The process thus far

I suppose that this story starts a year ago, but it starts to get really interesting about, oh, two weeks ago. Two weeks exactly, actually. So after packing up most of my life (my bed, TV, and other household stuff are living in a West Oakland storage space) on August 16, Puck and I started rolling south toward Santa Barbara. My car is old and the air conditioning doesn't work, which is usually fine for me, but the poor kitty was basically overheating from the time we hit San Benito County. I spent a while frantically looking for a Petco or Petsmart where I could put him on his leash and take him inside, but no such luck. Ever notice how by the time you see the huge signs advertising Target and Bed Bath and Beyond, etc, you've already missed the exit? Yeah. Anyway, he toughed it out, panting bright pink nose and all. He had an interesting time in hiding in Lauren's apartment. For those of you just tuning in, Lauren is my best friend. We have known each other since she wore sparkley magenta horns on the first day of eighth grade. I thought she was weird.

Anyway, the following morning we woke up at the crack so she could go to work and I could get driving to LA. In an attempt to secure a visa appointment at the last possible moment, I made one at the French consulate on Wilshire Blvd. for 11:15 am. Anticipating traffic in the Valley, I left promptly at 8:15, but not before counteracting a previous brain fart and running to Kinko's to print out a visa application and get some passport pictures taken. I also went to The Coffee Bean for the first time in my life. I have to say, impressive pastry selection. The drive was pretty smooth sailing until the southern end of the valley, but luckily once you get on the 405 it's only three exits to Wilshire. After driving around trying to find the building and I spotted a parking garage. I snagged a spot on the ground floor and left the windows open for the cat. Of course now I had to worry that a) he was still suffocating and b) my car was being stolen. I made it about 10 minutes early, and the process was going rather smoothly until my second trip the window, where the woman asked for a copy of my passport. Huh? I definitely read the list of documents needed to apply about 97890845 times, and a copy of my passport was not on there. So she sends me across the street to the federal building (with 20 minutes until the consulate closes), where I ask a security guard where I can make a photocopy. He says the post office or the cafeteria. The post office doesn't do copies, the cafeteria is closed. So I'm sweating, frantic, and running back to the consulate. In the elevator I almost asked some people if they were going to their offices and if I could use their Xerox machines, but I reasoned that this bitch sent me to the wrong place, so she should deal with it. She made the photocopy. I waited for the Consulate General's signature, then got the hell out of there. Puck survived.

It tooks four hours for me to get home. No joke. I left the consulate at 12:15. LA traffic wasn't great but not horrible. It was pretty smooth sailing through most of Orange County. I got off of the freeway in Carlsbad to get gas around 3. It took me an hour to get home from Carlsbad, and that's only because I got off of the freeway at Manchester and took the coast. I literally thought I might never make it home. But I did. . .at 4:30.

To be continued.