Page 4: I'm Going To London...(and I'm not going to buy 'Heat' magazine...)

As part of the J1 Visa application process (translation for any Visa newbs, 'J1' means it's a cultural exchange and non-immigration) I had to go to the US Embassy in London.

The day started well. I came back from my sunny seaside Uni for the day optimistically only packing a cardigan and sunglasses. Crossing over the English border I was greeted with a helluvalota rain, which meant I had to steal a jumper from my sisters wardrobe (SORRY NIKKI!).

I walk/crawl down the stairs still half asleep, questioning why important things are always early morning things.

Mum: Are you Marilyn Monroe
Me:    Nah?
Mum: What's with the red lipstick?
Me:    Lipstain. Oh. I can't wear pink or I look like Barbie
Mum: You look like a hooker. They won't grant you a visa if they think you're a hooker! Hahaha!

She was joking (I think).

Anyway, after arriving at the Embassy and going through identity and appointment checks, airport-style security and paperchecks I was led down into a great hall. Which is much less Hogwarts than I hoped. Basically you sit around on blue plastic chairs (patriotic!) until your ticket number flashes up inviting you to an interview kiosk. It's like Argos, for people!

In the process of checking criminal records they took scans of my fingerprints twice. I've literally spent the past week only touching things if I need to and being terrified of my own journal for fear of papercuts (if your fingerprints aren't solid they can refuse you a visa...).
I'm a nineteen year old incapable of driving a dodgem, let alone a car and I jump at loud noises. Believe me, I am not a threat to State or President!

I'm lucky enough that I was sorted in about half an hour. I've heard stories of people spending all day there! In my interview I was asked by a chirpy American "Ah! You're going to camp? And then you want to come back to University afterwards? Good job! Visa approved!". I walked away, kind of bemused as after all the security and authority and general scariness that the interview was so short. I was expecting CSI style, locked rooms and tape recorders! I walked down the wrong exit.

"It's the other way darling!"
Said the black-armbanded security guard holding a gun.
Someone holding a loaded gun just called me darling.
Life is strange.



 

Page 3: "Wait, You're A Babysitter For 'The Parent Trap' Kids?"

Phyllis Ford                                                                     The Camp Counselor

University of Oregon

 

 

Somewhere between adolescence and adulthood there occurs in human development an age which is physically and psychologically impossible. It is that unfathomable stage known as the camp counselor, a creature undefined by psychologists, misunderstood by camp directors, worshipped by campers, either admired or doubted by parents, and unheard of by the rest of society.

A camp counselor is a rare combination of doctor, lawyer, Indian and chief. He is a competent child psychologist with his sophomore textbook as proof. He is an underpaid baby sitter with neither television nor refrigerator. He is a strict disciplinarian with a twinkle in his eye, a minister to all faiths with questions about his own. He is a referee, coach, teacher and advisor. He is the example of manhood in wornout tennis shoes, a sweatshirt two sizes too large and a hat two sizes too small. He is a humorist in a crisis, a doctor in an emergency, and a song leader, entertainer and play director. He is an idol with his head in a cloud of wood smoke and his feet in the mud. He is a comforter in a leaky tent on a cold night and a pal who has just loaned someone his last pair of dry socks. He is a teacher of the out-of-doors, knee-deep in poison ivy.

A counselor is expected to repair 10 years of damage to Tommy in 10 days, make Jerry into a man, rehabilitate Paul, allow John to be an individual and help Peter adjust to the group.

...So, basically