Hasta la Vista to the 'Hood

The crickets’ shrill, circling song wraps around the cicadas’ steady thrum.   Sharply scented leaves still shine with the morning dew as I snag one of Michael’s cherry tomatoes for an energy boost.  Behind my evergreens, thistles thrive despite Roundup doses, but beyond the maple trees on Morton, the morning sky glows with sherbet pinks and yellows.  The red truck pulls in across the street to pick up Anthony.  Every weekday morning, the same time, the same truck, and the same three quick beeps of the horn – followed three minutes later by the long-suffering H-O-N-K.    Rounding  my driveway to the sidewalk, I smile, knowing that my morning walk is as much a part of the neighborhood routine as Anthony’s carpool. 

Crossing Congdon, I pass Ben’s old house – looking good under the care of new owners.  I suffer my daily twinge of guilt for years that passed while Ben lived so close . . . But my metronome feet move me past his house just as all those years moved our lives without “should” ever evolving to “did.”  Heading west on River Bluff, I cross Duncan, remembering baby deer, amazing Hallowe'en decorations, and crisp fall walks along that road to Dundee.

 

And then, I am really in the old hood – my little boys left their toddler years here – Nate’s tiny blue-Keds feet balancing on this cement garden ball, AJ’s marble blue eyes staring down the thistles and Yuccas, arms extended so that Mommy wouldn’t be attacked by prickles.  There lived the boys who wouldn't play with Nathan, there the doggy friends who would.  AJ and Ben-Ben rode their bikes – hell bent for leather – around these corners while Paula, Heather,  and I talked politics, teaching, and parenting in that ancient mother tongue punctuated with cautions, corrections, and praises for the younger ones toddling beside us.  I miss them on these walks, even as I smile in gratitude for the idyllic years of neighborliness we shared. 

Nostalgia mixes liberally with a sense of pride as I scan the neighborhood.  I check up on the houses and in doing so, keep track of the friends and neighbors who have been my world for 25 years.   A symbiotic existence – the home and the family it shelters.  The weeds in Bill's once pristine yard attest to the sad progress of his illness, and across the street, Judy's thriving garden touts her continued remission.   I see that Geoff still has the trampoline up; his car’s in the drive, so he’s not flying today.  Five years since his divorce, and still I wonder how he lives in the home of his dreams, alone until the girls’ rotate back to him.  I hope he moved on and found someone to see his capacity in the love he put into that home.   A realtor’s sign at the Erickson’s tells me that “someday” has finally come for them, too.  The mullioned windows reflect the rising sun, and I know the sunroom and deck still hold the damp quiet of the woods looking over the Fox River.  I send up a little prayer that a new family will love the gorgeous home as much as they have.  The Pintos are selling too – another great house for someone new to love, but the 4^th of July parade won’t be the same for me without Doc Pinto and his motorcycle. 

Changes.  This neighborhood has sheltered me and mine for 25 years.   I have watched the original homeowners age and pass on (Alice lived in her home for 70 years).  I have seen divorce and death and good fortune move people on and around.  I have seen homes crumble with neglect to rise again in painted lady glory  – and seen the comings and goings of JB Harris’s painting and carpentry, Tom’s plumbing, and Veteran’s roofing.   I have watched as immigrant families moved in to the tiny Cape Cods and bungalows.  And I have smiled with interest as planters of geraniums, petunias, and roses sprang to life along sidewalks and on porches. I have smiled in pride as Saturday work parties replaced crumbling porches and weed filled lawns.  In the evenings, the sounds of mariachi bands mingle with the shouts and squeals of little ones racing down the sidewalks, through the yards, across time.  My neighbors’ kids run in and out of their houses as Ben-Ben, Jakie, and AJ used to do, bikes crashing to the ground and screen doors crashing behind thundering feet. 

My morning walk circles me back to my house.  Soon, I will walk new streets collecting new memories and recording other lives.  When I return, Christmas trees and holiday parties will shine out from my neighbors' windows, and I will wrap myself in winter clothes to enjoy the seasonal sights. So, caught this week between times and places,  I grab one more tomato for the memories and savor taste of late summer in Elgin. 

No one Sees the Wizard

For my slightly older sister and I, the annual airing of The Wizard of Oz (remember, young ones, this was before video!) brought infusions of terror, laughter, and song into our make-believe adventures.  Once a year, as Dorthy and her pals played out their heroic adventures in song and dance, my sister and I sat on the picnic quilt in our living room eating cheese popcorn (thanks Mom!) and soaking up every memorable and remembered moment.
 
For weeks after, we would re-enact  our favorite scenes.  Melanie, with her typical girl shoes and long, braid-ready hair played Dorothy.  My pixie-short hair and corrective shoes (we called them "dad' shoes) relgated me to all the male roles.  I don't recall anyone playing the Wicked Witch, but then, we were both so scared of her, we probably would not have dared to fill her shoes.   My hair remains short and straight, and I've exchanged my "dad" shoes for Birkenstocks, but I finally got to play Dorothy -- in my very own version of "No one sees the Wizard."

I arrived at the Spanish Consulate 20 minutes early for my visa appointment carrying all the requisite magic talismans -- Apostilles of the Hague, certified translations -- the works -- and all in triplicate, of course.  Twelve to fifteen people waited in three rows of plastic chairs, and two workers sat  behind three bank-teller style windows.  Signs taped to the walls repeated the Consulate's website mantra that the Consulate of Spain cannot accept cash, checks, or credit cards. All payments must be made using cashier's checks or money orders. An electronic gizmo announced in dotted red numbers that they were now serving number: 00.  A poster of the King and Queen looked on approvingly.   Finding no "take a number" thingy in sight, I tentatively approached the teller windows where I announced, through the glass divider, that I was there for my Visa ap --

 "We will call you."  the female voice behind the glass declared.  "Have a seat."

 I sat.
 
Everyone sat.  The people behind the glass bustled impressively.  They  called no names, and no one stood before their windows.  We sat. They bustled.  We exchanged looks.  New petitioners arrived and foolishly approached the windows. Reprimanded, they too sat.

Finally, another voice from beyond the glass muttered a name, and a lone petitioner approached the window.  Documents, questions, and answers slipped through the two-inch gap in the glass.  We all watched.  We overheard snippets -- "10 weeks . . . Copies . . . not approved . . . no guarantee . . ."  We watched with smug superiority as the uninitiated approached the window, smiled knowingly at the "Have a seat," command,and nodded in mutual confusion when the newly reprimanded said, "But I don't have an appointment . .  . I am just here to pick up my visa."

"Have a seat.  We will call you."  (No one sees the wizard!)

"How," one young lady asked me as she sat, "can they call me if they don't know my name?"  Maybe the Great and Powerful Oz knows who we are?

Like sibling rivals finding common ground in fear of the neighborhood bully, the sitters began airing their questions and sharing their stories with each other -- This one's going to Madrid; this one's been to Seville.  This one knows what an Apostille is, and this one needs her Visa by Monday (ha!).  Despite the bullies behind the glass, the would-be travelers in the waiting room developed a hopeful camaraderie. 
At long last, a mumble resembled my name, and I approached the window.  I slid my magic bundle of papers under the glass window toward the young man who began leafing through them in increasing confusion. He asked me for my driver's license.  I pushed it through the glass.

Finally, he asked, "What kind of a visa are you applying for?"

Really?
 
I explained that I had emailed the consulate and had been told I needed a Residencia visa.  I slid to him the check list from the website detailing the required documentation.  Happy for the  road map, the young man diligently read each piece of paper --- and I mean each piece of paper -- checked front and back, and checked each set of three off on the list I had given him.  Finally, he tapped the pile of papers into line, stood up, and without a word, took my papers back to the wizard.

I stood at the window.


Eventually, my minion returned, shaking his head in apparent confusion.  "Okay," he said, "You're just going to do a student Visa. You're traveling with students and doing what students do, so that's what you need. "

I wisely decided this was not the time to correct him -- I was neither traveling with students nor "doing what students do."  But without a visa, I was doing nothing, so I just smiled and nodded.


"Fill this out," he said, sliding my application back through the glass and indicating the information about the school I would be attending.  Without batting an eyelash, I promptly wrote myself in as a student at the International College of Seville.  Whatever works.  A flurry of papers followed that one;  I watched in silent surprise as my minion handed me documents that had cost me $20, $30, $50 not to mention hours of travel and countless sleepless nights.


"We don't need those anymore,"  he explained.  Excellent.


My minion had taken several trips back and forth to the wizard, and I had begun swaying from foot to foot, trying to relieve my aching legs, by the time he had papers in order for me and AJ.  But then, he found that my money orders were made for incorrect amounts -- silly me, prepared to pay for the visas they told me to get not the ones they decided to give me!  My cashier's checks were $14.95 over the amount he needed.

My suggestion that the consulate "keep the change" sent my minion  back to the wizard. Bribes  disguised as inadvertent over-payments clearly displeased the wizard.  My minion returned, sadly shaking his head.  I needed to get him a new cashier's check.  "

Take these back to your bank," he said.  "Get new checks."

"Okay," I said, but my bank is in Elgin.

"Okay. Just bring it back today. Okay?"  Sigh.


Three cash-station transactions later, (and $15.00 in bank fees later) I had two new money orders from the Currency Exchange -- the one on Monroe street with the printer that's out of alignment?  The  checks stated the correct amount, but the amount appeared on the "remit to" line, so I had written "Consulate of Spain" above that.

The minion took the check back to the wizard;  head shaking sadly, he returned.   "This is not good, " he said.  "It's on the wrong line."

I could feel a winged-monkey scream rising in my throat, so I gritted my teeth and said, "Give me the check."  The minion must have heard the same scream because although he shook his head sadly, he made no comment as I carefully lined through and initialed "Consulate of Spain" and then re-wrote the same words one eighth of an inch lower on the check.

He showed the check to the minion at the next window.  She raised her eyebrows and shoulders in a dramatic shrug apparently allowed my papers to move on to the wizard.  My minion smiled briefly and sent me on my way.

Next time, I am bringing that darned witch's broom with me!

Visa Schmisa

So, about that visa.  When the folks in charge if this study abroad program said I needed a visa for my trip to Spain, I thought, "No problem. 'Got my VISA right here in my wallet.  Trip to Spain . . . priceless."

Well, okay.  Not really.  You're right.  I did not say that.  Not that it wouldn't have been knee-slappin' funny if I had . . . but frankly, the opportunity never presented itself.

"Why not?" you might well ask.  Simple, dear reader:  I never said that because NO ONE TOLD ME I NEEDED A VISA! 

Okay.  I'm fine.  It's cool. Really.  And honestly, mea culpa.  I am a grown up, and I clearly should have known that I needed a visa.  But I didn't. The thought never occurred to me.  Not for a single second until I overheard she-who-is-in-charge instructing one of the students to get her visa.  So all the rest in between doesn't really matter. Bottom line, I needed a visa.

Okay. (Deep breath) Really, how hard could that be, right? When the visa question arose, I had two months to departure.  So, I set my appointment with the Spanish Consulate -- whose minions simultaneously gave me the first available appointment -- two and a half weeks from departure --, told me that a visa generally takes 8 weeks to process, and said,  "You should be fine."

Breathing. I inhaled deeply, inflating my lungs;  I exhaled slowly.  I stretched myself tall, tall, tall, then bent at the waist and touched my toes.  I stood back up.  I forgot to breathe.

OH MY GOD!!!  (Okay, I freaked out.)  Here I was, with two round trip tickets to Spain (not cheap, just saying), my classes in the states had been given to some nice part-time faculty, my house had been loaned to a friend, my car loaned to my college senior son, and then . . . "You should be fine."  What did that mean? 

What if the visa doesn't come through in time?  Do I stay home (and do what?)??  Do I go anyway?  If I go, and the Spanish authorities let me in (my friends-without- visas assured me repeatedly that they would do so), will they let me back out? And what exactly happens to travelers without visas?  Do they roam the Madrid airport like Tom Hanks?  Do they spent years in Spanish immigration court?   Do they go to jail? Panic, generally, accomplishes very little.  Personally, in defiance of this wisdom, I tend to share my panic with as many innocent bystanders as possible (picture small foofy dog barking on the sidelines of the Boston Marathon.)

In the end, I stopped panicking and got the papers together.  Unbelievable paperwork.  We already had passports, of course.  To get passports, we had to submit our birth certificates.  Now, to get a visa for AJ, I not only had to resubmit the birth certificate, but I had to get it translated by a certified Spanish translator and get an Apostille of the Hague attached. (Apostille of the Hague:  Fancy gold seal attached to a piece of paper that says, in English, that the attached thingy is a birth certificate.  Two dollars at the Secretary of State's Index Office in Chicago.)  Is your head spinning yet?  Don't forget the fingerprints and  background check -- seriously. Don't forget the extra cost to send the fingerprints electronically -- twice since the State Police rejected the first set. And don't forget the Apostille of the Hague for the background check.  (Fancy gold seal attached to a piece of paper that says, in English, that the attached thingy is a background check)  Good thing I didn't buy that new mascara;  I may have saved the world economy with all the fees I paid to get these documents together in time.  Did I mention three copies of everything? 

Through it all, I kept thinking, "There's a lesson in here somewhere." So far, I've collected limited-use trinkets -- I know what an Apostille of the Hague is, I know a fingerprint guy in Chicago, and I have a friend in the background check department at the Illinois State Police.  Maybe I will find the lesson at the consulate.

The Call to Adventure

"Mom, why can't you go to Spain?  Marta went to Ireland!"
Seriously.  Could my kids ask for normal things -- candy, x-box, skateboards? As I ran from mail room to office that busy afternoon, a trip to Spain remained conspicuously absent from my to-do list.. But AJ had been listening to Marta's tales of  her fabulous semester with study abroad students in Ireland and wanted to sign me up.
"Well,honey, for starters, I can't leave you!"
"Take him with you!"
"Take me with you!" AJ and Marta exhorted in unison.  "Pat says kids can go!"

Seriously, did they plan this?

"Oh, sweetie,"  (I needed to make the rest of my copies, send that email, and complete my purchasing card report before we left campus --to make that doctor's appointment in 45 minutes). "I can't imagine they allow kids . . . and even if they did, your dad would never go for it." In all fairness, if the shoe were on the other foot, would I agree to an adventure that separated me from my 13 year old for four months?  I wasn't sure.  (And, truth be told, my mind was simply not on foreign travel.  I was wondering if I had managed to save all my purchasing card receipts this month . . . )

Like most life changing events, this one started innocently enough. And, note, it started with me saying, "No."

But the gauntlet had been thrown. The car, that great American thinking space, reverberated over the next weeks as the battle with my cautious self raged.  I am not a risk taker.  I like a certain amount of stability -- okay, a lot of stability.  I like my stuff to be in the same place when I come home every day.  In fact, I like my home to be in the same place every day. I like me a little adventure -- a new restaurant, a trip to the city, a new tube of mascara -- but at the end of the day, I take comfort in the predictability and safety of the life I have created for myself and my boys.

And yet co-existent with the hot flashes and the belly fat, side benefits of middle age include greater confidence and an increased reflectiveness.  Like a teenager, I find that I am able, for the first time in years, to actually think about what I want my life to be, and unlike that teenager, I now have the strength and self-assurance to pursue those dreams.  And the more I thought about this mythical trip to Spain, the more I found that I wanted to be the woman who went to Spain and not the woman who said, "I can't." 

I am happy to report that I stopped saying "No" to Spain.  I procrastinated. I daydreamed through all the disasters that might befall me, but step by step, I began moving cautiously forward.   The rest of the "no's"-- the frowns of the nay-sayers and the startling road blocks of life -- amounted to little in the end.  AJ's dad --give credit where credit is due -- agreed that this chance to live and attend school in Spain was an opportunity worth separating him from this son (could I have done the same?  I still don't know).  A million forms were filed, deadlines met (just barely) and here we are -- just weeks from departure to Seville, Spain, and anxiously awaiting the consulate's call that our visas are ready. 

Thanks, Marta! Thanks, Pat!  Thanks AJ!