October 2005: Sum up of the last episode:
August 17th, 2005
12 month work Visa: expired
Status of new 3-year work Visa (H1B) filled in April: unknown
Days remaining in the country: 60
60 days with no legal existence. An administrative overdue, a wandering soul. 60 days as non-being with a freshly signed lease lying on the shinny hardwood floor of a yet to be furnished apartment. What's an overdue to do? Unable to leave, forbidden to work, I opted for a two-month spree to get to know the city, get a job or get an eligible man (and not necessarily in that order, mind you.)
My nonexistent self and I, freed from the burden of having to behave like a responsible citizen, wandered from hip Manhattan to hipper Brooklyn, entering homes, dive bars and bling bling clubs unnoticed (only in this city you bump into George Clooney during a slumber party.) In the course of the summer alone, I participated in a bi-monthly reenactment of what December 31st at the Baron de Mord-moi-l'noeud must have looked like, back in the joyous days when France had Kings and people like me where fed to the pyre. The elaborate gibberish warning on the invitation "no sneakers, no jeans," once deciphered, read " in your face my Armani suit, I'm a banker." For study purposes only, I religiously attended the conveniently baptized "French Tuesdays" events, sipping special priced champagne in my yard-sale beat-up Gucci boots. Café St Bart's, Tavern on the Green, Battery Park Gardens, Boulevard… Alcohol probably helping, my fervent attendance paid off and I soon made new friends. Eager to find out more about them and especially in order to have something to do the rest of the week, I began to follow my ersatz of French community in its after-life –ie beyond Tuesdays.
It turned out that, like the succession of circles you get when you throw a stone in the water, everyone belonged to another "community." Wednesdays became Eastern Europe day. Every other Thursdays I partied with "Made in Italy," an itinerant group of Italian expat' getting seasick in the meatpacking district to the beat of electro-garage. The other "every-other Thursdays" was dedicated to a French version of "girls night out:" only women and free hard liquor cocktails allowed from 8-10 pm. Desperate guys come in at 10pm, confident that 80% of the work had already been done by Mr. Zubrowka. Friday was always filled with some type of "yes. I'm on Vero's list" event in a club or another, that a somewhat expired Press Pass always interestingly managed to back up. Then came Saturdays, with the orthodox Jews gathering in Central Park after Shabbat in hope to meet someone mom would finally approve of –if you're reading this and are interested in joining this group, avoid showing up in shorts and talking on your cell phone. I tried. On Sundays, I met with "Judios Latinos" the Latin Jews also meeting in Central Park, who discussed things I didn't get, and then translated them in several Spanish dialects. One Monday, in an everlasting quest to test my determination to remain in the country, I started to follow people outside of the relative safety net provided by organized social events.
- 22 year old chick clubbing in Chelsea in a tiny-mini skirt –belt?- and confiding everyone she is an industrial spy, check.
- 12 people naked at 2 am in a pool discussing the danger of golf cart driving in Putnam valley, check. (thanks for bringing back the bathing suit Anna…)
- Coke-heads sniffing their checking account using $50 bills in their Über West village penthouse, check.
- Pot heads sniffing beer on the roof of their rent-free squat in Brooklyn, check.
- Quebecois chum fluent in Breton (Brittany's ancestral language,) check.
- Quebecois chum fluent in Breton that blows up an air mattress with a Ziploc bag and a car ventilation but then doesn't want to sleep on it because of spiders, check.
- Plastic pearl necklaces and canoe day in an empty NJ summer camp on September 11, check.
- Karaoke night hosted by a 40 something transvestite in the middle of the projects in Brooklyn, check.
- Young cutie slightly hammered randomly throwing himself at me (who would have thought?) check.
- Handsome man totally sober and throwing himself at me… well, got to remember to check that one.
- Actually had to go to the E.R while E.R was on, stayed 4 hours, swallowed 2 pounds of pink pills, came back sicker than coming in, check.
Today, October 15, 2005, exhausted, dazed and yes, confused, NYC's tasting has come to an end: my H1B case has been approved!
What does that mean? It means than I am officially reborn. I can now theoretically come and go freely for the next 3 years. It also means, now that I no longer work for the company the visa was granted for, that I have 30 days left to find a job, transfer the papers, or get my dirty immigrant ass out of the country.
30 days? …Any one knows of a Hindu or a New Guinea group that meets on Mondays?
