The Farewell

Tonight was our farewell party. I waited for seven 0'clock and the first chime of the doorbell with the anticipation of a ten year-old at her birthday party. And when it was all over, I collapsed on the couch with the same exhaustion and exhilaration felt by that ten year-old when she stays up past her bedtime with her bestest of friends.
But before any of this was possible, my dad made the invitations, my mother prepared the food, and I made the guest list which, once complete, struck me as slightly odd. Forty-five would be the average age of the attendees. Including myself and Brandon, there were only four people under forty. Odd though it may be, the group gathered in my mother's kitchen made perfect sense to me.
This isn't to say that the people I shared with tonight are people I phone on the weekends or send Christmas cards to. We don't meet during the holidays or know each other's middle names. Others might assume we are mere acquaintances, but when faced with the prospect of saying Goodbye, these were the people I wanted to say Goodbye to in person.
They are the people whose faces appear before me when I think of my childhood, the years when the person I am today began to take shape. They are people whose doors have been open to me at one time or another, who have blessed my life with their loving acceptance. Some have been consistent coffee-mates. Some are unlikely kindred spirits. Some I consider an auntie, an uncle, a sister.
Together, they were the village that raised this child, and I honor them.

Fare thee well.

Immigration Lesson #74: Plan For Plans Not To Go As Planned

Well, you may notice that our countdown widget has disappeared.  That's because we are currently unaware of our departure date.

Finally, on August 29th, after six months of collecting, filling out, sending, receiving, and re-sending paperwork, I submitted our completed visa application pack.  This was the second step after being pre-approved for residency in New Zealand.  The weight that was lifted from my shoulders was almost tangible as I watched the friendly FedEx agent seal the envelope destined for London.  Then, not seventy-two hours later, we received an email from Immigration informing us that current processing times range from three weeks (for offer-of-employment applications) to six months (for non-offer-of-employment applications), and that we are somewhere in between.

So, after nearly two years of planning and Internet searching, we have been delayed by the hand of bureaucracy once again.  Needless to say, we aren't pleased.  Especially since we've already sold our condo and are technically homeless.  Of course we have loving family members and caring friends who have offered to put a roof over our heads, but that isn't the crux.

Imagine (as many of you can) living in a flat land stretching as far as the eye can see which is covered by ghost-white snow for eight months of the year.  Squeezed in a grip of death, trees become skeletal and most mammals must hide to survive.  Humans trudge through the dark depths of this cursed season, clenching their fists and muttering through frozen lips, "I hate this place."

Now, imagine a place where the white snow sparkles in the distance, capping the mountains, adding to their beauty, not the misery of the inhabitants.  Waves lap the shores year-round and green, all shades of it, dominate each and every season.  A place where soccer is only ever played outdoor, and where people do not tote a window scraper in the trunk of their car.

Imagine you are leaving the first place for the second, and you've said a triumphant "Good riddance!" to la saison de la mort.  You begin to feel the heat of the southern-hemisphere sunshine as the chill of winter is becoming but a memory.

Then, before you can fully immerse yourself in the closest thing to Paradise, Winter gives one last shriek, spins you around and prepares to blast you full force, one     last    time.

This is why we are most disappointed.  Also, because we know we will be asked once, twice, a dozen times by the same loving family and caring friends: "What happened?"  And each time we explain--the technical and not-so-technical aspects of the ordeal--we will have to brace ourselves against the prospect of another violent winter spent in this god-forsaken country.  For this, we are sad.

So, although our immigration is not an "if" but a "when," the not knowing exactly when is our greatest challenge.  Which brings us to Immigration Lesson #74 (yes, there have been that many): Plan For Plans Not To Go As Planned.