GB to LA: A year in the land of the ‘free’.
Prologue.
I sit typing this; listening to music I discovered this time last year, wearing an oversized jumper that I thought would be redundant in the perpetual summertime that is the West Coast. The now ancient songs and gloomy day have ignited a recent urge to document by far the most interesting year of my life. This time 12 months ago, I landed in the City of Angels to be reunited with my girlfriend, now wife. All I’ve known for 25 years on this Earth, all that I’ve experienced, everyone I’ve ever loved, my past and how identify myself based on my upbringing, I left all this behind because my birds visa ran out.
I come from a large town called Doncaster, population of about 130,000, situated in South Yorkshire. Once a significant Roman town, we’re 30 miles North East of Sheffield and about the same distance East of Leeds. Yorkshire is the best place on Earth, and voted a number one tourist destination in Europe. I mean that’s probably avoiding where I’m from, but even if we brought down the average, we still got number one, so that says that the good parts are really good. But we do have castles and shit.
Doncaster, which I will from now on refer to as ‘Donny’, is a ‘cute’ place as my now wife liked to put it. I’ve never known anyone describe Donny as cute and I probably never will again.
My immediate family are more like my best friends, each one of them. My Dad and older Brother perfectly laid out how I should lead my life, myself taking aspects of their interactions with other people and forming an ideal life plan of earning respect for being honourable. They are two of the funniest people I have the pleasure of knowing. My Dad, convincing a Singapore hotel that he was Phil Collins and my Brothers’ ability to not miss a beat for a joke, or a well placed fart. It’s becoming apparent that my brother and I am slowly becoming our dad at an alarming rate. You should see our impressions of him, they’re spot on. If you know him you’d laugh.
My Mother and twin sister are two of the people I know most in my life. My Sister, I can say has been my oldest friend in the Universe and one of the realest people I know. And my mother, being a true best friend, confidant and exceptional matriarch, I miss her terribly every day. I also left behind a sister and soon to be brother in-law, with cumulatively three nephews. My Sisters’ kid being just two months old, when I jumped ship. They were my only way of it being socially acceptable to play with toys.
The people of Donny are a proud race, just like anyone is from any town they come from, but my bias means I think Donny is much more special than anywhere else in England. I mean it really is, it’s made me who I am today. Every day I’ve spent there I’ve learnt and changed and adapted and evolved as a person. It’s made me not afraid to have a scrap when the time comes; it’s made me more aware of the full cross section of society that I’ve encountered in this borough. Growing up surrounded by people who talk about which lads are ‘hard’ and who isn’t; at least it’s better than every other person having a gun. With all this comes some, if not the most down to Earth people I have the pleasure of knowing in my life. I’ve been to numerous places around the UK and world, and the people of the North of England will have any reason to talk to you in the pub. But then again, I have a massive bias and I’m sure your towns are chocked full of fantastic and shitty people.
An open plain of a town known for its coal industry, as the rest of Yorkshire and the North are known for, but also it is known for other reasons. FUN FACT, the fastest steam engines the Mallard and the Flying Scotsman were built in our town. How about that then! We also relish in having over 40 bars and restaurants within 5 minutes walking distance of each other in our town centre. The spectacle of seeing what the human body can endure on a Friday and Saturday night is, actually unbelievable. Those few facts are all that you really need to know, because there’s not much more to say and I’m not bothered about writing loads on my hometown.
The build-up.
I met my wife over two years ago, but we were speaking online for a bit of time before then. Our knowledge of each other was friends of friends and I accidently grew feelings for a woman that lived 9 hours away, by aeroplane. At the time of my chatting her up she was a semi androgynous specimen, sporting a short blonde bowl cut that she shaped into many things. Her plunging blue eyes perfectly complimented her button nose and pale freckled skin, which extended like leopard spots down her svelte arms and chest. I observed her for many months before initiating what would be our courting period. This literally began with me asking “So when are you going to be in my life then?”
Long story short, sending videos and Skyping for 5 hours a night for 3 months is a good way to get to know someone. Hurricane Sandy hit while she had been living in New York, and our plans of meeting were brought forward a month and a half. Our dreams of kissing on New Years Eve in New York Times Square now replaced with kissing on New Years Eve in original York Minster Square, or whatever it’s called. My girlfriend and I moved into my parents’ house, as they had more than enough room and it meant we could save for the inevitable move. Fast-forward to October 2013 and my wife needed to head back to the USA due to her visa running out and being caught up in our immigration system. Fair one.
Now came one of the most stressful times of my life, trying to get into one of the most loved and hated countries. You’d think it would have been easier to travel between the two most Westernised countries on Earth but alas, white privilege got me nowhere. The wrong visa advice from my ex-manager got myself denied on the first pass. I cannot describe the immense feeling of utter despair and disparagement that followed the ordeal.
I queued in the rain; to then enter another queue in the rain, ruining the first wear of my pristine, tan Loakes. All the while, stood underneath the intimidating looming concrete, cold war building that was the US Embassy. It’s vertical windows standing like an impassable glass and concrete forest, with smaller steel saplings and their razor wire leaves encompassing the perimeter. Literally on top of all this, a 10 metre wide giant gold eagle staring down at me, as if about to swoop down and grab the unworthy and feed them to it’s tiny freedom chicks. Ironically the building screamed oppression. But that’s my opinion. Electronic devices couldn’t be taken inside with you, so it turned out to be a very boring queue in a life that is now dependent on spare seconds devoted to fucking about on my handheld computer, that I can coincidentally text people on and sometimes make phone calls to my Mum.
Outside the embassy was stationed a protest for aid in Syria. Sheltered under a long, blue festival gazebo, sat numerous framed pictures of 12 hostages taken by the Assad regime, as well as showing pictures of 12 politicians responsible for the perpetuating atrocities going on in the country. I counted two without moustaches. What I assume was to be a large demonstration degraded into a wet cry for assistance by the time I got there. Two people manned the post, with the majority of the gazebo sides covered to protect from the rain. They urged passers by to assist in any way with the overall intention to raise awareness. Sadly they tried to aim their noble cause at a group of people who were begrudgingly stood out in the rain, queuing for a queue, going through one of the most stressful times in their lives. The result wasn’t too much interaction, in fact I noticed more people choosing to stare directly forward at nothing, than dare to look over in the direction of their cause.
Inside was a long thin room with its left wall being the front right of the building, light pouring through the other side of the industrial forest. I was finally allowed to sit but forced to stare at a giant screen made of smaller screens at the front of the room. This ‘jumbo-tron’ had been showcasing Public Service Announcements for each state in the US showing me why I should, for example, go to Maine. I’m sure Maine is great by the way. I can’t remember why, but if you have a PSA you must have something to shout about. All this time clutching a slither of paper that told me my number in the queue. I sailed through handing over my documents to a lower employee in the embassy, after waiting 45 minutes to be seen. I was tasked to get another passport photo taken, as having a piece of doorframe from my bedroom wasn’t kosher. Fiver down the pan for two bloody passport pictures. After this I then wait another hour and 15 minutes for my number to be called out for the second portion of the ordeal; the interview.
I approached and saw my worst nightmare embodied. Behind the glass perched a turkey vulture of a woman, with seemingly navy blue hair intertwined with silver evidence of aging, scraggily held up to reveal her surprisingly youthful looking neck. Black rimmed glasses held on for dear life on the end of her nose, which curved downwards trying desperately to touch her chin; which was in turn fighting gravity to meet its admirer. Her plumage resembled a short-sleeved navy dress with small white polka dots, matching perfectly with her salt and pepper hair. Topped off with a black lace shawl. Not too sure on the black and navy combo myself.
I handed over documents and answered questions, leaning into the glass with my right ear, struggling to hear her clucks over the bustle of hopes and dreams. The lights felt hot and bright, singling me out in a room full of people, I should have taken off my coat but I was stood in an open area, which felt more like a prison visit. I mean I assume, I’ve never personally visited anyone in prison, but y’know, films and that. She began to say “I’m sorry but…” and then the rest was a saddened blur. The feeling was likened to of having the first girl you love say that she doesn’t want to be with you anymore. That weird feeling in your chest where it seems as though your heart had a piece of string attached to it and it was being pulled down through your groin. My eyes escaped hers and she passed me a piece of paper with it telling me that I’m not eligible to resubmit unless one of the reasons why I had been denied changed. She didn’t tell me why I’d been denied though, just that it was based on my interview. So, obviously very constructive.
In a round about way, the two-sided paper told me that the only way I’d be able to resubmit myself is by waiting an amount of time. Online forums later told me that it would be about 6 months.
My ex-manager blamed me for her telling me to submit for the wrong type of visa, and with plans of spending that Christmas with my girlfriends parents in her native Idaho, the window of travel was closing. I made direct contact with the lawyer involved with my case on the other side of the pond. Coincidentally he was from the North of England! So Northern solidarity meant that he was fighting tooth and nail for me to get there. I collected examples of my modeling work for my work visa, showing I had what it takes to steal jobs from other Americans that were in the same industry as myself.
The purpose of my work visa was to work in the modeling/acting world, something which I’d been participating in for a few years, while juggling jobs as a marine engineer and most recently, a carpet fitter. Fitting flooring for my family business enabled me to have time off for castings and bookings, almost every one of them took place three and a half hours away in London. Luckily I managed to get all my travel money back on a tax rebate, so I just wasted time and not money. Swings and roundabouts, really.
So the process was boring and drawn out, with a lot of waiting and eventually I got all my papers in and spent an obscene amount of money, rebooking my flights twice. As I booked a flight for before Christmas, then changed it thinking I was going just after Christmas, and then changing it to the middle of January. So a chunk of my savings went to British Airways. I couldn’t get that back in a tax rebate sadly.
I received a confirmation and set a date to return to the embassy. High in spirits, the first trial run was but a distant nightmare and I returned to the stoic gaze of the golden eagle on a cold, grey morning. At least it wasn’t wet, and I didn’t wear my nice shoes again just in case.
This time it just felt right. I didn’t wait as long for my queue to a queue, and inside there were less people. Sadly there were no PSA’s for the states this time, just one small screen showing a children’s show with the large centre section devoted to showing the weather forecast. It’s not like I’ve just been stood outside in the real life weather, and I want to keep being reminded of how cold, annoyed and resenting I’ve just been for the last half an hour.
Along came the interview portion. Nerves were high and my heart was fluttering, I confidently strutted around the corner to my window and gazed upon someone who put my heart at ease. My window was manned by a young woman, mid twenties with shoulder length blonde hair in a centre parting. She had no visible roots, meaning she was either naturally that blonde, or she just stays on top of her roots. Upon her face sat a small pair of brown-rimmed glasses, and it dawned on me that I might have found the young, un-jaded version of the wench that I had the first time round. I’m sure the woman the first time round might have been a nice in real life, but she denied me so don’t blame me for habouring some resentment towards her, even if she had been justified in denying me. Stood behind the time traveller, was a Cher look-a-like circa 1990, so I don’t need to go on about what she looked like. It became immediately obvious to me that she was still training and the woman behind her was her trainer and the string attached to my heart went tight, with excitement.
She was close enough to be her ventriloquist and whispered commands into the young lady’s ear, which she relayed to me. The questions entailed potential work I’d be doing and have lined up, where I would staying and what are my relationships over there.
Eventually, and expectedly, she granted my entry. The edges of my mouth shot to their respected ears and I grinned as wide as someone who just got their visa approved.
But. I had only been granted ten months on my work visa, not the usual three years. It appeared that my previous denial meant that I had a big red cross against my name in their system. This meant I would have to work exceptionally hard to get enough viable work for resubmission, as well as forking over another massive chunk of cash to their government for a second time. By the way, it felt like I was bribing the US government, with the amount of money I was forced to hand over. Unreal.
So with all my preparations and packing, the day rolled round of my departure. My Mum and Dad drove me to Heathrow and the journey to the airport, gave me a taste of things to come in Los Angeles. The worst traffic I’ve ever experienced on the M1. From Sheffield to the M25, traffic was on and off and it dragged out one of the most saddest car rides of my life. Stopping for the toilet and food was a rush and we hated pulling off the motorway as we’d lost all the time we sat in the gridlock. Sadly you can’t piss in a bottle when your mum is in the back seat. Or dad is in the front. My parents insist on getting to the airport 3 hours before any international flight, and this was a godsend as I only made it through the check in with 45 minutes to spare.
The send off was one of the most emotional moments in my life. All the way down my Mother strained at the thought of me leaving, and I sat quietly and thought of nothing but leaving her. My Dad is a stereotype of indomitable emotion, but my Mother is where I get my emotions. We embraced with warm bodies for what felt like the last time ever, breathing in them both separately, storing their scent in my memories where they would have to stay for as long as my brain would allow it. What if something terrible happens when I’m on the other side of the world? Stupid stuff like that always makes you feel worse. I only notice how much taller I am then my parents when I hug them.
Trying to see them both through liquid veils was uncomfortable due to the physical pain I was feeling in the centre of my being. I stepped away, dragging the 70 kilograms of my life that I was allowed to bring with me in an old, green material suitcase and a hard bodied silver one to match; walking backwards, my mouth full of salted tears and saliva, not wanting to go into the airport where I might not see them drive away. Eventually they did, and I forced myself to turn around and take the next and most important moves in my life, trading one woman I love, for another.
