Monday, October 23, 2017

Final days of waiting...?

After our appointment on September 22nd, we were hoping to hear from the French within the following two weeks, the response time the French embassy's website claims for American passports.  We then spent some time with my family in Richmond, waiting each afternoon for a phone call from my in-laws saying our passports arrived at their house.  Two weeks passed, then three weeks.  Three and a half weeks in, I boldly called the embassy and asked about our situation.  The lady who answered the phone for "other departments" (which I called because, as you may remember, the visa section doesn't answer phones) was surprised we hadn't gotten a response, and after mentioning a computer crash possibly being the culprit, told me to send an "urgent" email to the visa section and she would ask about us.  I was to call her extension back after 2:30pm that day to find out what she learned.  I was elated with the hope of getting some real information.

While I was on the phone upstairs in my parents' house, my mom, Nico, Moisés, and Yanni gathered downstairs in a circle, holding hands, to pray for my phone call.  My mom prayed, then Nico, then at Moisés' turn, he prayed, "God let someone answer the phone, not just someone, but someone."  And as he repeated the sentence again, I had finished the call upstairs and ran in the room, not knowing his prayer, and hollered, "A nice lady answered the phone!!"  I was met with the most joyful laughter and jumping from everyone, feeling that Moisés' prayer was answered!

I called back at 2:30pm, and the nice lady told me that she spoke with "the man in the visa section" (the angry man?!) and he said they would answer an email, but would not give information over the phone.  They finally emailed back two days later at 4:42pm on Friday.
Dear Madam, 
your file is still being processed; the passports will be mailed back to you in the envelope you provided as soon as possible. 
Sincerely 
Embassy of France
Visa Section
I was so sad with this response.  My "urgent" email briefly shared the realities of our situation and how long we had been waiting.  I longed (and still long!) for any information about where we are in the process and why it has now taken double the projected processing time.

In the meantime, we let our travel health insurance (which the visa and l'Arche both require us to have) begin on October 6th, because we thought we'd hear from the French any day and get on over the ocean.  When I got that email response from the French last Friday, I was particularly sad because we were losing money each day on health insurance we weren't able to use in the US, and didn't know how soon we would be able use it.  I emailed the health insurance company my sob story on Friday evening, telling the straight truth and not embellishing a single thing in this sobbiest of sob stories, and asked if they could reimburse me for the policy since we couldn't use it and we were on an endless wait.  I said we would certainly purchase their insurance as soon as we know we're going, so they wouldn't lose a customer.  They responded at 8:38am this morning that they could fully reimburse us!!!  What a gift!  Their quick and helpful customer service is a light to me in these dark times!  So I recommend to you, Seven Corners, if you ever need it.

As of yesterday, we are now at Nico's parent's house in Northern Virginia, waiting each day for our passports to arrive in the mail.  His parents are leaving town for a couple weeks, starting Thursday, October 26th, so we will be holding down the fort as we ceremoniously watch the mail arrive each day between 3pm and 6pm!  I will record our findings daily on this page so you can join in our seemingly endless wait.

Monday, October 23rd
Nothing

Tuesday, October 24th
Nothing

Wednesday, October 25th
Nothing

Thursday, October 26th
Nothing

Friday, October 27th
Nothing

Saturday, October 28th
Nothing
Monday, October 30th
Nothing

Tuesday, October 31st
OUR VISAS HAVE ARRIVED: ONE FULL YEAR IN FRANCE ACCEPTED!!!!!!
Halloween 2017: For the Melas Blanton family culture, this day will be set aside to the Lord, for celebration!

Friday, October 13, 2017

Transitional Limbo

From from the last week of June to the middle of October, we've been in the longest transitional limbo of our lives!  What have we been doing, besides the legal documentation roller coaster?

Well, we've been staying positive.  We are so grateful for all the support we've received from so many family and friends.  We've had a pretty serious roller coaster ride, going up and up and up thinking the travel plans were falling into place, then hitting the surprise peak of a hill and drifting down and down and down to a low point on the track, where everything starts to look hopeful again, so we go up and up and... down and down and... over and over again...

I've written pretty detailed posts about a few places we visited, but the rest of our time (mid-July to now) has been a mix of visiting family and friends.  Here are some highlights!

We celebrated my cousin Ann marrying Gregg in Richmond, VA.
Congratulations again!!!
Photo credit: The Tuckers Photography.


We went to our 32nd (or so) annual "Blitchington, etc beach week" at
Sunset Beach, North Carolina.  Here are my parents with my boys.
Photo credit: Grann and Granddaddy


The Youngs joined us to the Smithsonian Zoo in Washington DC.
Here are some sweet people posed with a metal otter statue.
Photo credit: Grace Young.


Nico and his step brother found creative ways to
pass our time in Springfield, Virginia.
Video credit: Germán Perdomo


We got to celebrate Moisés' birthday with
my side of the family...
...and then again with Nico's family!  Abuelita
made some delicious birthday pancakes.


We celebrated with Matt and Hannah
at their wedding in Harrisonburg, Virginia.
Congratulations again!!!
Photo credit: Matt


We joined a small Harrisonburg crew to view the total solar eclipse!
Due West, South Carolina
Photo credit: Rachel Farrell


We visited Harrisonburg for a few weeks and
watched the rebuilding of Madison Street's bridge.
Photo credit: Rachel Farrell

We did arts and crafts!
Here are Moisés and Abuelita in Springfield, Virginia.


Nico got a sailing lesson from my mom, and then took me out for a spin!
Lake Gaston, North Carolina
Photo credit: Grann and Granddaddy


I've finally got some time to update this blog,
and it appears that it's mostly read by people I know...

Thursday, October 12, 2017

SNL skit or my real life?
Sketch 3: Letters from the French, more Tragedy from the Greeks

We've been through the wringer, as they say, in our adventure to obtain legal documentation to enter France, going to every length not to compromise our decision to only represent our marriage with a church certificate.  Ultimately, our story below and in the previous two "sketches" I wrote can be summed up as trying to put a square peg in a round hole, as far as the church certificate versus state license is concerned.  Nico has written an article explaining our inspiration for not obtaining the state marriage licence, such a common, normal document.

This blog post picks up from our separate experiences with the Greeks and the French, intertwining our experiences with each, chronologically.

The Greeks

Nico had a meeting in mid-June with the Greeks, shortly after the discouraging one I had joined him on, to turn in the final paperwork for his passport.  He brought up the topic of our our marriage certificate again, and they looked up the word "Mennonite" in Greek.  To their surprise there is a word for it, "Mennonitis", but they'd never heard of it.  Mr. Gatos said he would do some research to see if the government could accept a Mennonite marriage certificate and would let Nico know.

Because... who wouldn't want to go
to Greece for two months?
Image found in online search.
Nico called a week later to find out what the timeline would be for Mr. Gatos to give us more information, and was told that Mr. Gatos was on vacation in Greece... for the next two months... and no one had taken over his position while he was gone.  The receptionist gave Nico the first available appointment with Mr. Gatos, on September 6th (don't forget, this phone call was made at the end of June).

The French

We left the French embassy, and the most stressful appointment of our lives, the morning of July 12th, 2017.  The official embassy website claims that visa processing "takes around 2 weeks for US citizens", so we felt hopeful to get our visas in the mail soon-ish.  We had planned to go to Richmond for my cousin's wedding the following weekend, and then join my family on a trip out-of-town, so I had written Nico's parents' address on the pre-paid envelope that would return our paperwork.  My mother-in-law, Ana Maria, promised to call us as soon as anything came in the mail.

One week and two days later, on a Friday afternoon toward the end of July, Ana Maria called... our special-flat-rate-priority-mail-express-envelope had arrived at her house!  She opened it up to find our passports and a single sheet of paper.  She read the letter aloud in French, which she happens to speak.  As she read the first sentence, she trailed off... we had been denied!  A box was checked denoting why (translated from French): "You have not provided proof that you have sufficient resources to cover your expenses of any kind during your stay in France."

Right, we only had proof of full health insurance coverage, our own bank statements, a letter of full support from the l'Arche community, and as a formality, Nico's parents wrote us a letter of sponsorship to cover any unforeseen needs, with their proof of income attached.  How many financial resources is one required to have to live in France?  The website doesn't say, and when I wanted to ask for guidance before our appointment, I was blocked on all sides.


We were unable to move forward immediately because all our paperwork was in DC and we were still out-of-town with my family.  A week later, when we arrived back at Nico's childhood home in Northern Virginia, we immediately gathered the paperwork for an appeal.  Another family member gladly jumped in to help us as an additional sponsor and we mailed all the new info to the office in Nantes, France, which is called, "the Commission of Appeals against Decisions to Refuse Visas to enter France", but you know, CRRV for short.  We found the cheapest price of the speediest mailing options, a delivery method which promised to complete in 2 days, by August 3rd.  The timeline for a decision to be made on an appeal is two months if they grant it to you with an "express reply".  But if they deny your appeal, which they call an "implied decision", they don't ever bother to let you know.  So, we started waiting.

The Greeks

At some point in the whole mix, Germán (pronounced haer-MAN), Nico's step-father, shared with us that back in the day in South America, marriage was strictly a religious institution.  When the government wanted to start keeping track of marriages for legal purposes, the people just saw it as a legal "copy", if you will, of their own real, actual marriage certificates.  They continued to marry in the church, and if they needed it at some point, they would get a government record of their marriage.  This perspective was intriguing to me, and I thought I could come around to viewing our own situation as similar.  However, it was still important to me that our legal record would have the same date as our marriage certificate, not a new current date.

Nico felt like he was also willing to make the concession if the state would recognize the legitimacy of our church marriage.  He kept imagining a scenario where a Congolese couple entered the country as refugees.  When they get to the border and are asked if they're married, they say, "Yes!" and hand over any written proof (their marriage certificate in the front page of a bible or handwritten or whatever).  The American officials take it and translate it into their own legal language.  Nico felt that if the government could do that for us, he would be ok to move forward, though the whole thing was certainly a compromise we had to discern in community.

Nico did some research on the phone with the Vital Records office of Virginia, in Richmond.  A helpful man told him that it would be "no problem" to back date a marriage licence, especially in Harrisonburg and Rockingham County with all the Old Order Mennonites nearby.  We had to turn in any documents proving our case to the Harrisonburg city courthouse by the 3rd Wednesday of the month (August 16th) and they hold hearings for legal changes and updates a week later, on the 4th Wednesday (August 23rd).

If we obtained a state marriage licence, the Greeks could draw up their version of it, and it would be smooth sailing for us to get to France.  (And we still had hope for literal smooth sailing if we could catch a boat across the Atlantic in early September!)

The French

Two weeks and five days after we mailed away our visa appeal, we were back in Harrisonburg for our marriage license court appointment.  A letter arrived at our Downstream Project house.  It was an official-looking letter in French.  It could only be one thing: an appeal response!  The letter had arrived on August 22nd, but I didn't find it until the morning of August 23rd, no joke, the actual day of our court appearance for our marriage licence.  This was "hilarious" because if the French accepted our visa appeal, the marriage licence wouldn't be necessary.  Before we left for our hearing, I quickly typed the text of the letter into Google's translator and found the following message, written most politely:
I have the honor to acknowledge receipt of the appeal received on 03/08/2017 and to inform you that it has been registered under the number indicated above with reference. 
I would be grateful if you could send me a copy of your signed appeal before 04/09/2017.
And after a few more logistical notes, they ended with a flourish:
Please accept, Madam, the expression of my highest consideration.
Shoof, I wish the angry man at the French embassy would switch to writing letters from his little window, rather than bludgeoning applicants with spoken words.  Despite the letter having been saturated in high esteem and ultimate respect, I was confused about the text.  Were they really asking for me to send them a copy of something they were so proud to have just received?  Certainly they have copy machines in France.  Come on, throw me a bone!  Make a copy!  Or perhaps, they could lay out the visa appeal process somewhere on the website so I would know to send multiple copies.  Throughout the whole French visa application process, I found myself constantly saying, "If they would just tell me what to do, I would do it," and this was no exception.

The Greeks

The big day had arrived, August 23rd, and Nico and I dropped off our kids with the Farrells and found ourselves walking up the courthouse steps and finding our names on the digital screen next to the appropriate courtroom.  We sat on the hard wooden pews in the courtroom and waited through a list of cases that needed to be put on a schedule for later, then we were first on the list for the hearings.

We approached the bench and Nico respectfully explained our case.  The judge looked down at us from his tall, walled-in seat and sarcastically drug us through the mud, "So, are you saying you just got your friend to marry you in a backyard somewhere?  And you want me to do something about it?"

Here we are getting married by a friend
in a backyard on September 3rd of 2011.
And the truth is, we could certainly frame the situation as he suggested, though never with such animosity.  Ron Copeland, the ordained pastor that married us, is our friend, and the Muddy Bikes Garden listed as our wedding location was Tom and Margot's backyard.  But this was such a startling response to have from someone who had read the information that we turned in at the court, which consisted of a very formal letter from us and another from Ron, both notarized, and a copy of Ron's ordination certificate and of our marriage certificate.  Nico had crafted our letter, heartfelt and succinct, describing why we didn't have a marriage licence, why we were wanting one now, and why we were requesting the original date of six years ago.  It appeared that the judge had made up his mind that he wouldn't help us before we arrived and we had no chance.

The judge had been congenial in all conversations previous to ours, I know because I was watching to see what kind of mood he was in.  He kept repeating to us how he "couldn't rewrite history" as it wasn't his job, and after more verbal criticisms in a disdainful tone, we were dismissed.

But he wasn't asked to rewrite history.  We were married on September 3rd, 2011.  We were pretty shocked at this response since the manager on the phone at Vital Records in Richmond had thought this would be a simple process, and that we wouldn't be the first case they'd seen of this kind.

The French

Back at Nico's parents' house immediately after our court appointment at the end of August, I shared the text of the appeal response letter we had received in Harrisonburg with my mother-in-law, and emailed it to my French friend Emilie and to Elisabeth (pronounced without the "h" at the end) at l'Arche.  They all basically agreed that though it's perplexing, I should just send the CRRV another copy of the same thing I'd already sent.  Elisabeth offered some ideas as to why they had such a baffling request (translated from French):
assumption 1: the service that received the appeal did not forward it to the other service that requests confirmation signed receipt ... assumption 2 they lost the document ... assumption 3 they have the document but want to check the validity by asking you for the copy signed, and at the same time check your motivation
Ah, bureaucracy!  I decided to sneak around on the internet to see if I could find contact information for the CRRV.  After a bit of probing about, I found an email address and a phone number!  I emailed them a short simple message (Ana Maria helped me translate it to French, of course!), asking what exactly they needed and if we were expected to mail them our passports, which we felt pretty uneasy about.  Spoiler warning: They never answered my email.  Then Ana Maria, Nicolas, and I discussed the best time to call the office in France.  We decided to hit them at 10am French time, which calculated to a painful 4am our time.

The next morning, our alarms went off and we gathered, bleary-eyed, in the computer room where we laid out several documents for reference, and pulled up several more on the computer.  We dialed the number and the ring tone began, all of us now feeling fully awake as we waited for a response.  Well, the phone rang, and rang, and rang, andrangandrangandrang.  We let it ring for 10 minutes.  No live human or recorded voice ever answered.  Nico tried again a few more times, at half-hour intervals.  All we ever got was incessant ringing.

So, I did what I could.  I put together several documents, with an extra copy of everything, and mailed it away on August 25, set to arrive no later than the 28th.  To keep our options open, Nico suggested that I make new visa appointments for all three of us, me and the two boys, at the French embassy in case we needed them, since there is no cost to book or cancel appointments.  When I browsed the appointment calendar at the end of August, they had availability on Friday, September 22nd, so I grabbed up three spots, happily planning to cancel them later.

The Greeks

We were feeling pretty discouraged by the beginning of September, almost to the point of cancelling the Greek embassy appointment on the 6th, because, what could they really do for us at this point since we didn't have the state marriage licence?  I decided to put some stock in the appointment and dress the whole family up real nice.  I felt like there was so much red tape in the rules and regulations, but ultimately these organizations were made up of regular, thinking, feeling people.  And we were regular, thinking, feeling people, too.  Certainly when they saw us they would think we were such a nice family they would just accept our marriage certificate, right?  :)  Though it may be naive reasoning, it was at least fun to have the four of us together on an adventure on the metro into town.

We made our way to the tiny waiting room which was more crowded than the previous time I was there.  After waiting six or eight minutes, Mr. Gatos popped his head out from behind the locked door to call us in.  When he saw we had brought sweet, cute children along, he got a concerned look on his face and said, "Oh no, I think you better stay out here," and he only let Nico in.  So much for appealing to the human within the system!

The good news of the appointment was that, while on vacation in Greece, Mr. Gatos had gone to the appropriate Greek government office in person to ask if they could accept a "Mennonitis" marriage certificate!  Yay, we were so thankful!  The bad news of the appointment was that they would not accept it.  However, Mr. Gatos had an idea for Nico.  "All we would have to do" is get married in a Greek Orthodox church.  But what that translates to is: first we'd need to gather several pretty specific and unconventional documents in the US... and then we'd need to go all the way to Greece... and then Nico would need to get "chrismated" (aka, confirmed) in the Greek Orthodox church... and then they would marry us... and then the boys and I would officially be considered dependents of a Greek... and then we could go to France.  At the time, this was our best option, ha!  So we began to gather the documents.

The French

This photo progression shows how it feels
to be stuck at the French visa section.*

By the Monday before our Friday visa appointment, there was no hope in sight for the visa appeal, and gathering the documents for the Greeks appeared like it would take too long, though we would at least die trying.  Each document had several time-consuming bureaucratic steps, so it seemed wise to attend our second French visa appointment on Friday, September 22nd.  I mournfully began gathering and perfecting the necessary documents again.  I was thankful I could re-use some documents from the first appointment by amending the date.

Besides going through the work for another appointment, I was super sad to pay the application fee again.  It felt insulting to have to pay those people twice.  However, on Tuesday of the week of our appointment, Nico was offered a drywall and remodeling job from one of his parents' neighbors, and when all was said and done, the job paid for our appointment and a little extra!  This was a gift from God.

A few notable things about the second appointment were, yes, the angry man was working in window number two again.  And, yes, I got called to his window again.  I think he was having a good day because he was not as mean as the first time, though still rather unpleasant.  He typed in my passport number and said he remembered me, and I wasn't sure if that was good or bad.  I started my appointment this time by firmly saying that I wanted to apply for myself and my two sons.  He then asked me for three documents which were neither asked of me in the first appointment, nor had their absence been the reason for the rejection of our original application.  The three documents all had something to do with the father releasing the children to travel, and of course we didn't have them prepared.  There is no information on the website about what to prepare to apply for a minor, whether they're travelling with two parents or one.  The angry man said we could prepare the documents and bring them back if we could get there by noon, reminding us of the same time crunch we were given at the first appointment.  I should point out how nice it is that they allow us to leave and return when we don't have the documents that they don't tell us we need.  How much worse would it be if they didn't have this... helpful flexibility...?  We charged over to Nico's aunt's office, and she saved the day by allowing us to use her computer and printer, and then we rushed back to the French embassy to turn it all in.

When we left the embassy the second time that day, I happened to look through all the leftover documents to see what was taken during our appointment.  Mostly I just had extra copies of everything, then I found a seemingly important form that supposedly needs a stamp from the embassy before entering France, where it is to be turned in at the immigration office nearest to l'Arche.  Ana Maria and I went back and forth over whether this was necessary since it wasn't asked for.  We didn't want to take any chances and we weren't far from the embassy, so we rushed back, again.

The angry man acted like including the forms with our application wasn't a big deal, but said he would add it to my file.  So, either he's right or the website is, but unfortunately they're opposites.  Why hadn't it been taken?  Could they have rejected us for not having it?

The two month cut off to get a response from our appeal ended on October 3rd, so we can assume or "imply" at this point, October 12th, that for some unknown reason, our appeal was not granted.  Additionally, as of this writing, we have not yet heard back from the September 22nd appointment, so we're just sittin' on the edge of our seats...!

___________________________________________________

*So... we decided to wear these Old Order straw hats to the embassy.  Please, before you judge us for masquerading as Amish to gain favor by a foreign government, put yourselves in our shoes, as members of a religious minority making decisions that do not compute in a highly scrutinizing civil society.  We found it difficult to explain to government officials that we had a church marriage certificate rather than a state licence, when they didn't already have a box to put us in.  "Mennonite" means about as much to the average French person as "Pastafarianism", a comical parody religion from the 21st century.  This second visa appointment was our last chance to get to France, and after having been treated poorly by judges, ambassadors, secretaries, and telephone operators alike, we made this decision to try to give understanding to our cause.  Though we are Anabaptist, we are not Old Order and will likely never be, but we hoped that straw hats would at least give some frame of reference for our diplomat to see, even if it is a few big steps away from the Anabaptists we really are.  In retrospect, perhaps this was a bit of a stunt; God forgive us if our motives were false!

We didn't wear these hats while inside, but as Abuelita and the kids were waiting, they started playing with them to pass the time and took these wonderfully adorable photos.

Friday, July 21, 2017

SNL skit or my real life?
Sketch 2: The Visa Appointment

Our looming appointment date arrived: July 12th, 2017.  We were required to have separate appointment times for each person applying, whether they were an adult or a 1-year-old, and since no one answers phones or emails to tell me how long each appointment would be, I spaced them 30 minutes apart, hoping that Nico could take the first kid and I could take the other after I finished my own appointment.  Wondering if 30 minutes was enough time to complete one appointment and go to another in the strict French embassy environment was one of many little butterflies flappin' around in my stomach.

My mother-in-law dropped all four of us off at the drab, unfriendly front gate of the Ambassade de France.  We approached the window and handed over our appointment tickets for approval, and our licences as collateral for an entry pass.  After we filed through the metal detector, we were ushered up a street within the embassy to the cheerless 80's era building.  My butterflies sensed how close we were and started fluttering around even faster.

Actual posters of intimidation on
the walls of the French embassy.
Images found in online search.

Inside the building, the visa section was a room perhaps one third the size of the DMV, but otherwise just like it.  You know: rows of chairs and windows at the front, pull a number and watch for it to pop up on the digital screen.  There were huge posters on the wall advertising "3 years imprisonment and a € 300 000 fine" if you are caught "buying or carrying a counterfeit product" in France.  But how would I know if something I bought was counterfeit?  I decided I just wouldn't buy anything in France and dismissed the new butterflies that were trying to join the congregation in my stomach.

While we waited, we could hear everything everyone ahead of us was saying.  This was partly because the room was so small, and partly because there was thick glass between the applicants and the interviewers, so everyone had to yell their information through the tiny round grate in the middle of the window.  We heard the mumble of the interviewers' voices and then hollers of: "I'm a student!"  "Yes, I have family there!"  "Here is my plane ticket!"  "I plan to stay 8 months!"

The words of the interviewer in window number two were loud enough to be understood from the room, and he was apparently not having a good day.  His gruff voice interrogated rather than questioned and his scowl lines were permanent.  I sighed, certain I was bound for this man's window.  As my sweet children bopped up and down our isle and experimented with what would happen if they pushed the water cooler spigot down, I began to breathe slowly and meditate on the peace of Christ to prepare myself to be patient and kind.

There was a buzz and the digital red numbers on the screen changed.  Yep, my number to window two: the angry man.

I calmly picked up my documents and walked to his window.  "Why do you want to go to France?" he asked me sharply, as if annoyed at my very existence.  "My family and I are visiting a community in France," I began to tell him and the whole room behind me, not sure how specific he needed me to be.  He scowled and cut me off, "We have lots of communities in France.  What is this community?"  I started again, "It's called the Ark of Lanza del Vasto, they're a Christian monastic..."  He was already disinterested and asked for my documents.   I passed them to him through a slot in the window and took the break in his questions to ask one of my own.

The French embassy website lays out the process whereby someone can apply for a visa as the spouse of a French or European Union national, which includes almost as many documents as I had to gather to go as a regular American.  We did not go this route because we would need our church marriage certificate, the same document the Greeks had already refused, and we didn't want to risk being refused by the French since their visa required a steep application fee.  Not to mention, the Greeks had warned us that if we got a state marriage licence now, after the birth of both our boys, the government could not recognize our children as true sons of a Greek national.

However, a short time before that day's appointment, I had actually received a reply to the email I had sent to the embassy weeks before, asking a few questions to clarify the visa application process.  Having picked up in the text of my email that my husband was Greek, they ignored all questions and replied that an American spouse of a French or EU national could enter France without any paperwork, as long as they registered with the immigration office within three months of arrival.

As calmly as I could, I explained to the disgruntled man that I was married to a Greek and we wanted to know which of these two sources were correct.  He took my printed email and went to ask his manager.  When he returned, he pushed all my documents back through the window and told me that the information on my email was, in fact, correct, and washed his hands clean of me saying we only needed an official marriage certificate from the Greeks to send the immigration office in France.  The irony of this was that we already had difficulty acquiring exactly that document, which is what led us to apply for the French visa in the first place.

Balancing our two little buddies in the back of the room, Nico heard the whole thing.  He rushed up and asked the man if I and the boys could just apply as regular Americans anyway, which I was too nervous to have thought to say.  The man explained in a single curt sentence, obviously considering our well-being, that it would be more beneficial for us to go as family of an EU national, then turned his eyes away from us toward his computer to cut off communication and call the next number.  That was all.  Our turn was up.

We sheepishly sat back down in the long rows of seats.  As I organized my papers back into the briefcase, we discussed the situation in hushed voices.  I had booked this appointment two months ago and it had been the first available.  The security guards don't let people in without an appointment, so if we left we might not get back in for two more months.  It became clear to us that if we wanted to talk to the visa officers again and really stress applying as regular Americans, we had to do it today.  Nico suggested I get another number.  My butterflies had multiplied and were flying around so furiously that I was almost shaking as I reached for another number.  I don't know if anyone has ever gotten a second number at the French visa section, and I was sure that if the ambassadors thought someone might, it would have certainly been outlawed with a poster on the wall.

Nico and the kids exited the small visa section room to wait in the large entryway just outside, where they could be a little louder and move around a little more.  I sat and waited, praying and breathing slowly to attempt some sort of serenity.  The buzzer sounded and the numbers changed on the screen until I saw that mine was next.  Oh whose window will I get?!  BZZ.  I looked up and the dreaded window number two was flashing next to my ticket number again.

"NOO!" my butterflies wailed from within me, silent to the room around us.  I pasted on a calm face and as I stood up I made eye contact with the angry man.

"NOO!" the angry man wailed from within the window, not hiding his scorn from those waiting in the room.  He jumped up waving his hands to shoo me away, butterflies and all, and to further clarify hollered, "I'm done with you!  You will see the manager!"  He sat back down and quickly began pushing buttons on his computer.

Keeping my calm face, I also sat back down and sorted out my emotions.  Not the angry man but the manager?  Wonderful!!!  I would love to speak to the manager instead!  A couple more numbers buzzed through, giving me time to wonder if the manager would be nicer.  Did the manager train the angry man in interrogation skills?

Window number three's applicant finished and my number buzzed up.  My butterflies continued to fly around so frantically that I made a mental note about where the bathroom was and wondered if I should leave my documents behind in the window or try to gather them if I had to run.

The manager was the same person who had confirmed the information in the printed email I had given the angry man, so she already knew a bit of the situation.  Keeping myself composed, I explained that we wanted to apply as Americans even though my husband was Greek.  With a baffled look she shrugged and said, "I guess you can do that."  I was caught off guard by her nonchalant answer, having gotten used to the strict rules and curt responses of the French.  Quickly regaining myself, I started pulling out documents to give her before she could change her mind.

She took all the documents I provided for myself and the boys and gently asked some clarifying questions.  Her manner of communication, including actually listening to my responses, was a relief.  There was no more angry interrogation.  By the end of the interview I was surprised that I felt close to peaceful.

Necessary visa application item, listed as optional
on the official embassy website.  Don't affix the
stamp and mailing label before you turn it in!
They like to do it themselves.
Image found in online search.
Finally, with all the papers in order, she requested, "Give me your self-addressed envelope and I will then send you to my colleague to get your fingerprints and payment for the application."  The website said you could either pick up your passport in person or bring an envelope and they would mail the passport back to you.  My parents-in-law live very close, and since the required envelope was very specific and expensive, I thought we could easily just come back and pick up our passports.

"Oh no, we don't do that anymore.  You have to have an envelope," the manager told me flatly.  Boy, these people love to keep surprises up their sleeves!  I asked if I could go get one and bring it right back.  "Sure," she replied, "if you can get it here before noon."  It was about 10:45.

I gathered my things and went straight out to Nico in the lobby.  "They accepted the application!" I happily announced, then told him the news about the envelope.  I kept the kids since I wasn't sure if they needed to get their fingerprints scanned or not, while he called his mother to purchase an envelope before she returned to pick us up.

The manager's colleague turned out to be the angry man, who was now strangely indifferent to me, perhaps since I wasn't bothering him with a visa application.  Yanni was feeling like he wanted to be held while I was getting my fingerprints scanned, and the angry man suggested I put him down to use two hands to position my fingers just so, and then apologized that I had to put the baby down...!  At last, to make it all final, I handed him my payment hoping they wouldn't take my money for an application they already knew they were going to reject.

I walked the boys out to my mother-in-law's car and traded them for the fancy envelope.  When I returned to the angry man to pass off this missing piece to my otherwise complete application, he looked over everything to make sure it was ok, then turned to me and said, almost amiably, "Alright, you're free as a bird."  Or maybe a butterfly?  :)

Thursday, July 20, 2017

SNL skit or my real life?
Sketch 1: The French Embassy

If you read about our experience with the Greek embassy, you may already know that the boys and I were planning to go to France as dependents of a European Union citizen (Nico), but 5 months into the process of gathering all the necessary information and with only 3 months left until we hoped to leave the country, we had to shift gears quickly to apply for a visa at the French embassy to go to France as Americans.

Before we were certain the Greek route wouldn't work, I had done a bit of research on the French embassy's website about acquiring a "long-stay visa".  I read the general information section, the long-stay visa section, and the FAQ section, among a couple other articles on the website.  I accidentally discovered that each French embassy location in the US had it's own webpage of required documents to obtain a long-stay visa.  Each one was slightly different, which helped me because the other websites explained some of the requirements in more depth, but also confused me since other locations asked for more specific items than the office in DC.  I had a couple questions that weren't answered anywhere and I found nothing that mentioned what to prepare for a child visa.  So, naturally, I thought I would just call and ask them.

The glaring results of a
simple Google Search.
With a quick Google search, I easily found the phone number for the embassy office in Washington DC, which I'm sure all of the ambassadors would cringe to hear.  After a couple rings, an automated message greeted me in French and then in English.  I navigated through the labyrinth of options to get to the visa section, where another automated message began, "You have reached the visa section at the French embassy.  Due to high call volume, the staff at the visa section cannot answer your call."

The recording continued on about how to find their website, but I got stuck on those last words.  "What?" I thought, "Well if they don't answer the phone they will surely let me leave a message."  No, the recording ended and so did the phone call.  How is anyone supposed to get questions answered?

I went back to the FAQ section of their website where they had information on how to email them.  The rules for email communication with the visa section are very strict.  I had to include my name, date of birth, passport information, gender, and more at the beginning of the email or they would not answer me.  If any question I asked had anything to do with something already answered on the website, they would not answer the entire email.  I wrote up my questions, proofread the email 100 times, held my breath, and hit the send button.

Immediately an automatic email response appeared in my inbox.  Among various curt suggestions to several possible reasons I may have emailed them, my eyes locked in on one sentence in particular: "Due to a very high number of requests, please note that you may not receive any reply to your query."  These people need to hire more staff!  Couldn't they take it as a compliment that so many people want to visit their wonderful country and help us out?

Within the next week, Nico and I had a turn for a date in our weekly-rotating, childcare-sharing, date night.  I brought a notebook along on the date and after dinner we leaned in to do some serious brainstorming about how to get my questions answered.  We weren't interested in paying the French embassy $113 per person, including children, and risk a visa refusal without all our papers in order.  The FAQ section was very clear on the topic, "No.  There are no refunds for refused visas."  I can't help but imagine most of the answers in the FAQ section said with arms crossed and a scowl on the face.

The best idea from our date night brainstorm was that I would call the embassy and try to talk to a person, any person, about my questions without framing them as visa questions.  Pushing aside the reality that I'd rather bike up Massanutten mountain with square wheels than weasel around people to get answers, or bargain with merchants for cheaper prices or anything, the next day I took a deep breath and dialed the phone number, sitting with better posture than usual to represent how bold I would be.  The automated greeting began in French and I already knew to push "two" for English, which increased my confidence.  I listened carefully to all the options and chose zero for "other departments".

Without any time on hold, a real live woman answered in French right away!  Now was my chance.  "Bonjour, hello," I began, encouraging myself by deciding there was no way she could hear how fast my blood was rushing, "I was just interested in finding out some information on traveling in France..."  I had to stop talking because I was cut off by her curt, unwavering inquiry, "Are you calling about a visa question?"  She must've been the one who wrote the website!  I kicked myself for not getting a better intro sentence from my shrewd Peruvian husband.  My confidence deflated and all I could do was respond with a defeated, "Uh, yes."  She quickly retorted, "We do not answer visa questions over the phone."  Before I could throw any questions at her to see if she would accidentally answer one, she suggested I send them an email and gave me a different email address than I had already sent a message to.  I sheepishly thanked her and hung up the phone.

Back at the computer, I forwarded the message with my questions to the new email address and an automatic response instantly popped into my inbox.  Déjà vu!  The text was shorter for this automatic response than the previous one, but still very clear. "If your request concerns issues for visas for France, no answer will be given by e-mail."  Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, couldn't have guessed.

A week later I had no response from the French embassy in my inbox, and out of sheer desperation I thought I'd call again and attempt to convince them to at least give me two answers.  I pushed "zero" again since "other departments" are staffed with live human people.  A woman answered, perhaps the same one, and I explained that I'd emailed about visas and hadn't gotten a response in a week, how long would it take?  She told me very assuredly, as if it had been the case all along, that I could call the visa section between 2pm and 5pm to talk to someone.  I don't know if it was a trick to stop talking to me, but it worked for that moment.  I was hopeful to hear this news, albeit confused.  Had I never called between those hours?!  The next day I called the visa section within the appropriate time window expecting a new response, but the same old "due to high call volume we do not answer the phone" message was playing.  Wishing I had notarized the French woman's words, I called her extension again.

This is a real ad from the French Embassy website.
Will any of the 42.7 million euros go to hiring
email and phone agents in their US visa department??
"Bonjour, I was told I could call the visa section between 2pm and 5pm and they aren't answering the phone." I spoke into the mouthpiece more confidently this time than ever.  The woman responded, speaking very quickly in her French accent, "Yes, well, they don't do that anymore.  They're very busy right now.  Everyone is working on the election coming up this weekend.  You have to send them an email."  The conversation went nowhere, and I should mention that the French presidential election had completed a few weeks before this phone call.  Emmanuel Macron was already announced as president.  I didn't ever figure out if "the election coming up [that] weekend" was a some kind of post-election election or another ploy to get off the phone with me.

Nico and I decided we would just go ahead and do our best, trusting that if God wanted us to go to France then the French people wouldn't stop us.  The only thing left to do was rent a dolly to roll our entire file cabinet into the embassy office for our appointment, giving us the ability to pull out any extra documents at whim to deflect lurking ambushes to our application.  (Just kidding.)

Wednesday, July 19, 2017

Comedy and Tragedy at The Greek Embassy

A little while ago I shared the most updated information on our visa process with my mom and she burst out laughing and exclaimed, "You need to send this to Saturday Night Live!"  With more outlandish experiences since then, I thought it would be worth recording the saga.

It all begins at the end of 2016 when we began to look into how we'd get ourselves to France.  Americans can go for 3 months or less without any paperwork, but to go for a year we'd need a special visa.  We decided that Nico would apply for a Greek passport and the boys and I could enter France as the family of an European Union member, with a backup plan of any or all of us going as Americans.  Greece and France are both part of the Schengen Area, a group of European countries that signed an agreement in which they abolished border checks across boundaries between Schengen countries, and agreed to allow citizens of other Schengen countries to live and work without a visa.

Greek embassy in Washington DC.
Image found in online search.
In December 2016, with a warning from his brother that the entire Greek government is "one giant DMV", Nico called the Greek embassy in Washington DC to begin the process of acquiring his Greek passport.  The first step, we already knew, was to get his mandatory military service waived.  A year or so before, we had received a letter and a voicemail, both in solid Greek, requesting that Nico show up in Athens to serve his time.  (How did they get our address and phone number?!)  Luckily Nico's brother speaks fluent Greek, or else we'd have had to ask Daniel and Brian, the most scholarly of our neighborhood's New Testament Greek students, to apply their ancient written skills to our modern spoken phone message.  Ultimately we knew the bottom line was: no military service, no passport.

On the phone in December 2016, Nico spoke with Mr. Tsonis, who said that waiving military service was "no problem", Nico only needed to make an appointment at the embassy.  Nico asked what to bring to the appointment and Mr. Tsonis told him not to worry about it, that they would talk about it when he got there.  (But why couldn't they tell us on the phone?  It's all mystique to me!)

Not owning a car makes it more than a little effort for us to get 130 miles away to Washington DC, and Nico did quite a bit of organizing to get himself back and forth to all the meetings over the next six months at the Greek embassy.  Sometimes he could coordinate an appointment at the embassy with someone going to or fro the airport in DC, or sometimes he could find a ride on Zimrides, a ride-sharing website.  (It's all backseat to me!)

Nico caught a ride to DC to meet with the Greeks in mid-January 2017.  At the appointment, Mr. Tsonis welcomed Nico into his office and asked, "So, where's your family from?"  They spent the bulk of the time discussing Greek heritage, then at the very end of their meeting, Mr. Tsonis handed Nico a sheet of paper with a list of documents he needed to gather in order to prove he hadn't lived in Greece for the last 11 years.  (It's all "not from Crete" to me!)

Between the December phone call and January appointment, we were given a good feel of the slowness and inefficiency to come.  If the ambassador had mailed Nico that single sheet of paper, Nico could've prepared all the required documents and brought them in January.  Over the next eight months, Nico had many more appointments and each time they would tell him the next step, which often could've been completed in tandem with whichever step he had just finished.  On the bright side, everyone we met with was personable and very laid back.  They love an opportunity to talk about where their ancestors are from or what wonderful crops grow in Greece!  (It's all sugar beets to me!)

One of the hoops Nico had to jump involved calling Australia during their business hours, beginning at 10pm our time, to gain proof of his semester abroad in Melbourne during college.  First he needed to speak with the Australian Department of Immigration to request an official proof of entry into Australia, and second to the Greek embassy in Melbourne to acquire a proof of residency there.  In order to process his request, the Greek embassy in Australia needed a certified copy of his passport from the Greek embassy in the US, which meant another trip to DC, **sigh**.  The Greek embassy in Australia also needed "a relative or friend of [ours to] come to [their] office and pay the equivalent of Euros 50,00, which is the administrative fee for the certificate."  Since Nico's friends were other transient college students like himself, most of whom he's not in contact with anymore, this felt unachievable.  (It's all hide-and-seek to me!)  Thankfully, the email from the Australian Greek embassy went on to say, "In case it is not possible for someone to come on your behalf, let us know, so we will able to notify you the Consulate's Bank account."

Moisés and Yaya Besi watching TV
in October 2015
In May I opted to join Nico to DC for an appointment.  We had hope that his final step would be finished and we could shift to processing the boys and me.  I was excited to go because I love seeing how other cultures work and delight in noticing subtle differences here and there.

The embassy looked large from the outside, but inside opened to a tiny waiting room.  As Nico signed in with the clerk, Theodosis, I found a seat and looked around.  A television played romantic scenes of gorgeous tourist sites in Greece, and I could see into someone's office.  He was on YouTube, watching the same Greek news and talk show that Nico's grandmother watches every morning.  (It's all... Eek! I don't mean to be offbeat, but the show is all in Greek, which I don't speak.)

We were called in rather quickly and shown to Mr. Gatos, the ambassador who takes care of passports.  "Do you speak Greek?" he asked us and seemed discouraged that we didn't.  It turned out that his English wasn't very strong, but we were able to communicate fairly easily anyway.  Nico handed over his most recently gathered papers and Mr. Gatos, though he had a computer on his desk, pulled out several ledgers and leafed through until he found Nico's information.  He referenced a file cabinet and many books and ledgers while we were there.  (It's all antique to me!)

Nico's turn finished and we moved on to beginning the process to obtain Greek citizenship for the spouse and children.  "All we had to do" was produce our marriage license.  We found out in January that "all you have to do" is a phrase of false hope, which actually means "all you have to do that I can think of right now while I'm talking to you".  (It's all doublespeak to me!)

Guarding our hearts against any hope of procedural swiftness, Nico and I presented our church marriage certificate, an elegant document with handwritten calligraphy by our nomadic Christian friend Keshiah, and which Nico and I had signed together on the hottest wedding day that there ever has been.

"What is this?" the ambassador said with disdain in his thick Greek accent, pushing the document back at us.  Nico explained, "We're members of the Mennonite church.  We signed this document with our pastor and witnesses.  We even had it notarized."  Mr. Gatos kept staring at the page in front of him, probably noticing how beautiful it was.  I added, "The United States accepts this document for all legal processes; we use it for our taxes."  To explain that we wanted our marriage to be based in the church and not the state might have been a foreign concept to him; there is no separation of church and state in Greece.  All of a sudden, Mr. Gatos yelled in Greek.

Now, I worked in an office for a few years and I've seen how other white collars function in the US.  When you want to talk to someone, even when you're in the next cube over, you pick up your phone, dial their extension, and talk quietly and politely through the mouthpiece instead of peering over the fuzzy 4-foot wall, despite the reality that they could probably hear you if you spoke quietly and politely without the phone.  This is apparently not universal office etiquette.  Almost immediately after the shout, Theodosis appeared and Mr. Gatos handed him our certificate.

"What is this?" Theodosis said with disdain in his thick Greek accent, pushing the document back at us.  We explained again.  He took hold of our certificate and inspected it as the two men spoke briefly in Greek.  Then, Theodosis turned to us again and said in English, "No, you have to get a document from the government," and nonchalantly tossed our beautiful certificate onto the desk.  (It's all bleak to me!)

Outside the embassy, Nico and I wondered together if we should give up this route for entry to France or even begin to consider giving up our original conviction about the marriage license.  By choosing a church certificate instead of a state license, we knew that some things may eventually be hard for us.  This was a battle that we, along with others in our church congregation and even more folks throughout Anabaptist history, were willing to choose, as one way to practice living into our citizenship in God's kingdom.

"France in the United States", as they say.
French Embassy in Washington DC.
Image found in online search.
We realized that if the boys and I couldn't go to France as family of a Greek citizen, we'd have to shift gears quickly to begin the visa process as Americans.  Since we were child-free in DC, we decided to do some research about American visas to France at the French embassy, which we assumed wouldn't be too far away since we were on embassy row (but actually it's quite a distance between the two, especially if you accidentally go a slightly indirect route nearly doubling the journey...).

Now, why would we go in person to ask questions instead of simply call or email them??  Stay tuned for the next posts!  It turns out that blocking communication is a key element of humor for the French, who are very funny.

Monday, July 10, 2017

The (Very) Old Order Mennonites

**Out of respect for the community's desire to avoid publicity, I have used a fictitious name for the nearby town and any individual in this internet post.  I am happy to share more specific info in person.  Also, sorry this post is super long; the stories just shot out of my fingers!**

In the Summer of 2016, Nico went to Tillers International, a traditional skills and agricultural school in Kalamazoo, Michigan, to take a draft horse farming class.  In sharing his desire to live and farm petrol/electric-free, he learned of a plain group in Riverside, Kentucky that lived very primitively.  For example, Nico heard that they chose to use a horse-powered threshing machine, a huge 19th century implement, which effectively means they were growing grain without a combine.

Now to really understand what's going on here, you may need a minute of back story (I did!).  Nico got this crash course while at his class at Tillers.  Getting grain off the field is very challenging without fossil fuels.  A combine is a sizable modern machine that streamlines (or literally combines) three processes - reaping, threshing, and winnowing - right in the field, and is run at high RPMs which requires an internal combustion engine of some kind.  The advantage is that you can allow the grain to cure on the stalks in the field.  Before the combine came out, you had to cut the stalks down a week or so before they were cured, bind them into sheaves, and then lean the sheaves together in shocks to dry in the sun.  If you were late to cut the stalks down, the cured grain would mostly fall out of the grain heads and onto the ground as you were mowing it.  Amish and other old-fashioned farmers were hard-pressed not to incorporate the combine since it was such a labor-saving device.

A horse-drawn grain binder, "The King of the Harvest Field".
Image found in online search.
All that being said, it's very hard to find people or communities growing grain petrol/electric-free.  The grain binder, a predecessor to the combine, is the icon of the pre-modern times and is a dead-giveaway of a "technology holdout".  Nico still had hope to find someone knowledgeable about these obsolete techniques, especially since the grain binder was once such a common piece of farm equipment.  It can be still be maintenanced today, however, the canvas conveyor belt that feeds the cut hay into the binder needs to be specially made.

On the train back to Virginia after his class in Michigan, Nico struck up a conversation with an Amish couple and ended up talking late into the night on their shared 15 hour train ride.  Right away, Nico learned that this man was the owner of an Amish farm equipment manufacturing company, and having heard at Tillers that there are still Plain communities who stock the canvas conveyor belts, naturally, he brought up the grain binder.  Little did he know that the grain binder was such a line in the sand that separates the progressives from the holdouts.  The man said that some Amish still use grain binders, and he'd heard they still use such machines in Riverside, but that Nico was "asking about a tool from a bygone era".

Two horses walk around a horse power sweep.
Image found in online search.
Now, when you get told you're doing something "from a bygone era" by an Amish man, you may start to feel like you're headed in a bit of a problematic direction.  But if you know Nico, "no" is not a period, it's a comma.  Eventually Nico tracked down a video of 8 horses, bridled together around a carousel, called a "horse power sweep".  The horses were following each other in a circle to run a saw mill.  And if discovering that video wasn't thrilling enough, after some further research he learned that the particular group of Old Order Mennonites in the video were committed to living without petroleum, electricity, or the internal combustion engine.  What's more, they were based out of Riverside, that same small rural Kentucky town that was referenced at Tillers and by the Amish man on the train!

Months later, in October 2016 at a farming event led by Anne and Eric Nordell at Beech Grove Farm in Trout Run, Pennsylvania, Nico initiated a conversation with some Amish folks attending his same workshop.  He asked if they'd ever heard of the Old Order Mennonite community in Riverside, Kentucky.  One man at the conference said he did believe he knew someone within the requested community, but didn't have contact info on him at the moment, so he took down Nico's mailing address in pencil, on the torn off corner of a piece of old newspaper from his driver's van.  He stuck the note in his pocket and said he'd let Nico know when he found the address.  Not too promising.

Months later, in late Winter 2017, a letter arrived in the mail.  The Amish man from the conference answered his request!  The man wrote the shortest of short letters, greeting Nico and giving the mailing address for his contact in Riverside, who we'll call Abram.  Nico was glowingly delighted to now have in his possession, the contact information for someone in the only Old Order Mennonite community living fully petrol/electric-free in the United States.  Nico quickly wrote Abram a letter introducing himself and asking about the Riverside community.

More months later, in late Spring 2017, a letter arrived in the mail.  Abram answered Nico's letter!  They corresponded over the next several months.  Eventually Nico asked if we could visit their community.  Abram said we could visit, when would we come?  At that time we had a host of details to work out for our upcoming trip to France and an entire house to pack up, so it was our turn to take some time before responding to the letter.  We eventually made arrangements for July.

The group in Riverside is much larger, more spread out, and has been around quite a bit longer than Caneyville, the community we visited prior to Riverside.  Around 100 families live within a seven-mile radius, where each family runs their own farm and business.  The community came out of a leading from God to take a more radical stance on technology, by maintaining their traditional, pre-engine farming methods.

Finally, July had come, and we found ourselves in Kentucky.  As we drove through the countryside getting very close to the address Nico had written to and received letters from, we began to see row after perfect row of all types of vegetables.  Beautiful tomato plants, melons, squash and pumpkins, eggplant, onions, and tons of yellow peppers.  At the road's dead end, we found Abram's locally renowned market, just closing up for the day.  A large percentage of their market patrons are Bosnian, who had come to the US as refugees, and to whom yellow peppers are an important cuisine item.  Abram, probably in his late fifties, and his unmarried, adult sons were bustling about, making sure the shop was in order for the next day, and they were a lively bunch!  I was at first reminded of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, except there were only four brothers, and as far as I could tell, none of them were planning to cart off helpless maidens through the snowy mountain pass to be trapped, and eventually fall in love with the lonely, unsocialized men.  (Ugh, who decided that plot line is ok?!)

Abram's daughter and sons.
No, just kidding, her dress is not "plain"!
Image found in online search.
But seriously, these guys didn't seem lonely and did appear to be socialized, and they were nearly bouncing they were so excited.  They boisterously welcomed us into their home where their mother and sister had prepared a delicious dinner.  They had even bought ice cream for dessert, which I imagine was a pretty big deal for them to have in the dead of summer.  When everyone sat down to the meal, Abram guided the overflowing table to bow their heads to give thanks in silence.  In the midst of the hustle and bustle of excitement and arrival, the still silence washed over us as we felt the presence of the Spirit blessing and filling our hearts.

Abram and his wife had set up a similar schedule to what we had in Caneyville, but instead of a home base to return to each evening, we were to have lunch and dinner with a different family each day, then go to a new household to sleep each night and to join for breakfast the next day.  We were there Thursday dinner through Monday breakfast, and it was a whirlwind!  In that time we visited with upwards of 10 families, plus any folks that stopped in to meet the visitors from "society".  What irony that the Old Orders whirlwinded the fast-paced city folk with their slow-and-steady ways!

Between Caneyville and Riverside, I told our story a hundred times.  At some point I had a cultural realization that even though Nico had written them many letters, which were somewhat passed around each community, one single hard copy of a letter can't touch everyone.  Most people didn't know a thing about us.  This opened my eyes in two ways.  First, I couldn't believe their generosity and trust!  They really welcomed us into their sheltered company with great hospitality, especially not knowing who we were.  I didn't feel like there were any walls blocking our connections, though I know there are many things about us that they don't want influencing their community.

And second, though they're surrounded by the information age, they have done a remarkable job preventing it's influence.  I am a fish in the water of these modern times, and I sometimes don't even realize how I'm affected by the systems of the day.  If I had received an email (because it would more likely be an email than a letter) from someone that wanted to visit us, and I had organized folks in our community to host them, I could instantaneously forward the email to all the hosts at once, sharing who the new people were that our community had agreed to entertain.  This was not the case for them.  When I was in their company, I could tell our same story with the same words every time, over and over again, not having to embellish anything unless to amuse myself.  For some reason this second realization of experiencing how people function without modern communication systems was particularly striking to me.

Early on in our visit, we were introduced to Hannah, a ninety-something-year-old woman and the widow of the community's founder.  She shared with us that before they resolved to adopt stricter technology boundaries, her church took a stand against growing tobacco, a very cutting edge decision since this was before smoking was a proven health concern.  In addition, we assumed they had only tasted the internal combustion engine era and quickly rejected it, still skilled in their old ways, but Hannah told us she hadn't washed clothes by hand before they made the switch, and the group had to re-learn many things that had been lost over the several generations that tested the new technologies.  Nico asked her what it was like when she and her husband left the church they were in to start this new one with their spirit-led technology convictions.  She thought a minute and told us, basically, that it's just what they had to do.

Since we're interested in and have been transitioning to a lifestyle similar to their own, I really enjoyed seeing how these folks lived completely off-grid in every way.  In our own lives, we've yet to let go of the flush toilet (though we've made some valid attempts), washing machine, and hot water heater, so amidst my interest to see any and all systems they had, I was specifically interested in these three.  I was intrigued that each house had slightly different systems and enjoyed seeing all the options.  Some got their water from a spring and some from a cistern.  Some had pumps inside the house and some had regular sink spigots.  Some had showers and some only bathtubs.

Everyone had an outhouse.  A few were located within a closed porch but most were a few steps away from the house.  They were all pretty stinky, and I made a mental note that we needed to do some good research before relinquishing the flush toilet, to avoid nearly unbreathable conditions in the necessary.  Also, we've seen some ingenious latrine options in a couple communities east of Charlottesville in Louisa, Virginia.  Our overnight hosts offered us chamber pots for our bedrooms, a practice I only imagined in ancient history, but obviously still useful in this context, allowing us to not have to go outside in the middle of the night.

While we were in Riverside, life's realities found us needing to do laundry again, providing a hands-on learning experience!  We heard some folks had horse treadmills to run their washing machines (like the one we used in Caneyville), but the family we were staying with in Riverside when our laundry-washing needs hit, did not.  I was glad for this, to get to "study" under someone who had a lifetime experience of hand-washing clothes, with no alternative of an electric machine across the street... thanks, Wettigs!  :)

Washing machine - ringer on the left and stick on the right
to pull back and forth, swinging an agitator in the basin.
Image found in online search.
The family had added a room with a cement floor attached to the back of the log cabin they had inherited.  In this room was their wood cook stove, their washing station, and a bathtub surrounded by sheets hung as a privacy curtain.  When done with the bathtub and washing basin, we let the water drain right onto the floor, and the water flowed to the middle of the room were a drain took it out of the house.  Moisés and Yanni loved splashing on the flooded floor!  A daughter in her mid-twenties was still living at home and she offered to do my laundry for me, but I wanted to learn!  We filled a washing machine (see photo) with water from a hand pump and washed my clothes in three loads.  Moisés and Yanni caught the clothes as they came through the ringer to be gathered in a basket, then we hung them on the line outside to dry.  The ringer doesn't get nearly as much water out as the spin cycle on an electric machine, but I pushed away my doubt that the clothes would dry by dinner to trust that these people know what they're doing!  And it all worked out.  When we arrived at the home that was providing our overnight accommodations later that day, our dried and neatly folded clothes had already been delivered to the house!  That's hospitality!

Water was heated on the wood cook stove, where the "home fires" were always burning.  Many houses had one stove indoors for the winter and another outdoors for the summer.  The models they used were unlike ours at the Downstream Project, in the sense that they had huge fireboxes and the air intake could be shut down to almost nothing.  This allowed them to keep it running from dawn to dusk without burning through much wood.  A pot of water was always on the stove top, slowly heating on the gently smoldering fire, and they could easily rekindle the fire again to make the next meal.

Out of the many things I didn't expect, hot showers was near the top of the list.  I was pretty sure we'd have to forgo showers for baths, or at least do some real fancy footwork to make a functional shower if we eventually abandoned indoor plumbing one day.  In several houses we stayed in, they had a tank of water on the second floor that could be filled with hot water, with some cold mixed in to the desired temperature, hooked up to a gravity-fed shower on the floor below with decent water pressure.  Simple, cool!

Since Riverside is nearly 10 times larger than Caneyville, there was more age diversity.  In Caneyville every family we stayed with had young children, but in Riverside, though I'm sure there were many young families, most that we met had children in their teens and twenties.  After almost every meal we had, the parents would suggest to their pre-teen or teenage children to watch our kids so we could talk, that is, if their kids hadn't already offered.  By my own experiences, when I try to imagine a life where the women are raising a bushel of children, all while minding the home and family needs, without the use of modern technology, I just can't imagine how they do it without burning out.  Nico is sure that their ability to do all of this happily stems from their strong family unity and child-training traditions.  I learned that in this time-honored culture, older families send their pre-teens and teens around to help the younger families out, doing their every day home tasks and chores!  They don't just watch children so the mother can get some work done, they willingly wash dishes, make dinner, and do laundry for the mothers.  I was very interested and excited to hear this inside information of how the community takes care of itself.

Speaking of big families, an eye-saucer moment happened for me at lunch one day.  We had been invited to the home of a couple in their seventies.  As the wife was setting the table, she told me about her family.  "How many grandchildren do you have?" I inquired.  "67," she replied casually, "and 26 great-grandchildren."  I was not able to hide my astonishment and burst out, "Wow, 67 grandchildren!  Isn't that a lot?"  But logically, it's not!  If families all average eight kids, then they would also average 64 grandchildren and 512 great-grandchildren.  I had just never processed these numbers and it was hard to fathom.  That's nearly as many grandchildren as my entire grade level in elementary school, and more great-grandchildren than there were students in the entire building: kindergarten through fifth grade.

At one point during our visit, the schedule that Abram had set up for us needed a slight shift, which meant that we needed to cancel a pre-planned buggy ride transporting us between two locations.  In favor of face-to-face communication, members of the church in Riverside don't have telephones, so we couldn't call and tell the couple not to come.  I really appreciated seeing how this change in plans was worked out.  We felt bad because we thought it would be a huge burden to communicate this new message without the instant communication methods we're familiar with, but to them it wasn't a big deal, just a part of daily life.  The message had to be communicated in person, and because they had always lived telephone-free, they had several ideas how to deliver it.  We ended up simply stopping by their house and leaving a note on their front door because they weren't home... no big deal!

Nico shows Moisés how the water wheel works.
One of our overnight hosts happened to be the owner of the community's saw mill.  Though Riverside's saw mill had a horse power sweep, the majority of the year they ran the mill with a water wheel, engineered to run off a man-made pond (dug out with implements pulled by horses!) that overflowed through a tunnel under the mill.  It rained quite a bit while we visited the Caneyville and Riverside communities, which is unusual for the summer months, so the pond was unexpectedly full.  When we told the family who owned the mill how interested we were, they invited us to come down and see the water wheel in operation.

Nico and Moisés posing with the saw mill's
log tongs.  The tongs grasp the log, and
stay clamped on by the gravity of log's own
weight.  On a 4:1 block & tackle, it can then
be easily raised or lowered, or moved left
or right on a track above Nico's head.
On our way down to the mill, I asked the daughter of the family, "You live so close to the saw mill, isn't it loud?  Can you hear it from your house?"  She seemed surprised at the question and said that she'd never heard it from the house.  Arriving at the mill, no one was wearing earplugs, and Nico brought the volume level to my attention: only the moderate sound of a blade cutting wood, as when one saws by hand.  It turns out that the ear-splitting, high-pitched scream I think of with electric saws comes from the motor, not the wood being cut.

We were invited to join the Riverside community for their church service on Sunday morning.  Their congregation is so large that they have two meeting houses, which take turns hosting a service in English, very helpful for "seekers" like us, with the other service being in German.  I asked what to expect in the service and was told, "Well, it's a couple hours long... first we sing a song, then we have the first sermon, which is usually short, only about 30 minutes, then the second sermon.  Then we sing another song to close."  Nico hadn't asked what to expect, so he was surprised.  :)

On Sunday morning before the church service, we had breakfast with a couple who still had one daughter in her early twenties at home.  As I helped the mother-daughter duo clean up breakfast, the mother questioned my choice to wear earrings.  Throughout my time in Caneyville and Riverside, I had kept my hair in a low bun on the back of my head, feeling like this was the most respectable way to look since I don't wear a head covering.  Until Sunday morning's breakfast, I had never once given thought to my earrings.  By pulling my hair back, they showed more obviously... whoops!  I didn't have a good answer to this woman's inquiry, and I appreciated her boldness to have asked.  The mother assumed that people get their ears pierced for a showy appearance, as if to say, "Look at me!" and I'm sure there are some people for whom that's true, but it's not true for me.  I often forget about my earrings and hardly change them, so then why have them?  It was a great question, but since my brain takes a while to mull things over, I didn't have an answer until much later.  After we were already gone, I realized that wearing earrings is the same to me as the women in their community having different colored dresses.  It's not showy, but it is fun!

We arrived at the meeting house in two buggies, since our family plus our host family wouldn't all fit in one.  The men gathered in a circle on the right side of the building and the women on the left.  As each new person arrived, they walked around the appropriate circle to give "a holy kiss" to everyone in line, then take their place at the end of the line to welcome the next folks.  At the appointed time, the men and women each entered through a door on their side of the building and sat on their side of the meeting room.  There's a nursing room on the women's side where the mamas can still hear the sermon.  The opening song was in German and each syllable was sung loud and long and slow.

Children are expected to sit quietly throughout the service, of course.  Since we hadn't yet practiced this type of sitting still like the other children had, Nico gave Moisés a good pep talk before the service.  Inside Moisés could put his head in Nico's lap and Nico rubbed his back.  Nico reports that the men around them were very supportive and understanding of the attempt to have Moisés sit still in the service.  This experience of sitting still for so long was really stretching for Moisés, who eventually fell asleep and Nico laid him on a sweater on the floor.  Yanni, on the other hand, slept through the first half of the service, which was helpful!  When he woke up, I tried to nurse him as long as possible, but he was full of energy and wanted to bop around.  We went outside and stood with another mother and toddler until the service was over.

I was delighted to see a woman from Caneyville at the church service!  It was so pleasant to see a familiar face, though I'd only met her a few days before.  Her in-laws lived in Riverside, so she and her husband were in town for a visit.  I asked her if she felt awkward at the Riverside church since her head covering was different, and she replied with a friendly grin, "Yeah, but I don't look as oddball as you!"  I think that meant she was glad I was there, too.  :)

Read more about this
thought-provoking book.
On Sunday afternoon after lunch, many family members and friends of our host had come over to meet us and visit with each other for a bit.  By this point, I had grown accustomed to the natural, yet intentional-seeming splitting of women and men when we were in a large group.  This time the women were together in a circle of chairs indoors, and the men pulled some chairs outside to talk together in the yard.  I was asked if we'd ever read the book, Henry and the Great Society.  I'd never heard of it.  They gave a high recommendation for the short chapter book, and because they had plenty copies of the book around their community, they gave me a copy that was there in the house.

Toward the end of our visit, as Nico and I reflected on our time in this "bygone" community, he likened our presence there to the Superbowl.  We really felt like the entertainment of the season for them!  Everyone came out to see us!  We wore unusual clothing!  We talked quickly and loudly about things they agreed with, and probably some things they didn't!  One time Nico sang, "This little light of mine" Negro-spiritual-style, clapping and stomping along.  Afterward they told us, "We sing that song too, but not like that."

While we will learn many things about petrol/electric-free living during our apprenticeship in France, one thing they have compromised at l'Arche is grinding grain.  Even in their mother community, grain was ground with an electric motor.  Nico realized that being trained in the l'Arche bakery, which uses a modern, state-of-the-art mill, would require him to learn an alternative method of milling later and elsewhere.  He was excited to have direct connections to the wealth of knowledge in the Plain heritage, and particularly this Riverside group, only a couple states over from us in Kentucky.  (See a quote from Wendell Berry on how the Amish can teach an important lesson for our times.)

We hope to interweave what we learn from the wealth of knowledge and heritage at both l'Arche and the Riverside community.  While we were in Riverside, we got to see an 8-horse power sweep in action, grinding corn in a major agricultural feed mill, which not only ground the feed for their whole community, but also for farmers in the surrounding area.  The man giving us a tour at the feed mill told Nico that enough grain could be ground for a bakery with a one- or two-horse treadmill.  Yes, electric-free grain grinding is still happening!

Life is slower in the Old Order Mennonite community in Riverside, and I think they appreciated how interested we were in their way of life.  It seems like they don't often have people coming through that are enthusiastic about their lifestyle and have already begun a transition away from "the great society".  I imagine most people that come through either see them as a nuisance or a novelty, as Lucas Shrock-Hurst once coined about the Petrol-Free Jubilee bicycle tour.  We were so delighted and honored to have been welcomed into their circles, and we hope our paths cross again.