Did you really think this through?

I’ve hit the ripe old age of 29, have an empty journal I was just given for my birthday and am awaiting my second delayed flight of the day. So with this lethal concoction, I looked for a way to entertain myself that wouldn’t lead to problems with immigration. I started to write.

Since the wait for flight 1086 isn’t the least bit interesting, let’s backtrack a month or so, to the beginning of this ‘move to the other side of the world (via a few random places)’ thing. The 2 AAQs (always asked questions) were ‘why?’ and ‘why France?’

Official reasons: I wanted to live in Europe, but an Aussie in the UK is so cliché; With a grandmother conceived in the UK, but not having the decency to be born there, I needed somewhere I could get a visa and had a reasonable chance of learning some of the language – so the whole Nordic region was out. It was down to Germany and France, and when the countries’ wine production was taken into account, as well as my propensity to be late for almost everything, it was a no-contest. But were there some underlying reasons I was ignoring?

The first step, however, could well have been the last – get a visa. I carefully researched all required documentation, and dutifully took it to the consulate, or so I thought. I arrived early, went up to the counter and spoke to the official like I would any Aussie official- a quick hello, and then launched straight into why I was there. But apparently triplicates of every official document I’d ever received were not enough. The official disappeared, leaving me completely confused about what to do. When French etiquette 101 struck me like the proverbial lightening bolt: Flirt!

The official returned to find a very different girl awaiting his dashing good looks, dazzling wit and general omnipotence. Ah, mais oui, the missing documents required were only needed if I hadn’t provided enough other evidence, which, apparently now I had. Viva French bureaucracy!

Finally, the day arrived. With my eyes nearly falling out of their sockets from last night’s last hurrah, I found my cosy QANTAS seating entitlement. Then I got reflective – bad idea!

While I sat alone, leaving behind an easy, well-paid job, a great life and a man I loved more than I’d realised, for unemployment, homelessness and limited job prospects in a country where I knew nobody and not much of the language (fortunately this second realisation came later), I thought ‘What the *@$% have I done????’ So the only sensible thing to do was ball my eyes out. Next time you’re bored, I thought to myself, how about taking up art classes or getting a dog?

About 20 hours later, I arrived in my first destination of my long way to France – Vegas!
The good thing about having the attention span of a squirrel is that all those my life will fall to pieces’ thoughts disappeared with the first ching-ching of the pokies on my way to baggage claim. I’m in Vegas baby! What was that I said about curtailing spending once I left Oz?