taking stock of logistical lessons I've learned.

anyone ever go back and re-read their blogs? I have been doing that a bit, trying to wrap my head around the monumental changes in my life since spring of 2008. I've no recent a-ha's to share, other than godDAMN a lot has been accomplished since then. It did strike me that I basically just said "I'm doing this" and leaped ... it doesn't appear that I ever seriously thought that I could not make it happen.

It occurred to me that I have a number of newer readers, some who are wishing and dreaming and even considering going about a move abroad ... maybe even to, gasp!, France! and maybe I might dredge up a few of the logistic-related posts I shared last year ... might be of interest, might be of assistance, might is right ... who knows? so here goes ...

On moving more than your suitcase ...

shipping saga begins

she downsizes

Shipping containers I used

Final selection of moving company

On moving live animals ...

louis and bruno oh my!

basics of preparing to move dogs to France

On getting a long-stay French visa and Carte de Sejour ... 

I followed these steps and it wasn't terrible! Please note I completed the process in San Francisco, one thing I learned via this blog is each French consulate in America has slight differences ... so I recommend you inquire with the French consulate nearest you (the internet is your friend!). and Yes, you must apply in person.

Applying for long term visa-SF Process

Once you have your visa and arrive in France, your Carte de Sejour is the next step. You must apply within 2 months from arrival in France. What follows is an excerpt from a post describing my visit to the Prefecture to initiate the CDS application:

We waited another 15 minutes or so to meet with the gentleman for the Carte de Séjour. Despite whatever scary claptrap I have read about how awful this process is (and perhaps it is not claptrap in other towns with more immigrants or other reasons, since we have seen a great deal of variation in the French processes ... even in the U.S. consulates), the process in Perigueux was smooth. The clerk spoke English and was very kind. I was extremely anxious about my passport and visa. After checking-in to the hotel, I had read more closely the slip of paper stapled in my Passport by the consulate. It indicates that one must have the police stamp your visa at the airport IMMEDIATELY upon arrival. My visa, although handed over in the airport, did not have any stamp. I had brought my ticket to prove when I entered.

Mr. Clerk was not at all surprised. "They don't seem to stamp Americans anymore." "Do I need a police stamp from somewhere else?" "No problem, just bring your ticket."

He was just a very easygoing person. They already have a sheet outlining all the items one needs for the CDS. Most of it I already had gathered and presented for the visa. One needs proof of resources/income, a doctor's visit (in France), Passport, Birth Certificate, Proof of residency, 3 Passport photos. I can return next week during regular hours and be helped.

Click HERE for another helpful link summarizing the Carte de Sejour application process, ... It covers EU and non-EU citizens.

So after I submitted the items I already had, my application commenced. I received a letter with an appointment for a medical exam and instructions on how to obtain 'timbres' (tax stamps) for the process. After a trip to Bordeaux for the doctor's visit and buying five 55 euro stamps, I returned to the Prefecture to complete my application. About 3 weeks later, I received my official Carte de Sejour (national identity card).

So, the most frequently asked logistical questions typically cover those areas ... moving, moving with dogs, and the visa/Carte de Sejour process...

Sometimes the devil is in the details ... so if there are questions out there, let'em rip!

J'Arrive!

After I sat down at the gate, and breathed a bit, I called my friend Marcus back. He had called around 5:30 am while I was in the midst of madness. I was amazed that he would arise at such an hour just to call me.

He said he was in the middle of texting me since he missed me on the phone. It was to be a text of vast proportions and meaning, an ode to fulfilling dreams and such.

As always, Marcus got me to laughing quickly … poor man had to listen to a Kim rant at such an ungodly hour. He was patient and kind… full of humor. It felt good to unburden myself of the last 3 hours and I hung up, thankful for such dear friendship and ready to board the plane to a new future.

I nervously peered out of my window, attempting to see the dogs getting loaded. I had let the flight attendant know I had dogs flying with me and she assured me she would bring the little cards to me as soon as she received them.

Soon, the announcement came that the airplane doors had been closed and yet I had not received a card. I summoned the attendant and she phoned “Operations”. Yes she confirmed, the dogs were on board.

I was disappointed that the orange cards hadn’t been delivered and we had to call. Another customer service let-down, a missed expectation. I gazed out the window and watched as a man drove some sort of automatic ladder thing up near the plane and climbed up to check on something. He descended and pulled away. Take-off was beginning.

I dropped asleep nearly immediately. I awoke as breakfast was being served. There, on the tray in front of me, lay two orange cards.

The attendant saw me awaken and approached.

“Those cards were handed to the pilot through the window after the doors closed. They wanted to make sure you had them.”

I smiled, my confidence in United restored. I retract my retraction of the Bomb Diggity.

The rest of the flight was uneventful. I confess I did try to picture what the dog compartment area looked like, and what they were doing down there. Barking? whining? sleeping? who knows.

I made my transfer in Dulles. Flying over Washington, D.C. surrounds, I was reminded of the beauty and diversity of our landscape. Too bad such a load of dunderheads were in charge … and most likely will be for the foreseeable future. God, what would the founding fathers think? they must be rolling around in their graves.

Not only did I score first class seats to France, I scored one of those massive planes where First Class means basically your own bedroom! I had a seat (more like a pod) that made into a bed … I needed instructions to figure out all of the various gadgets.

Dinner was tasty. Hors d’ouevres to dessert. I couldn’t begin to attempt the full breakfast. It amazed me how everyone could stuff themselves, sleep for 2-3 hours, wake up and do it again! wow.

I did the 2 cart shuffle again through Charles de Gaulle. I was told to collect my dogs ‘aprés baggage’. I loaded my luggage and exited, expecting to find them. I wandered around, finally going to an information booth. I was told I would have to go back past security and customs, the dogs would be over there!

Drat! I expected an American hassle. Picture what we put folks through to get back through International Customs, if you will. I expected some sort of security check, full body pat down or something. I stood outside of the automatic doors, waiting for them to open. I spied a group of guards collected just on the other side and caught the attention of one. I quickly explained the situation and she just waved me in with a smile. Wha’??? A SMILE??? yay France!

Ha. So I walked the entire Terminal 1 arrival area, looking high and low. Finally I spied an airport employee and asked her … and finally determined there was NO special doggy delivery area. I was pointed back to Baggage Area 6 and there my fellas sat, 2 crates loaded on cart … no one in sight. They began sniffling and whining once they knew it was me. They were absolutely fine, perfect in fact.

Two elevator rides later, I pushed-me/pulled-me our way to the rental car desk, gathered our keys, and did the 2 elevator shuffle back to our rental auto.

About 2 hours after landing, we were finally on our way.

I had promised Miss Mancha that I would phone her once we were en route. I turned on my mobile to find that the battery was dead. Boo! but in retrospect, it was still not the time to call her.

Friends and readers, I confess that for the first several hours, I was still having some sort of weird misgivings. I’m sure my passport experience didn’t help. Speeding through the countryside, navigating the well marked roadways and eyeing the landscape…my inner voices emerged.

Much of what I saw didn’t seem vastly different than where I had just departed. From the roadway, you see fields and businesses and community developments. A few signs.

Frequently placed l’aires (similar to our rest areas) and better planned service areas with stores, gas, restaurants all grouped together for an efficient pitstop.

Doubting Kim emerged: “What was I doing here? was this where I needed to be? or was it just some dream that was better as fantasy than reality? is the American way true … defer one’s dreams as a carrot to more and more work. They are never quite what they seemed in any event…”?

And then I decided, about an hour away, to get off the highway. I followed the signs toward my destination, watching the landscape change again and feeling my doubts and fears lift. I began to recognize the hills and villages that make the Dordogne the Dordogne.

Yep, there it was, the sign announcing I had entered the departement of the Dordogne. Almost immediately, I felt my excitement growing and general outlook improve. With each curve in the roadway, bucolic scenes presented themselves. More pictures and discussion on that topic will be saved for another post.

If I were a person who actually believed in such a thing, I would swear that I had lived here in another time or place. For every time I arrive, I feel as if I have come home.

I couldn’t stop and view my house on this day, as it was getting late and I was bone tired. But I could drive through the outskirts of the village. It was a warm afternoon and the town was filled with people lazing in the park by the river. Dressed for supper, couples walked hand in hand along the cliffs and caves. A girl in a canoe dawdled under the bridge.

Yes… this is the place for me. My adventure awaits me. My excitement, my contentment, my joy bubbled up inside of me.

Although I arrived at the hotel depleted of energy and much worse for the wear, I arrived GLAD to be here. I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

I skipped dinner, had a cup of tea and biscuit from my kind English hostess and collapsed into bed.

I slept through most of the fireworks (sorry, La Framericaine), awaking only briefly for the final big bangs and then went back to sleep … not awaking again until morning.

I awoke refreshed, exhilirated, and ready to see my new dwelling.

à la prochaine!

mon mésaventures.

well well well.

I am known for my misadventures. Try as I might to be all organized and shit, I always manage to have a few crises of the heartstopping sort. This trip was no exception.

The day of my departure, I managed to have my ATM/Debit card captured in an ATM. I was running around with my hair on fire cramming a week's worth of tasks into the last day (slight exaggeration). I ran out of money at the laundromat (yeah, that's right ... I was doing 5 loads of laundry the day I was to depart...) and of course they have no change machine and no money dispenser at the short-stop next door. So I jump in my car and run to the bank. I am at the ATM when my dogs have barking spasms. I am yelling at them from the ATM to BE QUIET, NO, BAD DOG...since a tweaker has appeared in a beat up pick-up and is egging them on from the next stall.

The machine is beeping ... my cash is in the dispenser. I grab it and run for the car. Race back to the laundromat so my stuff won't be piled in a damp steaming mess in a cart. Continue on with the chore at hand. As I am loading my car, my purse falls out and my wallet bursts open, sending credit cards flying under the car. Yes, it is true. I couldn't make ALL of this stuff up.

As I am crawling under my vehicle, it occurs to me that there is a card absent. Yes, THE most important card of the journey. My ATM/Debit card which accesses my checking account and funds for my journey and beyond. Yikes. I race through my bank experience. CRAP! I must have left my card! I immediately phone the bank and am told that, since my card is not from that bank, I will have to call MY bank and report it lost/stole and they will have to reissue me a card. WTF?! I immediately begin the wailing and gnashing of teeth. Accompanied by much supplication.

"You don't understand. I HAVE to have my card. I am leaving today for France. That card is essential. Please, there must be something you can do!"

"Oh my. Well, hold on".

My Irish maiden name should be Murphy instead of Fallon. See, I have this really weird luck. It fails me continuously and dangles me out over the edge of the cliff ... and then, just when I think I am going to have a nervous breakdown, it yanks me back up (not after having swung me for a loop de loop or two), snickers with delight and sets me back on my feet. You'll see. read on.

"Ms. Mancha?"

"Call me Kim."

"Really? I'm Kim, too!" lucky draw there! "Well, if you can have someone from your bank call and provide approval, we can release the card to you. Do you have a contact at your branch?"

I haven't been inside a bank branch in years.

"Uh. I'm at the laundromat, but yes I can do that. I'll call you back."

I race to throw the rest of my laundry in the car like a madwoman. I return to the house and start dialing for dollars. I had kept the name of a bank manager for our business account, and I dialed that branch. I've had accounts with my bank for over 20 years, but I've moved a lot and haven't been inside a branch in forever.

I get a helpful young man (my guy was at lunch) who offers to review everything and finally approves my request. I call back Kim, who takes the information and says she will call me back. Now so far, I'm in shock because you know how service employees can be. Your emergency is rarely theirs. But Banker Kim does return a call in about an hour and advises me I can come retrieve my card by 6:00 p.m. Are you kidding me? I immediately jump in my car and make my way there. We won't mention the fact that I have been wearing the same clothes the past 2 days as I slog my way through all of the crap I need to do. She probably thought "this chick is going to France??? she looks like she's homeless".

sigh. returning with my card in my hot little hands, I continue on with the final list of to do's, which includes cleaning my cabin stem to stern because I accepted a last minute booking for Sunday (the day after my departure). shakes head. About midnight, I brew a pot of coffee as I'm getting tired and have only just begun my journey.

I start loading the car. I drag 2 suitcases as big as me and hoist them into the car. I load 2 dog crates. I have the dog tote bag. A tote bag for all of my paperwork. A poster roll with a painting of my daughter's. and my getaway bag. Oops, don't forget 2 dogs and 2 leashes! I do a final stroll through the cabin and feel a little homesick already! (still battling strange emotions, what can I say?).

I am off at 2:00 a.m. It occurs to me that there better be a gas station open in this little po-dunk town. OMG! I left the fill-up for the departure not thinking about this minor detail. But I find one and guess what?! It is cracking busy with every stoner, tweaker and drunky! lol. But I get a full tank and I'm off.

It is a miracle I didn't drive off the road, I was so tired and fighting sleep every mile. Finally, I pulled into a McDonald's for a coke to try and wake up. It is a 2+ hour trip.

I drive to the top level of the parking structure to leave my car as agreed for my hero, Tom, who was handling getting it back to Seaside for me. At this point I realize I have to piss like a racehorse. (whaaa?? its TRUE!).

There are maybe 4 cars atop the structure. And a security car circling and circling. Eyeing me as I scramble to drag 2 bag carts to the car. You know how their wheels really only want you to go straight? try pushing 2 at the same time. At four in the morning. While you have to pee. Like a racehorse. So I unload the 2 suitcases, the 2 dog crates, the totes. And get the leashes on the 2 dogs and try and get them to pee on the asphalt where no previous doggy smells exist. Ain't happening. So I get them in the crates and then load everything precariously teetering and try to push these 2 carts simultaneously so nothing falls off. I start off with the 2 push method. I then switch to the 1 push, 1 pull method. Slightly more efficient. Did I mention that during this whole affair the security car disappears but a police car emerges? and parks about 3 car lengths from me and sits and watches all of this? grrr.

Somehow I manage to maneuver us into an elevator, off of an elevator, and through the terminal to the United First Class line. (yeah, I splurged and used extra miles. trust me, it saved my bacon on this trip). As I am called immediately and ahead of other queuers, I receive the to-be-expected glares from everyone in line. Tough shit, I think, I've paid dearly for this privilege.

As I am edging the carts up and digging for the folder of doggy passports, I have an immediate flash of a sickening realization. I left the carefully frozen doggy water bowls in my freezer in Seaside. I feel tears immediately well up. I'm a poor excuse for a dog mom. My dogs will die of dehydration in flight. They will shudder from fear AND THIRST. I rack my brain and realize there isn't a thing I can do. At 4 in the morning, nothing is open and even if it were ... there would be no portable doggy bowls that attach to the wire doors of a dog crate, let alone time for freezing water. I have failed my pets. There is naught to be done.

I begin the check-in process with the attendant, who is incredibly patient and helpful. She can tell by looking at me that I am already frazzled. She is smiling kindly at this ungodly hour. She sees that I am transporting dogs and doesn't bat an eyelash. She smiles as she verifies their information on the screen. She steps away for a moment and returns with FOUR DOG BOWLS EXACTLY LIKE THE ONES IN MY FREEZER!!! except for the frozen water. My eyes well up. She looks askance? I blubber that I was just agonizing over the fact my dogs would have no water because I left the bowls in the freezer and I was so worried and then here she was with the bowls! She just calmly smiled and said "we always provide them." She hands me some forms to fill out for each dog. Name? When last ate? drank? instructions? They will replenish water as I request! Then she hands me some orange perforated cards. At each step of the journey, I will be presented with one of these cards as confirmation that my dogs are safely stowed. United Airlines is the BOMB!

Then she tells me that it will just be a little extra time because someone is on their way to put some extra holes in the dogs crates. WHAT? She says that international requirements are that the crates are vented on all four sides, not just three as 100% of the crates for sale in pet stores are. She says it is a common problem. Here comes an equally nice woman with a special drill attachment to drill 3 holes the size of a quarter in the rear of each crate. Now, they could just say oh, sorry wrong crate. Or have had attitude for days regarding the inconvenience. But Oh No. United Airlines ROCKS the BOMB-diggity! After papering their crates with big orange stickers "Live Animals" and arrows pointing the right direction for "Up" and tagging them with multiple tags, we are ready to go to bag inspection. I rebuild the cart pyramids and push them slowly to the bag xray line. 3 people rush to beat me. When a fourth and fifth set try the same, I insist I can't keep letting everyone ahead of me. They glare. "Sucks to be you", I thought. At least I don't THINK I said it out loud.

I remove each dog, one at a time. The fellow empties each crate of dog bed, special liner, and t-shirt that smells like mom (at least I got THAT right). He swabs the inside and runs the tests. I am allowed to return the dogs to their crates. He tells me that's it. Someone is on their way for them. I give them a last little lovey-dovey and head for security. I have to stop and buy a big tote for my multiple little totes as they are being vigilant about the 2 bag rule. By now I feel like I've run a marathon. I feel sweaty and sticky and oh, by the way, I still have to PISS LIKE A RACEHORSE!!!!

I have everything reloaded into the new capacious tote bag, I have my security documents out and I decide I have enough time to dash into the women's room. That was my first mistake. As you may remember, I don't have a great track record with travelling and rest rooms. I head into the stall, lock the door, set down my tote and place my passport in its totally fashion-forward Kate Spade lime green leather holder on the toilet paper dispenser. As I'm doing this, I have a conscious recollection of my wallet experience that day long ago in France. I smile to myself and sit down to finally PISS LIKE A RACEHORSE. I am still hot, sweaty and sticky ... but finally I am relieved of this extra burden. I depart to go wash my hands. As I'm washing, I have ANOTHER conscious recollection that I have no recollection of picking up my passport. I rifle through my purse and confirm that yes, I am part of the living dead ... I run back to the stall and there is NO PASSPORT! I run back to my tote bag, emptying it. I empty my purse. I have an out of body experience wherein I observe myself in slow motion, beginning to have a breakdown. I see a restroom attendant and barely stammer out some gibberish ... "passport...stall...just a few seconds...gone!!! WHO DO I ASK????"

She looks at me as if I have 2 heads. "Why did you have your passport on the tissue paper dispenser??" I fight the urge to grab her by her scrawny neck and shake her like a rag doll. "Who??? Where??? HELP???" she shrugs and says,"ask one of those TSA People."

I squeak some sort of ungodly sound; likely one you've heard made just before cardiac arrest. I scramble out to the line just outside the door and beseech a woman on the other side of the railing to keep out unverified, unsearched, un-x-rayed individuals such as myself out. I repeat the same gibberish, feeling my temperature AND blood pressure rise.

"Can we page someone?"

"Call airport police." Points to the white phone.

I grab the phone and dial the code for paging. "The paging office opens at 7:00 a.m."

I slam down the phone and dial Lost & Found. "The lost and found office opens at 7:00 a.m."

I run to the head of the security line and ask the screener if anyone turned in a passport. in a lime green holder. He eyes me. "No, and even if someone tried, we wouldn't accept it."

"What would you do?"

"Send them to Lost & Found".

"But Lost & Found is CLOSED!"

"Call Airport Police."

There is no number on the white phones for Airport Police.Panicked, I see a security official walking through the terminal and I accost him. I incoherently tell him my story. He gives me all of the same advice all the other people have.

"But there is NO number for Airport Police. I'm flying to France in an hour. I have dogs that are already being loaded on the plane." At this point I am half crying, half hysterical. He writes a number on a scrap of paper.

"This is the number for Airport Police."

I dial the number on my cell phone. A woman answers. I recount my story. She sounds incredulous that I could have allowed this to happen. By now, in between each conversation I have had a steady stream of self-castigation going in my head. What kind of idiot, dumb ass who KNOWS HOW SHE IS could have let this happen!?!?

She gives me all of the same advice. I implore her to issue a page in the airport.

"But what would we page?"

"How about, has anyone found a LIME GREEN PASSPORT HOLDER WITH PASSPORT? If so, dial the white courtesy phone???" (Is it really that difficult???)

"We can't do that. Have you gone to the United desk? you should let them know not to load your dogs."

"I can't do that. I HAVE to have my passport back. I HAVE to get on that plane. You HAVE to do something."

"Hold on. I'm going to call our restroom supervisor."

"I already talked to the attendant. She didn't see it."

"Hold on. I'm calling."

Okay at this point, I am BEYOND in a panic. Of course, you know my passport contains my Visa. I'm sick. I keep thinking of the joke about "now don't lose it" that Randall Graves commented when he read I received my Visa.

"Ms. Mancha?"

"Yes", hopeful for good news.

"Restroom supervision hasn't received it yet. Do you have a phone number? Can you give it to me and I'll call you if we find anything."

"Okay." I give her the number, feeling sick and helpless. We hang up. I return to the white courtesy phone and dial paging. Miraculously, someone answers. An old-man sounding someone.

"I need you to do a page. I lost my passport and I need you to page to see if anyone has found it."

"We only page people. I can't do that. What would I say?"

I mean really. Isn't it obvious? "How about has anyone found a LIME GREEN PASSPORT HOLDER WITH PASSPORT? If so, dial the white courtesy phone??"

"I'll have to check with a supervisor. Please hold." Before I can protest, I hear music. My cell phone rings.

"Yes?"

"Ms. Mancha? TSA Security has informed me that someone has turned in your passport".

I begin sobbing loudly. "Ms. Mancha, are you okay?"

"Its just that...I'm sorry. I haven't been to bed and it has been a stressful morning (blurted between sobs) and I'm moving to France and I need that passport."

"Well calm down. Go ahead and go through TSA Screening and tell them the supervisor has your passport. Good Luck."

I hang up and turn towards the wall, crying...at least more quietly. I attempt to compose myself and get into line. I have no clue what time it is. Tears continue to flow but at least I'm not crying out loud, for crying out loud. I tell the gentleman about my passport. He asks, "Is that all your upset about? Is there anything else I can help with?" I now return to sobbing out loud. He seemed so genuinely nice. I shake my head. I go unload my tote bag and backpack and shoes and jewelry into all of the baskets and step through the magic machine. No beeping. I retrieve all of my stuff and approach the TSA Counter. There was a group of about 6 people having a meeting (what did I tell you, they are everywhere). Someone walks up on me quickly from behind. "Can I HELP you?", rather intimidatingly. I turn and they see my swollen eyes and wet cheeks. They back off a bit.

Upon hearing my story, they hand me my Lime Green treasure. I sign some papers. I return it to the locked compartment in my purse and trudge toward my gate. I collapse into a seat and exhale. I'm shaking. I'm physically and mentally exhausted, worn out, doubtful and discouraged.

And I haven't even boarded the plane.

Remind you of an I Love Lucy episode? me too. If only I could have done one of her "Waaaaa..aaa..ahhhhhhs", I probably would have felt better. I swear, if any of this would have been on camera, we'd have money in our pockets.

Next episode. J'Arrive.

Yes, there's more.