The roadtrip, the Doctor and the visa.

So heading back a while to September, the Doctor was true to his word and drove me to Toronto, in his very cool car, via Niagara Falls, to renew my visa.



This could have been a wild story of all sorts of happenings but it was actually a little disappointing, not least because I was turned down at the consulate for a six month visa to stay in the US. In fact the arsey lady at the desk told me I couldn’t even return to NYC to take my already booked flight home. Bitch.

I think the fact that I was so sure I was going to get it made the ‘no’ so….. mean. I queued for hours with what seemed to be a bunch of non English speaking people who all left with big smiles on their faces- waving new visas.

The Doctor- who was actually a nurse, was waiting for me outside. He did a good job of making me feel better by cursing the horrible bitch who’d said no, demanding a proper reason why America didn’t want such a lovely British girl for an extra 6 months etc.  I drank tea in Starbucks and cried.

We decided to fuck her and try and get back through immigration at the border the next morning,  so I could get back to NY to catch my flight home at the weekend. Meanwhile we were going to enjoy what Toronto had to offer, which meant shopping and eating and laughing at The Canadians.

We’d spent the night before sharing the same bed in a totally characterless hotel outside the city. Not my choice but I wasn’t paying so I wasn’t about to start complaining. The Doctor had been the perfect gentleman but I wasn’t sure  that was going to last another night.

It wasn’t that I didn’t find him attractive but it also wasn’t like I DID find him attractive. He was very fit with some amazing tattoos but I wasn’t sure about his shoes.  And like Mum always says- if you don’t like a man’s shoes then chances are you won’t like him. She is always right.

He was cool to hang out with but I did feel a bit like he was trying to be cool, almost acting laid back. Such a good bloke for helping me out though. I don’t know what I would have done had I been there alone, staying in some grubby hostel crying into my box of wine.

That night we decided to go back to the hotel, get changed and then hit Toronto for real. Dinner and drinks and probably a feeling that I ought to sleep with him to say thanks. Does that make me sound like a slut/prostitute/walk-over? I’m pretty sure I would have got mine but it turns out that he fell asleep whilst I was in the shower (I was only in there for 15 mins MAX) and I didn’t want to wake him up. We were both asleep by 9pm and so simply nothing of any consequence happened whilst sleeping beside a muscled, tattooed man for two nights.

We told the border guard the next that we were together and had met online. Not really that much of a lie, and we were lucky- he was nice and let me back through.

Sorry. Story over. We returned to New York. I had to leave the country. No happy endings of any kind.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. sicatmeow
    Mar 09, 2012 @ 14:38:06

    memories of sadness. happily replaced by newer, pukier memories to come.


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