I sit, with my back pressed against the couch, as Pandora’s station of summer hits of the 90’s plays in the background, and various bottles of energy drinks stand empty around me. My eyes look wearily towards the floor, at the suitcase that is still half empty (half empty- not half full, although usually I am an optimist). There are piles of clothes, a few Harry Potter books, and my favorite stuffed elephant, spilling out and stacked around the giant open duffle. This is the bag that my life for the next four months will have to fit into; and of course, I'm trying to cram pretty much my whole room, closet, and kitchen into only a few square feet. It's not working out very well.
Between multiple long breaks to check the Internet, raid the fridge, and make myself another pot of coffee, I throw a couple more sweaters in, find my favorite hat, take out a couple pairs of jeans. It is way too much. My suitcase is way too heavy. Yet it’s still not enough. Downsizing was never my strong point- as my mom often points out that I have too much stuff- and having to take only as much as I can carry myself is nearly impossible.
This whole packing thing (ugh) is almost the last step in long painful process of preparing for studying abroad which started with thousands- or what seemed like thousands- of hours spent in the Study Abroad Office and on Google, trying to find the right program for me.
Somewhere in France, a school where classes were in English, somewhere I could study art.
Then I found Marchutz, somewhere in the South of France. I remember it being pretty there from when I traveled in a circle around the country of France in a bus about four or so years ago. I read about it, looked at the program it offered, and Googled images of the area. It looked amazing. Okay, I had to go there.
I filled out the application, sent it in, and was accepted (YAY!). I renewed my passport (which was honestly the worst part of the whole process- Canadian passports are so strict about the pictures and it took me three tries to finally take a picture they would accept). I went through the Campus France and visa process, terrified the whole time that it somehow wouldn’t work.
Then I got the message that all I needed to do was to visit the French Consulate in Chicago. I booked my Megabus tickets and- only a few hours after my last exam for the semester- set out toward the French Consulate. Running on about two hours of sleep and a Grande Starbucks Coffee, I had my visa appointment. The lady behind the glass took my forms; bank statement, passport, Campus France stuff, acceptance letter, and studied them carefully.
“Alright, you are good to go.” She informed me that my visa would arrive in about ten days. And it did. On Christmas Eve, I drove to the Post Office, and nervously fiddled with my keys as the man behind the counter went to the back room to fetch my giant envelope. Even before I sat back down in the warmth of my tiny blue car, I had ripped the seal open. There it was. My visa. I was really going to France.
I may have screamed a little bit, like a preteen girl at a Justin Bieber concert, as I drove back home. It was happening. It was really happening.
Now it is almost here. Only a few days and an unpacked suitcase stand between me and my departure. I throw another jacket into the suitcase then stand up. I’m sick of packing for today.
Oh well. I’ll get it done. And no matter what, this semester is definitely going to be amazing.
Between multiple long breaks to check the Internet, raid the fridge, and make myself another pot of coffee, I throw a couple more sweaters in, find my favorite hat, take out a couple pairs of jeans. It is way too much. My suitcase is way too heavy. Yet it’s still not enough. Downsizing was never my strong point- as my mom often points out that I have too much stuff- and having to take only as much as I can carry myself is nearly impossible.
This whole packing thing (ugh) is almost the last step in long painful process of preparing for studying abroad which started with thousands- or what seemed like thousands- of hours spent in the Study Abroad Office and on Google, trying to find the right program for me.
Somewhere in France, a school where classes were in English, somewhere I could study art.
Then I found Marchutz, somewhere in the South of France. I remember it being pretty there from when I traveled in a circle around the country of France in a bus about four or so years ago. I read about it, looked at the program it offered, and Googled images of the area. It looked amazing. Okay, I had to go there.
I filled out the application, sent it in, and was accepted (YAY!). I renewed my passport (which was honestly the worst part of the whole process- Canadian passports are so strict about the pictures and it took me three tries to finally take a picture they would accept). I went through the Campus France and visa process, terrified the whole time that it somehow wouldn’t work.
Then I got the message that all I needed to do was to visit the French Consulate in Chicago. I booked my Megabus tickets and- only a few hours after my last exam for the semester- set out toward the French Consulate. Running on about two hours of sleep and a Grande Starbucks Coffee, I had my visa appointment. The lady behind the glass took my forms; bank statement, passport, Campus France stuff, acceptance letter, and studied them carefully.
“Alright, you are good to go.” She informed me that my visa would arrive in about ten days. And it did. On Christmas Eve, I drove to the Post Office, and nervously fiddled with my keys as the man behind the counter went to the back room to fetch my giant envelope. Even before I sat back down in the warmth of my tiny blue car, I had ripped the seal open. There it was. My visa. I was really going to France.
I may have screamed a little bit, like a preteen girl at a Justin Bieber concert, as I drove back home. It was happening. It was really happening.
Now it is almost here. Only a few days and an unpacked suitcase stand between me and my departure. I throw another jacket into the suitcase then stand up. I’m sick of packing for today.
Oh well. I’ll get it done. And no matter what, this semester is definitely going to be amazing.