Culture shock. The term is typically reserved for the unprepared tourist’s excursion into developing countries. While my upcoming study abroad trip to France might not seem like it would qualify as an example of culture shock, I am anticipating an adjustment flying from my hometown of Lovettsville, Va., population 800, to Paris, my first French destination.
Let me try to put this into perspective. If Lovettsville were a person, it would be Rip Van Winkle right before he succumbed to his 20-year nap. We’re talking double shots of nighttime NyQuil. On the other end of the spectrum, Paris would be a scary combination of a strongly caffeinated Rachael Ray and the Energizer Bunny that devours pure adrenaline for breakfast.
Culture shock or not, I still have to prepare myself for the upcoming French adventure. Instead of perusing Target and Best Buy for dorm furniture, I went visa shopping at the French Embassy in Washington, D.C.
The agony of the entire visa application process can be appropriately compared to ISIS during high-volume times (a.k.a. not working) when you need to get into a class that has one space left. Before I could even think about my visa, I had to sign up through a veritable labyrinth of a Web site called Campus France. My program even sent us a “Campus France How-to” survival guide, acknowledging that the Web site is “difficult.”
Countless pleading phone calls and e-mails later, I was finally on my way to the French embassy in D.C. As I drove, I nervously began reviewing my vast array of necessary documents in my head. Passport? Check. Proof of Residency? Check. Letter of Admission from a French University? Che... wait a minute ... Where was it?
Panic began to set in as I verified that I had indeed forgotten one very important document. I didn’t have time to turn around, so I drove to a library in D.C., frantically printed out the document that I had wisely e-mailed myself and booted it to my appointment.
From the strict guidelines on the embassy Web site, I was expecting to be interrogated by an austere government official in a secluded office. As I timidly approached the embassy’s colossal iron gate, my expectations appeared to be realized. I was just about to start jabbing buttons on the intercom system attached to the gate when a girl walked by me and simply pushed the gate open. Oh.
I was given directions to the visa section of the embassy, but in my apprehension, I ended up in the real white marbled embassy. A kind man took pity on my aimless bewildered wandering and informed me in rapid French that I was lost. The real visa office was much like a bank, with three friendly tellers who pumped out visas with rapid regularity, since I suppose that neither I nor the 15 or so other college girls resembled terrorist threats.
As you read this, I am probably still slowly withering away under the sun thousands of miles from France as I sweat blood and tears at my local pool in a last-ditch effort to make as much money as possible to counter the terrible Euro exchange rate. It has been difficult maintaining my vigilant guard demeanor when my imminent study abroad adventure provides such rich day-dreaming material.
My next column is when the real adventures begin: Five nights in Paris, one night in the Loire Valley and then, if I don’t get lost, on to Pau.
Kendra’s column runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at k.kirk@cavalierdaily.com.
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