visa? like a mastercard, visa or a visa, visa?

Coming to you live from CMH, I am off!

This past week has been...busy.  I am a to-do-list-er and the n of things to get done before leaving on such a trip was a bit daunting.  When my list gets too unwieldy and there is a definite time crunch, the Warboard makes an appearance.  What is a Warboard you might ask?  My large dry erase board becomes a master to-do list of epic proportions.  It was covered last Sunday and I was proud to leave it as such on my way out the door today:

So now that I had finished up my last rotation at school, gorged myself (especially the entirety of lamb saag with Katelyn and Chris) at friend-dinners all week, qunituple-checked that my rank list was truly certified, worked on my research project, and generally set my life up to be gone for a month, it was finally time to pack and get going.

I, of course, started packing last night.  And by, "last night," I effectively mean this morning.  After crossing off a few last to-do's it was time to go.  My roommates, Ben and John, joined as we toured Columbus.  After swinging by the ATM (USD accepted apparently the world over), we headed to that beautiful little corner of the earth called Chipotle.  While the parking situation at Fifth and Northwest remains in a mire of inefficiency, they continually refuse to disappoint inside.  My request for a last meal was as delicious as ever: veggie bowl, white rice, pinto beans (yes, I know they are made with bacon even though I ordered a veggie bowl), no fajita veggies, pico and corn salsas, light sour cream, cheese, guacamole, and lettuce, no thanks just a cup for water please, credit.  From Chipotle is was on to....OH WAIT...my phone is making noise...my flight is delayed.

Due to a late-arriving aircraft we were off to a minor hiccup.  In my supremely conservative efforts as travel agent, this would only serve to shorten my five hour layover in Chicago.  It would also mean that I will be missing kickoff tonight.  No blood no foul.

The pre-departure journey about Ohio's capital continued over to Easton Town Center.  Perhaps this is the time and place to share that I am especially glad that Les Wexner and his buddies decided not to call it, "Easton Towne Center."  Anyway, we needed to stop at Dick's.  I, in my finite wisdom, had forgotten mosquito netting.  That situation was quickly mended and it was to the airport.

The other 2/3 of my residence dropped me off and we had a super manly, minimally emotional goodbye.  We did that one-armed man hug thing.

Now inside, I wandered over to check my luggage.  These ticket counter folks lead a rough life.  Their customers are either frustrated, inept, or unthankful.  Especially starting on such a profound trip, I tried to up the interpersonal empathy a little bit.  That minimal effort was maximally rewarded.  Leslie, the blonde-haired, glasses-wearing United employee now assisting me asked my final destination.  I stammered, "uh, um, Africa?"  Leslie ended up doing all she could to help me.  Effectively, United and Turkish are both part of the Star Alliance and so I was able to have my bag ticketed in Columbus for pick-up in Johannesburg.  Love it.  Also love simple niceties to your fellow man.

Because I am so delayed and because Columbus is sweet and has free Wi-Fi at the airport, why don't I share another little piece of my Angolan story so far...acquiring a visa.

That is me on the left and I am standing outside of the Angolan Embassy in Washington, D.C.  On that same Baltimore trip (hey Tim and Katie) that my flight craziness came to a head, Joe and I swung down to the District on our way back to Ohio.  I needed to be finger-printed and apply in person for my Visa.

So apparently, you are unable to simply knock on Angola's front door and be allowed in.  The process is actually pretty complicated.  I filled out an information form that was detailed (i.e. parental names and addresses specific).  This form was the fodder for a formal invitation letter from CEML.  Accompanying this letter, I also had bank statements, travel itineraries, and the like.

This situation gets entertainingly sticky when you consider that I am at the embassy.  In the instructions from CEML, they recommended working with the Houston consulate.  I did not heed this warning and so found myself in the very strict, very busy lion's den that is the embassy.  The Visa Section posted the following on their website: Mondays and Wednesdays from 9:30am to 1:00pm drop off days only.  So here, I am 400 miles from where I'm known, working with a four-hour window on a Monday morning.  

After navigating through the under-construction side of the embassy, I was finally admitted inside after knocking on the door in the picture.  I found myself in a small foyer facing a large, carpeted staircase, an office to the left, and a man on hands and knees laying tile to my immediate left.  Already a little flummoxed, the incredulously terse visa section staffer now calls me.  I am not allowed in the office and am to stand in the hall.  She takes about eight seconds, looking over my papers, and points out that my official invitation letter is addressed to the consulate in Houston.  Trying to understand and to be respectful, "isn't there something that you as the embassy can do over the authority of a consulate?"  "Nothing, you must leave now," came the response.

Whoa.

Thankfully, I was able to have her look over my other papers and assert that only this letter's incongruence was in error.  "OK, Joe, what do we do now?"  I instantly e-mailed my contact in Angola and somehow he replied within fifteen minutes that he could readdress the letter and send.  Joe and I headed over to the local Dunkin' Donuts to lay low while somebody opened Microsoft Word 7,000 miles away.  Know this about me: I LOVE DUNKIN' DONUTS.  Amidst this stress and really uncontrollable hullabaloo, I found inner peace with my bacon, egg, and cheese bagel and iced coffee.  Oh man, do I wish there were accessible DD's in Columbus.

It was then to a nearby FedEx Office to re-print my invitation letter.  Obviously, I parked in an illegal zone and more than 12" away from the curb and so had the philanthropic honor of contributing $50 to the Washington, D.C. coffers.  You can imagine my mood and general world view at this point.

Returning to the embassy, within that pesky time window, I was now third in line.  Biding my time, just trying to wait patiently, there were raised voices among my visa applicant brethren ahead.  All in all, they were skipped for a reason I do not understand and the reportedly finicky fingerprint machine was having troubles.  Somehow, someway it worked for me.  I left a return envelope that Monday and Joe and I drove back with me chronically pessimistic that I would undoubtedly have to return and something else would be awry.

I was literally overjoyed that Friday morning when, away in Memphis interviewing, I received the following pic from my roommate John:

Apparently, nothing can keep me from making this trip, I am on a mission from God.  That, my friends, was a stressful day.

Alrighty then, wish me luck, go 49'ers, and até logo.  I think I am going to hit up the B Concourse Columbus Brewing Company!