Then at the consulate, terror. Everything had led up to this, months of preparation and expectation, all came down to this one appointment. I had already quit my job, sold my car, gave notice at my apartment, bought tickets, had a new job waiting for me. But without that visa stamp in my passport, it would all crumble.
There were six people ahead of me, and one by one, each failed to secure their visa. Each were declined over some small document missing, or forgotten signature. One girl was supposed to start a job in a week, instead she left in tears. A man had tickets for his wife and kids to fly this weekend, and he was summarily refused visas over a faxed document instead of an original. It was a bloodbath.
Then it was my turn. My circumstances were no more dire than any of the others. As prepared as I was, that damnable man would frown at every thing, tap his pen, furrow his brow, ask if I had an original for something that would have been impossible to get, then nod and move on.
And then I heard him say, as if from underwater, thank you and it should be in the mail by week's end.
One more week, and then Bordeaux.