I've been increasingly anxious about...everything, as my initial attempt at a married-person visa was abruptly denied with only three weeks remaining for me in France. Would I hang tight for a while in Turkey? Go work a season in the U.S.? Spend all my money on an immigration lawyer? We managed to submit a second type of request, and I have a three-month extension for now.
This is not as bad as my Colombian friend, who started a masters program on Monday, which was then canceled on Wednesday, invalidating her visa; but, you know, the university still wants her to pay for the semester. We met for coffee and talked over her next move. After, I picked my way through crowds of rowdy teenagers protesting education budget cuts, who demonstrated their displeasure by skipping school and smashing glass shelters at the central bus station. Just as I got to my bus stop, smoke bombs and rubber bullets were shot in my direction. The vestigial scrap of New Yorker I carry inside propelled me over to disapprove of this haphazard and ineffectual response. If they really want me to self-deport, just keep more of that on tap.
And so it is with great anticipation that I pack my tent and roll up my sleeping bag -- at long last, my rucksack is again at the ready, with a generous wedge of cheese fuel for hiking! We're headed to the Lozère, which is sort of equivalent to the Smoky mountains: very rural, rolling hills and rounded peaks not too terribly high, and rib-sticking cuisine. It still feels like summer, but maybe the leaves will start to change towards the end of October.
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