek out the three that Lilian didn’t like, but 37 is enough. In fact, there was one I didn’t like about paperclips, so now it is 36.

And just so you know, a meme is not ‘cheating’ of ‘slacking off’ for a serious blogger like myself.
It is more like a pianist flexing their fingers before they sit down to play, or a tennis player bouncing the ball a few times before a serve. A meme is a warm up for more strenuous writing; it helps to get the creative juices flowing and sharpens the mind. So there.

1. My uncle once: peed on a giant moth that was sitting on the urinal, and the pee-soaked moth then flew into his face.

2. Never in my life: have I peed on a moth.

3. When I was five: I had a pet chicken called Martha.

4. High school was: where I learned to stand up to bullies.

5. I will never forget: the moment I knew it was love.

6. Once I met: Hugh Jackman.

7. There’s this girl I know: who has beaten cancer, started her own company, is mum to two fabulous girls, and has a great marriage to a great man.

8. Once, at a bar: I sand ‘Mustang Sally’ on stage to a crowd of 500 people.

9. By noon, I’m usually: regretting how thoughtlessly I made my lunch that morning.

10. Last night: I killed a headache with strong medication, made a ‘not-half-bad’ stir-fry, and watched two mediocre dvd’s

11. If only I had: a literary agent – but I am working on that.

12. Next time I go to church: will be later this month with school for the graduation mass.

13. What worries me most: is that I will forget what is really important in life.

14. When I turn my head left I see: a leafy outlook and sunny blue sky.

15. When I turn my head right I see: my pussy cat sleeping in a ray of sun.

16. You know I’m lying when: well, you won’t, because if I need to be, I am a good liar.

17. What I miss most about the Eighties is: dancing – all the time.

18. If I were a character in Shakespeare I’d be: Titania – passionate, magical, and on occasion a little mad.

19. By this time next year: I will living in a new city, with my darling, and I will be a paid writer.

20. A better name for me would be: well, I used to want to be called Felicity, but you want strange things when you’re six. I am happy with my name now.

21. I have a hard time understanding: complacency.

22. If I ever go back to school, I’ll: spend more time learning about technology, and less time worrying about boys.

23. You know I like you if: I am affectionate with you.

24. If I ever won an award, the first person I would thank would be: Mum and Dad, because they constantly encourage me, and always have.

25. Take my advice, never: make decisions without input from your heart.

26. My ideal breakfast is: al fresco with a great view, and has many courses.

27. A song I love but do not have is: hard to answer, because I don’t know its name or who it is by. It is a sexy song, with the chorus, “I need love, love, love, love…” Must track it down for my gym playlist.

28. If you visit my hometown, I suggest you: hop a ferry and spend a few days chilling out on the stunning Rottnest Island.

29. Why won’t people: learn how to merge.

30. If you spend a night at my house: we will eat, drink and laugh ’til it hurts. In the morning, breakfast will be served al fresco and it will have many courses.

31. I’d stop my wedding for: um, tricky, ’cause I have crushes on a celebrity or two (Hayden Christensen), but would only really put off a wedding to have the honeymoon first – a year-long trip around the world to exotic and beautiful locations (of course).

32. The world could do without: drawn out U.S. presidential campaigns.

33. I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: spend the night with a spider in my room.

34. My favourite blonde is: my auntie Candyce, who is one of the funniest people I know.

35. If I do anything well it’s: teach.

36. And by the way: I really need to get to the gym.

Words, words, words

sandybarker

I love chocolate. I love good coffee, red wine, and popcorn from the cinema. I love breakfast cereal, more than I could ever express. I so enjoy a good Pad Thai, and I am all about Vietnamese rice paper rolls. However, I can go at least a day without chocolate, cereal and coffee, up to a week without red wine, and even longer without the Pad Thai, rice paper rolls, and popcorn. I cannot, however, live a day without words.

I consume them voraciously, my appetite never sated. I gorge on them verbally, catching snippets of other people’s conversations, following clever talk back arguments on Triple J, laughing out loud at award-winning commercials, and listening to my students whisper about their weekends.

I devour them visually, as words are everywhere I look. I am drawn to them. As I drive I make up words from randomly assigned licence plates: ‘WKD’ becomes ‘wicked’, or even better ‘weekend’. And I am not a word snob. I will read anything, and I will mix ‘n’ match. I will read my cereal packet, a wikipedia page, comments on this blog, someone else’s blog, my horoscope, and the world headlines, all in one breakfast sitting.

If I can linger longer, then there are few greater pleasures than nestling in with a brilliant book. Chick lit, thriller, classic, philosophy, travel biography, Harry Potter, it does not matter what it is, just that it holds onto me until the last page. A mark of a brilliant book, in my book, is when I finish and I feel a loss, because I no longer get to live in the lives of those characters. I miss them even though they are only a collection of words. Such is the power of words; they enchant me.

And of course, there are those words I create myself. I cannot go a day without writing something, even if it is just a list of things I need to write. I write this blog, drafts of my novel, plays for my students, comments on their assignments, and memos, reports and letters at work. I email someone I love, and send a handful of text messages every day. There is even something strangely satisfying about filling in the dense and convoluted forms required to live and work overseas.

I am also a talker (usually – even I have quiet moments). Today I addressed a group of 15 year olds to persuade them to take my subject (Drama) for their senior studies. I had only five minutes, but I talked fast to cram in as many words as I could. I told them about my subject, what they could expect, and what I would expect from them. But my final message, the most important thing I said, was to do what they love, because then they will always be happy with what they are doing.

I do what I love. I consume words; I create words: daily, hourly, minutely. And I am happy with what I am doing.

Red Tape and Pure Hope

sandybarker

I cried at work today.

I hate crying at work. It is worse than crying in front of strangers, and is perhaps exacerbated by the fact that I am a teacher. Kids are sweet and curious creatures, and little distresses them more than a teacher in distress. So, when I showed up for afternoon sport with my tear-stained face and red eyes, concerned students lined up to ask if I was okay. Two even did the ‘Friday Feeling’ dance to cheer me up (this involves a very dorky hip wiggle and some equally dorky arm waving – it makes them laugh, at me, when I do it each Friday). It didn’t work. It just made me cry more.

You see, I heard from the U.S. government today.

They received my application for a green card (good). It is in the queue to receive a green card (pretty good). They are currently processing green card applications prior to March 2002. No, that is not a typo. And yes, that means there is a 6 and a 1/2 year wait list (not good at all).

Suddenly, all the plans that Ben and I are making, including where we will live, seemed to flush themselves down a giant toilet. All I could think was ‘my friends go home to their significant others every night, and I don’t’. The weight of that feeling crashed down on me as I imagined another year or two or three of this long distance arrangement.

I called Ben. He responded as someone does when they are side-swiped. That was 8 hours ago.

Since then I have spoken with my mother (the American – not that the Americans seem to care much about that VERY close family connection) thrice, and she has sent a couple of strongly-worded emails to the American government. I am pretty sure these will not make ANY difference, but I think they made her feel better.

I have also spoken to hopeful friends, and helpful friends (and in times like these, hopeful and helpful are equally welcome). And I got a lovely email from my bestest friend (yes, Ben) also telling me to stay hopeful.

With all this hope and support keeping me buoyant (not to mention two glasses of a very nice Barossa Valley Shiraz), I have searched through website after website trawling for ways to circumnavigate the machinations of a slowly turning government agency. I think I have found my answer.

The E-3 visa is a new kid on the block, and is open only to Australians who have a university degree, AND who have a job offer in the U.S. I have two out of three, so all I need now is someone stateside to take a chance on an Aussie girl who is bright, hard-working, resourceful, and creative. Oh, and the biggest plus: the E-3 takes about 2 days to secure an interview, and about 30 days to process.

So, now I (hopefully) line up interviews for my September/October visit to Seattle. Then, (hopefully) I will find an employer who sees the benefits of hiring a brilliant Aussie woman, who just happens to have some red tape stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

Diner’s Regret

sandybarker

This will be short and sweet.  I’ve coined a phrase. 

Yesterday as we left a delicious lunch, my father rubbed his full stomach, and bemoaned finishing both his entree and main.  “I enjoyed it, but I shouldn’t have had the lamb shank and kidney pie.  I should have had something lighter.” 

“Do you have ‘diner’s regret’ Dad?”

“Yes, Darling,” replied my bemused father.

Then we agreed that ‘diner’s regret’ is a perfect phrase to describe a myriad of post-dining states.

‘Diner’s regret’ can refer to those instances where your eyes are bigger than your stomach, but you ignore the groans from down below, and keep eating every tasty morsel.  The regret kicks in about an hour later, when you want to go somewhere private, undo your waistband and loll about until the feeling passes.

‘Diner’s regret’ can also follow ‘menu envy’.  This is where everyone’s food arrives to the table, and you look across with envy.  “Ooh, that looks good,” you say, eyeing off the plate of food opposite you.  From here ‘menu envy’ can dissolve as soon as you take your first bite, and reaffirm your selection despite a brief moment of doubt. 

OR, it can take you to the dark place of ‘diner’s regret’, and you will spend the rest of the evening regretting your stupidity.  You should have known better.  You should have ordered the chicken.

On rarer occasions, ‘diner’s regret’ can just mean that the place sucked, the food sucked, the service sucked, and you were a sucker for paying for that meal.

Yes, ‘diner’s regret’ is a commonality that connects us all.  Next time someone says to you, “I have diner’s regret,” you can nod, and reply, “I feel your pain”.

Green (card) = Red (tape)

sandybarker

I want a green card.

Not a thick piece of paper coloured green, but permission to live and work in the USA indefinitely.

More accurately, I want my third green card, because I have already had two. I got my first when I was ten, because my mother relocated my sister and me to the U.S. I got my second when I was 19, because I relocated myself to the U.S. Within 2 years of getting the second one, I realised that I could not support myself stateside AND attend university, so I returned to Oz and the card expired.

Now I want another one.

Ben has secured a terrific position in his chosen profession, and will be moving to Seattle within the next couple of months. I am completely proud of him, and wholly support his decision to accept the job. And because we are both over the commute (to see each other), I will be joining him in Seattle at the end of the year – green card pending.

Stage One
On arrival to Perth last week, my mum and I sat down and pored over the forms and requirements for the green card application. She will petition on my behalf as she is a U.S. citizen and fortuitously, my mother. We spent the better part of two days filling in forms, assembling documents, making phone calls, and double checking websites to ensure that our delivery of the application to the consulate would go smoothly.

On the third day, armed with a thick folder of every document relating to our family history, and all forms painstakingly completed, we drove into the city. After 35 minutes of searching we opted for a one hour parking space. The consulate only accepts these applications for three hours a day, four days a week, and we didn’t want to miss our window.

We walked briskly to the building and caught the elevator to the fourth floor. We then endured a 15 minute security check, where we were stripped of everything but our clothes and our documents. Into another elevator, we rose to the 13th floor, and went through security again.

We waited in the inner sanctum, and when it was our turn, the woman nodded and smiled as she accepted all our forms. A frown formed on her pleasant face as she read through them. The forms we had filled out in quadruplicate – there was a problem. Yes, each form was identical, except for the 3 letter code on the bottom left. We should not have filled in the first form and printed it four times. She gave us new copies. 4 each. We stood at high benches and used crappy pens – attached with chains to the bench – to fill them out. Again. Our pens, my mum’s glasses, and my sanity were all locked away downstairs.

Just as mum was about to faint and I was about to cry from the cramps in my hands, we finished and returned to the counter. The pleasant lady completed our transaction, and told us that ‘they’ would go through my forms and documents, and then send me the next batch.

The only thing left was to pay for the application. When I was about to sign the credit card slip, I spotted the amount in Australian dollars, and queried it. “Oh, I see,” I said, noticing the incorrect exchange rate, “you have the Aussie dollar at only 85 cents. It’s 96 cents at the moment.”

“Oh,” she said smiling pleasantly, “that is the amount set by our financial manager.”

“But he doesn’t set the exchange rate – the world market does,” I said, laughing incredulously.

She shrugged as pleasantly as she smiled. “That’s the rate he set.” I was dumbstruck, but was not going to labour the point, as ultimately I want ‘them’ to let me in to their country. Mum and I shook our heads as we walked out, amazed at the arrogance.

Wrung out we walked back to the car, knowing we had overstayed our one hour limit. A nice fat $50 ticket sat smugly on the window. I used my millionth expletive for the day as we got into the car.

Stage one was completed.

I have no idea what the next stages will hold, or how many there will be, but I am steeling myself, because I want a green card, and I will do whatever ‘they’ ask to get it.

And I must say that my mum is a champion, because she says she will do whatever ‘they’ ask too.

Thanks, mum.