It’s all very well to say, ‘let’s move to America.’ But I really had absolutely no idea how seriously they take all this visa business. Perhaps I have lived a cocooned life but like most young Irish, I trotted around Europe during my student days and got casual work to see me through the summers. I pulled pints in British Pubs, cut corn in the south of France, (actually, the farmer called it castrating the maize, but that sounds a bit harsh.) I was a DJ and a water ski instructress in Crete and I did a spot of interpreting in the United Nations – yep that is more less the life of a typical third level Irish student. The thing is visas rarely came up. We were meant to have one in Greece but everybody ignored that.
America is a VERY different story. I had been on holidays in the States several times and of course that’s easy but trying to take up residence there is a lot more work. Thankfully my husband had a business there which had been up and running for a number of years. But no matter who you are, (unless of course you are American or perhaps you’re married to one) but other than that, if you want to take up residence in the States, you have to do ‘the interview.’
He went first and I did mine some time later (the kids don’t do interviews unless they are over fourteen – imagine trying to relocate a reluctant fifteen year old!) The whole process was actually a little nerve wrecking. I had to go to the US embassy, get through all their security stuff and then do an interview. Yes, I did feel a little like an international spy. What if I said the wrong thing like my great great gran was in the IRA or or I once gate crashed a party on an American Air Force Base (long story) but fortunately neither question came up...– fortunately neither of these questions came up so I was home and dry. The man stamped my forms and smiled. “That’s it?” I asked incredulously (almost blowing my cover) “That’s it,” he agreed quite obviously used to such idiotic questioning. “I have passed?” I tried to grasp that this was it, I actually had the visa. This time he just nodded clearly tiring of my particularly incredulous brand of stupidity. “The rest is just a formality,” he explained. “You have your visa. The family’s passports will be stamped and sent out to you in the post in the next few days. You should have them by the weekend.”
It was that simple to do and that difficult to digest. I went for a walk after the embassy to fully comprehend what had just happened. Up until this point, I think the move was merely notional. If we didn’t get the visas we weren’t going anywhere but now we had them there was nothing stopping us. We were really on our way. I had to sit down in Herbert Park.
What in tarnation had I started into?
