A Year in Purgatory
There was a brief but strange interlude, living in a hotel
for two months. Crammed into one large
room with a kitchenette. Not that there
was much in the way cooking that could be done under the circumstances. Poor Harry having to get used to going up and
down in an elevator.
Little available on the cable TV. The real estate shows and fixer, flipper
uppers were beginning to all blur together – same premise, same formula, same,
same, same.
There were up sides to it.
The weather throughout that September and October was spectacular. Each day still warm, each day sunny with clear,
blue skies. Perfect weather for air
flight.
The hotel breakfast bar was a nice feature and I was partial
to the scrambled eggs. I noticed that my
nails got stronger and grew faster.
Three evenings a week they had “happy hour,” which included
small, hot snacks. It was a diversion
and a reason to get out of the room for a little while.
There was also a small, very small “gym,” which I utilized
in order to get off my bottom and out of that room, too.
Lurking underneath the friendly smiles of the staff and
residents, though, there were sad stories at the hotel. “Our house burned down.” “I’m taking care of
my mother, she’s dying.” Even the
regulars, those that came for their jobs and stayed for a month or two at a
time, were sad. “Nice dog! I have a dog at home, I miss him.”
Finally, near the end of October, the denial arrived from
the Consulate and with that, ennui turned to panic. Start the appeal process or just wait and try
again? Well, you don’t get a lot of time
to mull it over, there are rules and regulations and time limits, so you better
hurry up and make up your mind.
One thing we knew for sure was we had to get out of that
room, that sad hotel. Panic is by far
more productive than ennui.
I hit the internet and made a list and then I whittled down
that list to those places that were “affordable” and allowed dogs of Harry’s
size and also offered short term leases.
After all, how long could the appeal process last?
Then I started making phone calls and I spoke to Jason in
Delaware. Yes, dogs are fine, yes, we
have short term leases and yes, we have a one bedroom available.
My husband, he of little faith, said “I have never seen
anyone get an apartment in one day.” And
I thought he knew me, but clearly, he does not.
We drove down, Harry in tow, we looked at two apartments and
decided on one. Leases signed. Done.
In one day. I hate to say “I told you so.”
The first of November was still
warm and sunny. The lovely maple tree
outside “our” door was bright yellow.
The rented furniture arrived right on time. Cable man did, too. We learned we were just a
block away from the community’s laundry, which, while close, was terribly
overpriced. The kitchen was adequate and
clean. The bathroom a disappointment, as
there was little in the way of water pressure and it took nearly 15 minutes for
the water to heat up to a comfortable temperature. The surrounding grounds were
green, hilly, covered in massive trees and very pretty.
Then winter set in, almost
immediately. The place leaked like the
proverbial sieve. Cold air was leaking
in through the kitchen cabinets and drawers, every window, the bathroom vanity,
everywhere.
We discovered the floors were
pitched. (What’s underneath us?) So, with time, everything creeped to the other
side of the room and we had to constantly pull back the rugs, the chairs, the
table.
Then the ants began to
appear. First in the bathroom then in
the kitchen. Literally hundreds of them.
(What’s underneath us?) We waged a mighty war against them. Some days were better than others but we were
rarely ant-free.
While we are not religious, we do
celebrate the holiday season. Like most
people, we were brought up with family traditions and we have settled on those
things that bring us pleasure and comfort.
We had none of those that December.
We had a string of lights in the window and a little twelve dollar table
top tree. The only music we had were the
TV channels. I wasn’t feeling up to
cooking anything, so we went out and got crab cakes.
It must have been in the stores,
at the malls, that we managed to get sick and caught some kind of flu. Being miserably sick in miserable conditions
was a special kind of torture but sleep came easily, often and lasted for long
periods of time.
How long can an appeal take? It can take six to nine months. Had we been psychic, we would have opted for
a year’s lease, but no clear answers were ever given to our questions. As winter dragged on, we had to decide what
to do once again.
This time, we opted for a year’s
lease, because the rents climbed sky high for each month less (short term) and
the penalty for breaking the lease was always the same – two months’ rent. Still ridiculous to pay one thousand dollars
a month for a tiny freezing box with ants and no water pressure.
The days, weeks, months became a
succession of sameness. Nothing to
do. Nowhere to go. People aren’t very friendly anymore, hardly
anyone even says “Hello” when you pass by.
We are isolated, bored and bleeding money.
The weather was frigid and often
there was ice on the streets. It was so
cold, every night I wrapped the heaviest throw around me and became a human
burrito.
We fell into a routine of
television watching, pacing shows out so we would have something to see each
evening. “NCIS,” “Bull,” the cheesy and ridiculous “The Affair,” “Poldark,”
“Better Call Saul.” Sometimes there
would be a Rick Steves travel show on, or Lydia’s cooking.
Grocery shopping became a special
occasion, particularly if it were to Costco or Trader Joe’s. Somewhere to go! Something to do!
We decided to renew our
passports, since the process was easy and they were coming down to their last
year.
At long last, after every stall,
every delay was used up, the court in Rome denied our appeal. Our attorney was chagrined and angry and at a
loss to explain why.
The question then was, when do we
chance reapplying for a visa? By this
time, it was spring, heading into summer, and the thought of spending another
winter under these circumstances was disheartening, to say the least.
Although I was terrified, we
decided to plow ahead. Now we were
experts, right? With trepidation, I made
an appointment with the Philadelphia Consulate.
It was nearly the very same date as our appointment in New York the year
before.
We got the paperwork
together. We collated the information
and placed the papers in color coordinated folders. I rewrote the “letter of intent” making sure
I said not a single word about Italian culture.
Instead, I spoke of Penne, the town where our house is, and how much we
missed it and the people there that we already knew. We kept it all simple and to the point.
Not knowing how long we would
wait at the Consulate, we opted to have Harry spend the night with the
veterinarian – we scheduled two nights, just in case – and got up early on a
lovely day in August to drive into Philadelphia. It only took thirty minutes. So we strolled around, taking in some sights,
until 9:00 am.
There were some people gathering
at the entrance, but not a huge crowd like in New York. One nice guard lady sat behind a reception
desk and had us sign in and gave us name stickers. Then up the elevator we went to the 10th
floor.
Unlike New York, with a dingy
office in a basement, the elevator opened to a wide hallway with marble floors
and enormous golden chandeliers. A large
window looking out over the city was to the right. We followed the signs to the visa office, to
the left, then right, then right again and at the end of the hall.
The room was surprisingly small,
but bright with daylight from two windows behind the glassed in counter with
space for two people to work. The
counters were wider than those in New York, so one could actually rest the
papers down rather than fumble with them.
There were only eight chairs and they were filling up, so I grabbed one
quickly, again not knowing if we would have to wait there for three hours.
One young man was behind the
counter – well dressed, good looking. He
was helping someone already but was done in less than five minutes.
Then I heard my name. I heard MY NAME!!! I nearly fainted. We went up to the counter and the young man
said, “How are you?”….uh, nervous, shaking, sweaty palms…….”Very good, and
you?”
He took the papers, discarded all
but one of the folders, but remarked, “Well, this all looks very good.” He said
that since we had decided to fly in October that we had “plenty of time” but
that “you will hear from us in about a week.” About a week?
About a week? Was he
kidding? NY took THREE MONTHS to get
back to us! “Yes, we will call
you.” Omigod. Call us.
On the phone. My heart.
We left nearly giddy that it was such
a different experience than our previous encounter at a Consulate. Shell shocked. We stopped at a deli for egg sandwiches,
suddenly feeling starved.
The week passed by with the usual
sameness. Then, sure enough, exactly
seven days after we had applied, the phone rang. It was “Roberto.” He said our visas were ready and we could come
pick them up.
Once again we got up bright and
early for the short drive to Philly. We
signed in and got our name stickers. The
visa office had a woman working that day. She was finishing up with someone and
motioned for us to approach. She found
our passports quickly and showed us the visas.
Well, hallelujah! I felt giddy
and afraid that I might cry. “Parlate Italiano?” “Io parlo ma non molto bene.” She smiled and said, “Big changes! Best of luck!”
At that point it seemed like
everything was suddenly happening at once and there was too much to do! We tried to give the furniture away, but the
only taker was an old guy several doors down.
He took most of it. We had to
work through the food that we had and not accumulate any more. Clean everything up. Pack bags. I had to contact Airborne Animals
and make the arrangements for Harry’s flight.
We had to sell the car. We had to
contact our realtor in Italy and make sure all was well.
We took Harry to the vet with the
necessary travel documents. The next day
a man came to pick him up and with that my great adventure began.
I worried myself sick about
Harry, I worried myself sick about flying, I worried myself sick about having
enough time to get through customs in Lisbon, I worried myself sick about what
questions they might ask me. I knew I
would not be able to sleep.
And then the day in October,
2018, came. We got to Newark way too
early and decided to catch a bite at an airport café. Terrible “grilled cheese” sandwich, grossly
overpriced and they were so ridiculously slow we began to fret about the line
forming for the international gates and had to complain to someone or we were
going to leave. Should have. Should have left, it was so awful.
The line was pretty long and the
guy in front of me had major body odor.
When I got to the point where there were two people to check documents,
I watched where he went first and I went the other way.
I had no second thoughts. I looked out the windows and said to myself,
“Goodbye, America. I may or may not be back.”
It was time to swallow my fear of flying and proceed on to the next
chapter. And thus, with a silent thought
and a glance, the year in purgatory came to a fitting end, one that was flitting
and mediocre, and ultimately unsatisfactory.
The flights and the entry to Italy were smooth. Perhaps an omen.
