We have a week before we need to be out of the house, so I’m attempting to pack for France, along with allowing for clothes to wear here at home where it’s cold, and for our 10 days in Florida where it’s warm.
The other day we received a box of vacuum storage bags. So today I spent time trying to see if all the clothes I plan to take will fit.
A lot of times I don’t wear very warm clothes because I still get hot flashes. Many times I’m wearing short sleeves or sleeveless dresses with a cardigan so I can strip down at the first sign of inner flush.
As I packed today, cramming sweaters and warm pajamas in the vacuum bags, I couldn’t help but wonder if I would even wear everything I’m taking along. I winnowed out so many things but I continued to remove dresses and shirts from my pile.
On television, those vacuum bags look so smooth. Mine looked like vacuum-packed roasts.
The bags are super heavy now, of course because there’s no air in them.
I have another suitcase that I plan to pack for our days in Paris and I may take an extra bag to Florida. Before we leave there, I’ll have to fit all those summer clothes into my bags so I can get them to France.
Full steam ahead.
Yesterday, the phone rang and I saw my real estate agent's name flash up on the screen. "Oh, no."
I'd been dreading her call. It was the day we were supposed to get the results of the appraisal.
A previous offer had fallen through at the appraisal stage. We figured at best we'd have to negotiate for a lower price.
The agent didn't beat around the bush. "We appraised for asking price!" she crowed.
What a relief!
No more negotiating, no more bargaining, we had successfully jumped through all the hoops.
This is happening.
We close on the house on December 8.
Thank you for joining this weekly meme. Grab a copy of the photo above and link back to An Accidental Blog. Share with the rest of us your passion for France. Did you read a good book set in France? See a movie? Take a photo in France? Have an adventure? Eat a fabulous meal or even just a pastry? Or if you're in France now, go ahead and lord it over the rest of us. We can take it.
Well, I'm not going to try to build up any suspense. We traveled to Chicago this week and applied for our Visa.
Chicago is about five hours away from us, but it is where we needed to travel for our in-person interview to request a long-stay visa. In general, Americans don't need visas to visit France for three months or less, so we've never had to do this before.
We spent the night with some old friends who live about 20 minutes outside of the city. We took the train in early Thursday morning. Our appointments were not until 11 and 11:10 (we both had to have appointments), but we just commuted when our friend went to work at 8 a.m.
That gave us time to find a place for breakfast.
We were lured into a place that had a chalkboard sign that read "Homemade pastries" but when we got inside, I asked where the pastries were and they had none. What they had instead, was a breakfast buffet that you paid for by weight. Weird, huh?
Once we'd finished, we pulled out our red folder with our documents. I had put mine in order according to the list:
*a passport-sized photo (no smiling, no glasses)
*my passport and a photo copy of the identity page
*a letter explaining what I intend to do in France (eat pastries, drink wine, write books)
*a notarized letter promising I won't work in France (at least not a French job)
*a letter explaining my work and showing my paystubs
*proof of means of income -- Earl's retirement savings and the income from the sale of our house
*our marriage license
*proof of accommodation (we included the hotel in Paris where we'll stay along with the two housesits in France and our friend's address in Aix en Provence where we'll go to file our paperwork)
*a processing fee ($115 cash)
*a residence form (since we plan to stay in France for more than 12 months)
*a self-addressed, pre-paid Express envelope from the post office only -- not UPS or FED EX
I also had a birth certificate, just in case.
After breakfast, we decided to walk to the consulate, which is on Michigan Avenue, down toward the Magnificent Mile. Even though we arrived at the building nearly an hour early, I wanted to go ahead and check in. I felt nervous, jittery.
Earl suggested we get something to drink at the Starbucks on the second floor, but I wanted to head to the 37th floor to the French consulate. So he acquiesced.
The information desk gave us a pass to get through the gates to the elevators. We were supposed to scan the pass and glass doors slid open to let us through. But I scanned my pass and the doors turned red, but I pushed on them anyway. Suddenly, a loud blaring noise rang out and a man with a walkie talkie came rushing toward us calling, "Step back." They'll never let me into France now, I thought as the man took my pass and scanned it before allowing me through the gates.
A few seconds in the elevator, which made my ears pop as it zipped up to the 37th floor, and we stepped off into France.
Proof that we were in the right place.
Here's me in those same chairs.
A young man, who was returning to the office, told us we should put our passes in a deposit window, like a bank. The two women behind the windows lined up the passes, probably in order of people's appointments.
The office was very small with a television mounted in the corner. It played French food shows the whole time we were there.
A man and two children were there when we arrived, and another man, French, jumped ahead of the line to get his passport, but almost everyone else there was a student getting a visa to study abroad. And the majority of those students were Asian. Perhaps they were studying in the U.S. and wanted to do a study abroad, or maybe they came from countries that needed a visa to visit France.
At a little after 11, the younger woman motioned me up. She didn't try to pronounce my name, but her microphone wasn't working so we hadn't been able to hear her all morning anyway.
I pulled out the packet of papers and asked whether she wanted all of them.
Yes, she nodded. So I slide the inch-thick stack through the window and she slowly went through each one.
She handed me back the extra passport photo and my birth certificate, and the envelope that my $115 cash was in.
Earl took a picture of me standing at the window as I supplied my papers.
Then she asked to get my fingerprints. They had a machine that didn't require ink or black-tipped fingers, but it was quite contrary. It took several times and kept beeping at me as I tried to get the machine to light up for all four fingers, and then the other hand and then both thumbs.
While we were there, no one else had to do the fingerprint machine. It must only be for people planning to move to France.
The woman then nodded and said I could send my husband up. So Earl replaced me and supplied all of his papers. After his wrangling with the fingerprint machine, we were free to go.
Some of the students applying didn't have what they needed, so the workers had sent them out to get things like cash for the fee or envelopes for mailing the visa. We had all our documentation, so that's a plus.
Earl picked up my coat and held it for me. As I slipped my arms in, I saw the French woman behind the window smile at us. She thinks we're cute, I thought. Then I wondered if she thought there was no way we were getting a visa to move to France.
Just because we had all the right forms does not mean that they'll let us move to France. I think our odds would have been much better if we had closed on our house and could show them a bank statement with $150,000 in it. But the closing is not until December and the visa can take a month to arrive. We couldn't risk waiting.
So now we'll check the mailbox starting next week, hoping our visas arrive.
I didn't think about it until recently, but we left our passports there, along with our marriage licenses. I hope we get them both back.
We left the building after pausing for pictures in front of the French flag and their new president
Earl and Emmanuel
before we walked to the Nutella cafe across the street. I'm sure it was strategically placed close to the French consulate.
Earl had a Nutella and banana crepe while I had a berry pastry that I didn't realize would be drizzled in Nutella. I think I'd have preferred it without Nutella, but we celebrated because we were a step closer to making our dream come true, where we can eat really pastries without Nutella on them.
Vive la France!
Thanks for playing along with Dreaming of France. I hope you'll visit each other's blogs and leave comments. Also post your blog info in the Linky below.
If you know me at all, you would suspect that I would dive right into One Sip at a Time by Keith Van Sickle. This book is full of the author's observations of life as he and his wife move to Provence. They had already lived along the border of Switzerland and France, so they were not strangers to living abroad.
Each story is a short snippet, like a blog post, and they are all joined together to create a small memoir, which is nice if you only have short bursts of time to read.
The author covers the major stumbling blocks that ex-pats face and does it in an entertaining, tongue-in-cheek manner. He addresses situations like driving in France, learning the language and making friends. In the section titled "The French Citizenship Test," I wondered if the author and his wife were actually becoming French citizens, but instead, he talked about the challenge of eating a croissant without leaving messy crumbs. Yes, I can see that would be a challenge, and perhaps the ultimate test to become a French citizen.
One chapter I found interesting was about the presidential election in France. When we visited France in May, they had just elected Macron. Van Sickle writes about the election of Hollande, so a few years before. Like us, he was impressed by the shortness of the election.
If you're curious about life in France and interested in a light-hearted look at it, One Sip at a Time can take you there.
Make sure you scroll down and enter to win a copy of the book.
Can a two-career couple really pick up stakes and move to Provence?
Keith and Val had a dream – to live in Provence, the land of brilliant sunlight, charming hilltop villages and the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean. But there were two problems: they weren’t French speakers and they had full-time jobs. So they came up with a plan…
Follow their adventures (and misadventures) as they quit their jobs, become consultants and split their time between two countries. Laugh along as they build a life in Provence, slowly mastering a new language and making friends with the locals over long meals and just a bit too much wine.
If you’ve ever dreamed of changing gears and learning what joie de vivre is really all about, you won’t want to miss this delightful book.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Keith Van Sickle
is a technology industry veteran
and lifelong traveler
who got his first taste of overseas life
while studying in England during college.
But it was the expat assignment to Switzerland
that made him really fall in love with Europe.
After returning to California, he and his wife Val dreamed of living abroad again
but were unable to find another expat gig.
So they decided to invent their own.
Now they split their time between Silicon Valley and St-Rémy-de-Provence,
delving ever deeper into what makes France so endlessly fascinating.
Find the author on Facebook and TwitterVisit his website
Subscribe to his mailing listand get information about new releases.
Buy the book onAmazon.com
Well, it's November, so this is the month I should be writing a lot. I haven't written much so far, feeling swallowed by a heap of paperwork to get our visas and home sale documents, but I plan to jump in there. I started a novel last November and wrote about 35,000 words. This November, I aim to finish it. Of course, I haven't been dormant in the months since November. I worked on finishing a different
novel, a sequel to The Summer of France which I call Autumn in Aix. That one is out for revisions right now.
When I returned to my novel in progress, I was surprised to find that I like it a lot. I don't always feel that way about my writing. The current title is The Wedding-Dress Theory. It's a mother daughter story.
Ironically, as I'm preparing to move to France, I'm writing a book about a couple who decide to travel to all 50 states in the U.S. But things go awry, as you might imagine.
I'm going to share the first chapter here and hope that you like it so I'm encouraged to continue.
a clutch of maps under her arm and transferring a loaded purse to her shoulder,
Tess Wright Thompson reached for the doorknob, hoping she could open the door
and step inside before all of her belongings fell onto the front porch.
got your maps, but these better be the last of them,” Tess called out to her
husband, Rick. Even from the living room as she dumped her bag onto the black
leather couch, she could see through to the dining room and the white board he
had set up there. His handwriting in blue marker scrawled across it with dates,
places and reservations for their upcoming cross-country trip. It’s what he had
always wanted to do – travel to every state in the U.S. in one big journey. So
they were doing it, with an Alaskan cruise at the end and then a flight to
Hawaii where they would lie on the beach for a week to recover from so much
10 years older than Tess, had retired just the month before. Today was Tess’
last day at the Things Remembered shop where she worked helping people pick
personal gifts then having them engraved or embroidered with names. The store
had found a college student to take her place for the summer, so she was free
to travel and then return to work in the fall.
you even want to come back,” laughed Charles, her 28-year-old manager, who was
meticulous about the merchandise, but couldn’t figure out why Tess would want
to work if she could have a husband support her.
else am I going to do?” she had asked Charles. “Stay home and watch Rick be
retired? I suppose he’ll take up hobbies, like wood working or tinkering on old
cars, or whatever cliché retired husbands do.” She had sighed.
liked routine, and this trip, Rick’s retirement, would definitely shake up the
routine. Ever since her mother died 24 years before and she’d had her “episode”
as she liked to call it – clinical depression her doctors called it – she’d
lived by routine. She returned from the psychiatric hospital a zombie marching
through a fog with strict timelines for feeding the children, getting them to
school, picking them up, feeding them dinner – her hectic life as an assistant
district attorney thrown aside as she muddled to get through every day. She
wouldn’t have survived without Rick’s support, his nightly backrubs, the times
he’d come in from work and say, “Let me make dinner; you go read a book and
relax.” And he had agreed that getting a small job at a shop might be good for
her as the kids finished high school. He never pushed her to go back to being a
lawyer, just held a hand at the small of her back, figuratively, whenever she
threatened to stumble.
she groused about Rick’s retiring but she felt closest to her real self with
just the two of them, walking for coffee, their hands entwined. Ambling through
the farmer’s market and picking out a few zucchinis, a bunch of strawberries,
some local honey, and guiltily adding a cinnamon roll loaded with cream cheese
icing to their healthy purchases. They would split the pastry at home as she
sipped tea and he tipped back strong coffee.
the entire cross-country trip would feel like their weekly trips to the
leaned over to save her overloaded purse from spilling out onto the couch, settling
it upright. She’d brought home all of her belongings from Things Remembered
today. She was going to be gone for three months – no sense leaving an extra
cardigan hanging on the hook in the backroom next to the time clock. She’d also
grabbed her deep-purple travel mug, engraved with her name and a blossoming
iris. Tess loved all things flowered and all things purple. She pulled the mug
from her purse and set it on the side table.
maps dotted with post-it notes and stacks of maps yet to be unfolded and notated
covered the dining room table, and she would add this latest set of maps. She
had stopped by AAA on her drive home. She knew that Rick had already planned
every step of the trip, so she wondered why he continued to pour over the maps
and order new ones.
had two weeks yet before the journey, and the next step was to buy supplies.
can get supplies anywhere along the route,” Tess had reminded him. “We’re not going
to the Australian Outback. There are CVS drug stores around the whole country,”
or at least she figured there were.
had put her foot down at the idea of renting an RV. “If we’re going to do this,
we’re staying in hotels, and decent hotels.”
they didn’t need to stock up on road food or plan meals. They’d be eating in
diners and restaurants, maybe grabbing Subway sandwiches for picnics. They only
needed to pack clothes and toiletries, plus their credit cards.
had a vision of the old days when they would get travelers’ checks before a
long trip and chuckled to herself.
Rick,” she called as she walked toward the dining room with the maps. “Remember
when we used to buy travelers’ checks and then we’d have to search everywhere
for someplace that would accept them? That time in the Blue Ridge Mountains
halted as she rounded the corner of the narrow wall to the dining room and saw
Rick slumped over the table, the back of his head toward her. A plate with a
few crumbs of cake and an empty coffee cup sat beside him.
Tess called tentatively. Had he fallen asleep?
moved beside him and touched his shoulder, beginning to shake him but her hand
recoiled. His shoulder felt cold and stiff. Not warm and yielding with the
bones and muscles resisting beneath.
my God! Rick! Rick!”
contact with him, Tess scooted his chair in enough so that she could get around
the table to see his face. Partially open, his eyes stared straight ahead at
the table and the skin above his eyelids looked blue as if he’d applied eye
shadow. His mouth hung open, and a little puddle of drool rested on the table
Noooooo.” Tess didn’t know how long she howled the word as she fell to her
knees and covered her face.
Well? What do you think so far? Would you keep reading?