I tried to make my summer of 2014 as diverse as possible: I spent a month working as a kindergarten teacher, a month sunbathing at the dacha, and at the very end of the season, my mom and I took a couple of weeks to visit the rocky Crimea.
I greeted September happy, tanned, and rested. Perhaps everything happens for a reason. Perhaps it had to be this way.
On September 9, 2014, I turned 20. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, and parents—everyone decided that money would be a better gift for such a grown-up young lady than some useless things that would just gather dust on a shelf. So, after this important calendar date, a fairly solid sum was added to my hard-earned pennies from the kindergarten, and I thought that if I tightened my belt and saved on chocolate bars during the school year, my American dream could still come true in the summer of 2015. I decided not to tell my dad about my plans (he had already suffered enough), but I shared my intentions with my mom: she agreed to help financially. After some time, my grandmother was also let in on our secret, and thus we formed a small, secret, female family community that worked very smoothly right up until my trip to the States.
In early October 2015, my friend and I were walking through the streets of Minsk to the local office with the necessary package of documents for the program and excitedly making plans for the upcoming summer.
At the office on Maksim Tank Street, we were met by a friendly girl who immediately asked which universities we were students at. Since I was a student at a language university in Vitebsk at the time, and my friend had already participated in international exchange programs, we didn't have to take an English test—they took our word for it that we knew the language. We explained why we wanted to participate in the program, what we expected from it, and asked the friendly office worker 1001 questions—we received 1001 detailed answers and a couple of useful recommendations from her, reviewed the terms of the program participation agreement, signed it, paid the first installment at the bank that same day, and in the evening, we celebrated the first step toward success in one of the central coffee shops in Minsk.
Months flew by rapidly. We googled places we wanted to see in the States, looked for music festivals that were supposed to be held there during the summer—we planned, changed plans a thousand times, built new ones—we were completely absorbed by the upcoming adventures.
Finding Job Offers was not time-consuming or exhausting for us: friends who had been to the States many times through Work and Travel contacted their employer, who agreed to take us onto their team. "Baja Beach House Grill", Bethany Beach, Delaware, hello! We continued to march toward success. There was very little left to do.
In mid-March, with backpacks on our shoulders, we were riding the night bus Vitebsk-Moscow to take the final step on the way to the States—to get American visas. At 6 a.m., we were somewhere on the outskirts of the metropolis, and at 8 a.m., we were having breakfast in an empty diner near the Barrikadnaya metro station. We were terribly nervous. For the hundredth time, I was reciting to myself the 6 points of my rights from the American Pamphlet, and my Masha was scanning the list of approximate questions asked by consuls during the interview.
Believe me, even if you have perfect English and you know your rights in the States so well that if someone woke you up at night, you would rattle them off without a single stutter, you won't be able to hide from the trembling in your knees and the "twists" in your stomach before the interview—everyone goes through this.
At 9, we were shaking in front of the consulate doors, singing lines from The White Stripes – Seven Nation Army (this was a kind of anthem for our day): "I'm gonna fight 'em all. A seven nation army couldn't hold me back."
At 9:30, the guard let us inside. After passing through numerous windows, answering dozens of questions, and showing countless printouts of everything necessary and unnecessary to the consulate staff, we finally received the numbers of the windows where the US consuls were to interview us. Window number 3—me, number 4—Masha.
My line was moving faster; with every person leaving the consul, my heart beat faster and faster. And here it was, that decisive moment: I walked with a folder of documents to the right window, in my head—nothing but the already tiresome rights from the Pamphlet—if only I don't forget, if only I don't forget: "to be treated and paid fairly.." I approach. The woman in the window pays absolutely no attention to me, talks to a colleague, explaining something to her for a long time. I think about what might happen to me if I don't understand her English—oh my god! My knees are buckling. I gather my will into a fist and squeeze out a smile. Probably far from "American," but whatever I managed to portray at that moment. "Hallo!"..
The entire interview took less than 3 minutes and consisted of the simplest questions, like "What’s your name? Where are you from? Where do you study? What year are you doing at your school? Is it the last one? Why have you decided to go to the USA? How did you find your job? Do you know your duties? Have you already contacted your employer? How? Have you studied the Pamphlet? What will you do in case of the fire?" And that's it. That's it! Nothing supernatural. Nothing I wasn't prepared for. The last thing I heard from her was "well, now we need to stamp your DS, all right, and my signature – here we go", then—like in a fog. The level of endorphins in my blood started to skyrocket. It was all over! Everything was just beginning!
Masha also got her visa, which means we are going! WE! ARE GOING! TO THE STATES!
