In 24 hours, we will be in the air, somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. After a day in Chicago, the pups have done well, it's been great to see my parents, my cousin Michael and family friends Harve and Sally. (I want to publicly apologize to Josh's Aunt Margaret and Uncle Jon, who are much much closer than we realized and had we known you were closer we would have planned to meet up! Hugs!)
I must admit it's all a bit surreal, though. How do you digest such a huge move in such a short time? I mean, on Thursday afternoon, we handed over the keys to our house in Chico. We dropped my car off at Josh's dad's house, said goodbye to his grandma, and headed down to meet up with his sister, who drove us to the San Francisco airport. (We actually booked a hotel there to catch a few hours' worth of sleep before a long travel day.) But upon waking up Friday, we headed to the airport, loaded the pups up, checked in our luggage and flew for 4 1/2 hours (after a two-hour delay) and, voila--we were in Chicago.
Tomorrow will be much of the same. We'll sleep in a bit, repack, say our goodbyes to my parents, who drove up from St. Louis to hang out and show us their old stomping grounds before our voyage, and the real journey will begin. We'll get to the airport, load up the pups and check in our luggage. Load on a loooong flight (8 1/2 hours). And when we get off we'll be in France. FRANCE!
Until then ... au revoir!
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Looking the part
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Les chiens
You would not believe the hoops we must jump through just to make sure the pups are able to come with us to France. We went through a small-scale version of the health-certificate process with Arthur and Oliver, who just had to travel to Missouri. The international challenges are much greater. The most difficult part of it is the majority of the paperwork must be done no more than 10 days before departure. So, it's left up to the last minute but there's nothing we can do about that.
For Arthur and Oliver, we took them to the vet 10 days before their flight. They had to have a health exam ($54 apiece) and then the vet issued a health certificate ($30-something apiece). Then we were sent on our way.
For Ichigo and Mr. Roboto, the process is a little different. We went to the franceintheus.org website this morning to ensure we had the most up-to-date information (we learned from experience getting our visas that requirements change often). I'm glad we did, because the forms I'd printed out months ago are now out-of-date. Luckily the requirements for microchips and rabies vaccines are the same, so we were all good on those fronts. Problem is, once at the vet (we called ahead to make sure we would get a USDA-accredited vet), she was unfamiliar with the new France pet-import form. We sat there for a good hour trying to figure it out together. The pups got their exams, their microchips were read, information was written on the certificates. But since the vet wasn't confident she'd understood everything, she asked us to come back after she'd had a chance to call the local USDA office, which oversees the import/export of animals and ultimately has to approve the certificates.
So, now we wait. Once we get the certificates, we'll have to overnight them to the USDA office in Sacramento, which will approve them and send them back to us--all in a week's time. Stay tuned!
For Arthur and Oliver, we took them to the vet 10 days before their flight. They had to have a health exam ($54 apiece) and then the vet issued a health certificate ($30-something apiece). Then we were sent on our way.
For Ichigo and Mr. Roboto, the process is a little different. We went to the franceintheus.org website this morning to ensure we had the most up-to-date information (we learned from experience getting our visas that requirements change often). I'm glad we did, because the forms I'd printed out months ago are now out-of-date. Luckily the requirements for microchips and rabies vaccines are the same, so we were all good on those fronts. Problem is, once at the vet (we called ahead to make sure we would get a USDA-accredited vet), she was unfamiliar with the new France pet-import form. We sat there for a good hour trying to figure it out together. The pups got their exams, their microchips were read, information was written on the certificates. But since the vet wasn't confident she'd understood everything, she asked us to come back after she'd had a chance to call the local USDA office, which oversees the import/export of animals and ultimately has to approve the certificates.
So, now we wait. Once we get the certificates, we'll have to overnight them to the USDA office in Sacramento, which will approve them and send them back to us--all in a week's time. Stay tuned!
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Sinking in
I cried last night. Long and hard. I think I'd been pushing so hard, going from one thing to the next so quickly that I really hadn't allowed myself time to let things sink in. Last Friday was my last day at work. There was little fanfare, as my going-away party had been held the week before and several of my co-workers were on vacation. No biggie--after all, I had a cover story to write. (See http://www.newsreview.com/chico/fighting-for-their-families/content?oid=5513249, my shameless plug.) The next day, however, I had to pack up and drive our two Boston terriers to San Francisco, board a plane and head to St. Louis. So, did I have time to mourn the loss of the best job I've ever had? In a word, no.
The trip to St. Louis was traumatic enough on its own. I rode to the airport (a 3 1/2-hour drive), listening to Tina Fey's Bossypants on audiobook, holding baby Oliver the majority of the way. I had my coffee, but couldn't bring myself to eat. When we got to the airport, I pulled in to short-term parking and thought I was all smart picking a spot by the elevator. Little did I know I was a good 15-minute walk to the United Airlines terminal. More than halfway there (after finding a luggage carrier, loading on the crates and my small duffel and grabbing the boys' leashes with my left hand) I realized I'd forgotten the bags of food that were supposed to be affixed to their crates in case of a disaster. Damn. We turned around, ditched the $5 luggage cart, and drove to the "F" terminal. I spied an abandoned cart and, upon parking again next to the elevator, snagged it, reloaded, and headed in the general direction of where I thought I had to go. After one tiny disaster (the crate on top of the pile fell over in the elevator), a very nice young man offered to push the cart while I led Arthur and Oliver through by far the strangest place they'd ever been. The man (I never even got his name) was so nice he endured several wrong turns and eventually dropped us where we needed to be, at a small office for United cargo. I paid the $400-some fee for the two dogs to fly, let them tape the dog-food bags to the crates, tried to allow the boys to pee in a concrete jungle outside and put them in their tiny dungeons.
Please know, we've prepared for this. Oliver has been crate-trained since birth. Arthur had had his for the past few months, to get used to the idea (and so he wouldn't be too nervous in this exact situation). Still, putting them in their crates and watching the man zip-tie them shut, I felt an overwhelming sense of doom. I was a horrible puppy-mother. Oliver looked at me with pleading eyes and cried, scratching at the door. There was nothing I could do. Arthur just cowered. I wasn't sure what was worse!
After signing the paperwork and watching them being taken away, there was little left for me to do but hope for the best. Every bump in the flight from SFO to STL, I thought of my babies underneath, scared beyond belief. At the other end, Oliver was delivered first. He was shaking in the back of the crate, but when he was let free he kissed me with wild abandon, as if to say, "Mommy! It's you! You saved me!" Arthur cowered and took a minute to readjust to freedom.
The short weekend went well and I was beyond glad for the opportunity to ease my Boston buddies into life at my parents' house. I know they'll love it. I know they'll have more fun in the back yard, in the dog run, in the large pool area, than they even expect. I know my parents will love them and they will be well-fed, cared for and played with.
But I won't be with them. I hope they don't feel abandoned. I hope they remember us when we pick them up at the end of our journey. I hope my parents don't fall so hopelessly in love they can't bear to part with them (a distinct possibility since they are, in fact, the most lovable puppies in the world).
So, last night I cried. I finally allowed myself a minute to stop from the go-go-go of the past few months and take stock of my emotional state and admit I was hurting. Don't get me wrong--I'm excited as hell to go to France. But with every new adventure comes a great deal of good things left behind. So I cried about my babies. And I cried about work (I loved my job). And I cried about the friends and family I'll be leaving behind.
Now I must concentrate on other things, but tribute had to be paid to the ones I love. Thanks, Mom and Dad--the fact you're taking care of our babies while we're gone means more than you know. I don't think I need to ask you to take pictures!
The trip to St. Louis was traumatic enough on its own. I rode to the airport (a 3 1/2-hour drive), listening to Tina Fey's Bossypants on audiobook, holding baby Oliver the majority of the way. I had my coffee, but couldn't bring myself to eat. When we got to the airport, I pulled in to short-term parking and thought I was all smart picking a spot by the elevator. Little did I know I was a good 15-minute walk to the United Airlines terminal. More than halfway there (after finding a luggage carrier, loading on the crates and my small duffel and grabbing the boys' leashes with my left hand) I realized I'd forgotten the bags of food that were supposed to be affixed to their crates in case of a disaster. Damn. We turned around, ditched the $5 luggage cart, and drove to the "F" terminal. I spied an abandoned cart and, upon parking again next to the elevator, snagged it, reloaded, and headed in the general direction of where I thought I had to go. After one tiny disaster (the crate on top of the pile fell over in the elevator), a very nice young man offered to push the cart while I led Arthur and Oliver through by far the strangest place they'd ever been. The man (I never even got his name) was so nice he endured several wrong turns and eventually dropped us where we needed to be, at a small office for United cargo. I paid the $400-some fee for the two dogs to fly, let them tape the dog-food bags to the crates, tried to allow the boys to pee in a concrete jungle outside and put them in their tiny dungeons.
Please know, we've prepared for this. Oliver has been crate-trained since birth. Arthur had had his for the past few months, to get used to the idea (and so he wouldn't be too nervous in this exact situation). Still, putting them in their crates and watching the man zip-tie them shut, I felt an overwhelming sense of doom. I was a horrible puppy-mother. Oliver looked at me with pleading eyes and cried, scratching at the door. There was nothing I could do. Arthur just cowered. I wasn't sure what was worse!
The short weekend went well and I was beyond glad for the opportunity to ease my Boston buddies into life at my parents' house. I know they'll love it. I know they'll have more fun in the back yard, in the dog run, in the large pool area, than they even expect. I know my parents will love them and they will be well-fed, cared for and played with.
But I won't be with them. I hope they don't feel abandoned. I hope they remember us when we pick them up at the end of our journey. I hope my parents don't fall so hopelessly in love they can't bear to part with them (a distinct possibility since they are, in fact, the most lovable puppies in the world).
So, last night I cried. I finally allowed myself a minute to stop from the go-go-go of the past few months and take stock of my emotional state and admit I was hurting. Don't get me wrong--I'm excited as hell to go to France. But with every new adventure comes a great deal of good things left behind. So I cried about my babies. And I cried about work (I loved my job). And I cried about the friends and family I'll be leaving behind.
Friday, March 9, 2012
The end (?)
My co-workers threw me--and Josh--a going-away party after work today. It felt seriously strange. I was sitting in a room filled with people who have dominated my weekdays (and more than a few weekends) for the past 5 1/2 years. People who have become like family to me. People I've sat in that same room with countless times, sharing good food, cheap drinks and true friendship. But this time was different. This time there was an Eiffel Tower in the corner and croissants on the table. And that can only mean one thing ...
Maybe next week it will hit me that I'm really leaving. Even listening to the speeches, while it started to sink in (and I got a tiny bit teary-eyed), I wasn't really ready to say goodbye. I have one week of work--and one major project--left. Then I can close the book on this chapter and look to the future.
To the News & Review: I've loved working for you. You gave me a voice when I had none, a sense of purpose when I was seeking one. You renewed my faith in journalism and my dedication to the path I've chosen. To all my colleagues there: May you feel the same! And may our paths cross again in the future. Much love.
Maybe next week it will hit me that I'm really leaving. Even listening to the speeches, while it started to sink in (and I got a tiny bit teary-eyed), I wasn't really ready to say goodbye. I have one week of work--and one major project--left. Then I can close the book on this chapter and look to the future.
To the News & Review: I've loved working for you. You gave me a voice when I had none, a sense of purpose when I was seeking one. You renewed my faith in journalism and my dedication to the path I've chosen. To all my colleagues there: May you feel the same! And may our paths cross again in the future. Much love.
Monday, March 5, 2012
The beginning
We're really doing this. No joke. A month from now we'll be in France. We've looked at the guide books, taken virtual tours and read several blogs trying to prepare for this adventure. But with each passing day the experience seems more real, more within our grasp. No amount of planning can truly prepare us for what lies ahead: it's the unknown. But that's part of the excitement, right?
Whenever I tell someone that Josh and I are moving ... to France ... I inevitably get asked a series of similar questions:
1. You're moving to Paris?!
2. Are you bringing the dogs?
3. Do you know French?
4. What are you going to do while Josh is in school?
Quick answers:
1. No, we're moving to Yssingeaux, a small town about an hour and a half southwest of Lyon.
2. Yes, we're bringing the pups but only two--the other two, the Bostons, are going to stay with my parents while we're gone. And no quarantine; we just have to follow a bunch of rules to make sure of that.
3. Sort of. Considering I took seven years of it in school, I know a good chunk of it is still swimming around in my brain--I just need to tap into it. Rosetta Stone has been helping. Josh, however, knows none. Luckily his school includes French classes.
4. I'm not entirely sure. I thought about teaching English, but getting a work visa is next to impossible. I could teach under the table but that would be kinda sneaky. I'll likely spend my time traipsing around the French countryside, reading, writing, helping around the house so Josh can concentrate on school, and generally soaking up the French culture. For as long as I possibly can. On the side I'll try my hand at some freelance writing and editing to pay the bills.
We still have a month before we leave but I had to start this blog. I hope someone out there reads it (hi Mom, hi Dad!). I'll leave you with a photo of the castle that houses ENSP, Ecole Nationale Superieure de la Patisserie, courtesy of the school website. More on that to come.
Whenever I tell someone that Josh and I are moving ... to France ... I inevitably get asked a series of similar questions:
1. You're moving to Paris?!
2. Are you bringing the dogs?
3. Do you know French?
4. What are you going to do while Josh is in school?
Quick answers:
1. No, we're moving to Yssingeaux, a small town about an hour and a half southwest of Lyon.
2. Yes, we're bringing the pups but only two--the other two, the Bostons, are going to stay with my parents while we're gone. And no quarantine; we just have to follow a bunch of rules to make sure of that.
3. Sort of. Considering I took seven years of it in school, I know a good chunk of it is still swimming around in my brain--I just need to tap into it. Rosetta Stone has been helping. Josh, however, knows none. Luckily his school includes French classes.
4. I'm not entirely sure. I thought about teaching English, but getting a work visa is next to impossible. I could teach under the table but that would be kinda sneaky. I'll likely spend my time traipsing around the French countryside, reading, writing, helping around the house so Josh can concentrate on school, and generally soaking up the French culture. For as long as I possibly can. On the side I'll try my hand at some freelance writing and editing to pay the bills.
We still have a month before we leave but I had to start this blog. I hope someone out there reads it (hi Mom, hi Dad!). I'll leave you with a photo of the castle that houses ENSP, Ecole Nationale Superieure de la Patisserie, courtesy of the school website. More on that to come.
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