Transition

Cor blimey, I've finally got a chance to sit down at a computer and do some typing. Well, first thing's first, the more observant of you will have noticed that my address has changed from "Leicester" to "Boston", implying some modicum of success in my transition to the States. Second thing's second, let me bore you with the events leading up to my being here in front of a Mac in The Hub of the Universe (or just The Hub. Yes, really, that's the term by which Bostonians apparently refer to their city. That or Beantown, which presumably accounts for the sporadic whiffs one occasionally encounters). I apologise in advance if this gets inordinately long.

I left you when my visa had just arrived, and it was time to book a flight - right at the juncture when various nutters were trying to blow up trans-atlantic flights with baby milk. This had the side effect of flights becoming remarkably cheap, and I noticed that one airline offered a return flight to Boston (returning in December) for about $600; $15 more than the one-way. I had agreed that I would pay the difference between the return and the single, so, as a Yorkshireman, I was reasonably impressed by this. I duly despatched an email to the nice lady in Boston who was to book my flight, indicating when I'd like to fly and suggesting this particular flight as one she might book. I promptly received an email thanking me for my email and asking if I'd like her to book a flight and, if so, which one. I politely replied that my sending her the flight details in the previous email constituted a hint (rather too subtle, it seems) that I might like her to book this particular one. She got it this time and booked the flights.

I was then left to the rather emotional task of clearing my desk (sniff) and, in true style of one about to leave for the States, painting my new house. The one I now won't be able to live in for two years. Emma and I decided to keep it because it will mean we don't have to get on the property ladder in two years' time, by which time the prices will have inevitably doubled, and we will have had (hopefully) a tennant paying our mortgage for two years. Here I must acknowledge the significant help of my mum and dad and Em's family, without whom we would still have hideous purple and/or nicotine-coloured walls.

So, it was eventually off to Heathrow, with Em, mum, dad and my brother to see me off. The baggage allowance for a trans-atlantic flight is 2 suitcases, each weighing up to 30kg. I was sure that I had packed too much and would have to pay the extra-baggage charge, and for two reasons was mildly annoyed to see that the heaviest bag was only 22kg. First, I could have packed my boxes of Corbieres afterall. Second, I must be getting wimpish in my old age because I could hardly lift the thing! Well, it was very strange to be waving goodbye to loved-ones I knew I wouldn't be seeing again for a good few months, and it was hard to join the security queue without a lump in the throat.

Having thoroughly convinced the authorities that I wasn't in the posession of any explosive Evian, they let me board the plane. Now, I don't know whether I have a sign on my forehead, visible only to airline check-in staff, that reads "I like small kids. Surround me with small kids. Make 'em grumpy! Give 'em lungs! Make them scream solidly for SIX AND A HALF HOURS!", but it seems that whenever I fly I get surrounded by the little buggers. Parenting, I admit, is not a skill we are born with, it's one that takes years of practice to acquire and again I must acknowledge my own fantastic parents in this respect, but surely even the most incompetent parent would notice their kids screaming and bouncing on the seat (oh yes there's the bouncing - that's if they're in front of you, behind it's the relentless kicking) for six hours and - here's the crux - do something about it! Like inform them that if they don't shut their over-active traps they're going to be put out of the window, that sort of thing. I'm sure I'll make a great parent one day.

The other thing that I'd like to mention is equal opportunities employment. Now, this is a Good Thing and should be encouraged whenever, and whereever appropriate. I say "appropriate", because the gentleman who was our particular air steward for the flight was, despite being very good in the service department (he was obliging in replacing my glasses of wine, which had a habit of evaporating in the altitude-induced low air pressure), rather rotund. Spherical, in fact. I stress that I am against discrimination, but even I question the wisdom of employing as an air steward someone who is wider than the aisles.

Anyway, I am now Here. I have an office, a flat, but no furniture. Tonight I sleep on an airbed in some sheets that I am shortly to acquire. Everybody at BU seems very friendly and helpful, but I have vast amounts of administration to endure.

And to be honest, I'm a little homesick.

Visa arrived!

Phew! It's finally arrived. I told the courier company at the embassy last Wednesday that I wouldn't be at home to pick it up until this week, and they said it'd be ok because it would take a three to five working days for them to process it anyway. So I arrived on Saturday to a note saying that they'd tried to deliver my passport on Friday but (shock) there was no one in. So I phoned up their number to arrange a new delivery time. I've never been great at talking to answer machines, but talking to one that does actaully answer back is slightly eerie.

"Please say your reference number"
"123456789"
"123456789. Is this correct?"
"Yes"
"Sorry. Is this correct?"
"YES (stupid machine)"
"Sorry. Please say 'This is correct' or 'This is not correct'"
"Oh for crying out loud. THIS IS CORRECT!"
"Thank you. Please state your postcode..."
Etc. Etc.

I asked for the visa to be delivered on Wednesday, which was, I was informed by the robot, the earliest they could get it to me. When the line went dead without confirming whether Wednesday was ok or not I was left wondering whether it would arrive then or, in fact, ever. The company is one of these helpful courier firms that guarantees your package to be delivered "between 9am and 5pm", so we ended up sitting around in the house all Wednesday waiting for my visa. Of course, it never arrived so I phoned them up again but this time managed to speak to a real person, or at least an upgraded version of the robot. She/it informed me that it would actually arrive on Thursday (today) sometime "between 9am and 5pm". It arrived at 4pm after another day sitting around waiting for the delivery.

Anyway, it's here now and my name is spelt correctly (I was working on the assumption that it wouldn't be) so it looks like I'm all ready to go. Except I haven't got a flight booked yet and I'm meant to be starting work on 1st September. Getting a flight is going to be interesting given that currently most UK flights to the US (and, scarily, mainly those to Boston it seems) are being delayed/rescheduled/turned back/cancelled etc. because of evil people trying to blow them up. Hmm. I think I'll swim.

Tick tock tick tock

So I went down to London for the visa interview and cunningly managed to sell my car to my cousin at the same time. I turned up early for my appointment at 1245 (suspiciously labelled on my letter as the "time scheduled to arrive at the embassy") but they won't let you queue if you're there too early so I was forced to go to a nearby pub for a pint. Thereafter I queued up for 20 mins for the privilege of being admitted to the queue for the security hut, where they performed the usual airport-type security check. Curiously, this involved showing them the soles of my shoes; presumably to check I wasn't going to spread chewing gum all over the Ambassador's nice carpet.

I was then shown in to a departure lounge-type room where hundreds of damned souls were waiting to cross the Styx (or something like that anyway). 388 was the number I was given by Phlegyas, and I was mildly disturbed to note that the current numbers being called were in the vicinity of 200. I sat down to wait. And wait.
.
..
...
....
.....
Gosh! We're in to the 300s!
......
.......
........
.........
..........
An hour later it was my turn, and with pounding heart I approached the window, clutching my documents. The depressingly English girl took my documents (informing me along the way that I hadn't completed the form correctly - how was I supposed to know that I was still meant to indicate that my husband, wife, son, daughter, and fiancee are not in the US, even though I have none of these), scanned my fingerprints like the hardened criminal I am, and told me to sit back down. For the really long wait.
...........
............
.............
..............
...............
You get the picture. The annoying thing was that the numbers this time were not being called in numerical order, rather with a roughly numerical increase but with a window of about forty or so. This meant I couldn't turn off and read a book, safe in the knowledge that I probably wouldn't miss my turn, I had to sit there fixated on the screen for three horrendous hours. After everybody else's number in the forty or so window had been called and they were well into the 420s my number was finally called. I haven't been so nervous in a long time. What if they said no? How would I explain it to my new boss? "I'm sorry I didn't get a visa because my head is 3 inches too long for US Department of Homeland Security regulations". All this and more was running through my boredom-addled mind as I approached the first American I'd seen all day in the US embassy.

"What visa are you applying for?"
"Er, J-1"
"That means you're going from one place to another to diseminate your vast wisdom"
(nervous laugh)
"Where are you studying now?"
"Er, Leicester University, er sorry the University of Leicester"
"And where are you going to?" (all this information was written on my now-corrected DS-156)
"Er, Boston University"
"OK, we should have this done for you in three to five working days. Enjoy your time in Boston"
"Er, OK. Thanks, er, bye"

That was it. That was IT. Four bloody hours of waiting for a thirty second bloody pointless interview. He didn't even ask for half the stuff I was told I had to bring. Grr.

I treated myself to a can of Grolsch on the train back home.