London

That Time I Kind Of Went To Prison

by Marian Schembari on July 11, 2010

The only thing that’s kept me sane for the past few days has been composing this post. I probably should have known the second my mom said, “I hope your flight gets delayed and you get stranded in Iceland,” that my trip was about to go horribly wrong.

God, what an intro. I sound like a YA author: “Hi. My name’s Marian, I’m 12 years old, and this is how the British government ruined my summer.” (Note: I had a layover in Iceland and my mom has always wanted to see the country and was hoping to live vicariously through me. This wasn’t a malicious comment.)

Basically, Boyfriend Sam and I did some research and found that I could stay in the UK for 6 months as long as I wasn’t working or studying. Nowhere did the website say there was a physical visa I needed to obtain, and since I’m broke, I figured I’d be good without one. Strike one, Britain.

Journal Entry – July 8, 2010

As I (hand) write this, I’m being held in Gatwick airport for the second day in a row. At around midnight yesterday I was transferred to a women’s detention facility (Yarl’s Wood – see right) three hours outside London. Meaning I probably got around 2 hours of sleep before being shipped back out to Gatwick.

I use the word “sleep” loosely. My bed consisted of a cot and unwashed sheets and it’s kind of hard to sleep with giant beetles scuttling around the floors. And when I say “shipped” I mean “transported in a bullet proof van with tinted windows and a cage inside.” I’m being deported back to Iceland at 7:30 tonight. It’s been a good 24 hours.

I’ve been treated like a criminal because I didn’t have a ticket back home, so right now I’m waiting for Sam, his lawyer friend, all his roommates, my mother and a family friend to pull some miracle out of their collective ass.

As I write this I realize how privileged I sound. Oooh! My prison didn’t have clean sheets! My daddy’s hot shot friend hasn’t bailed me out yet! Half the people here don’t speak English and at least I have a home to go back to. I shouldn’t whine, but I’m scared. I’ve spent 6 of the last 24 hours in a cage. I’ve been locked in a room for the other 18. An immigration officer read my diary and interrogated my boyfriend. Yeah, it’s been a GREAT day.

Despite being freaked out and tired and hungry and bored, the worst part has been the frustration. It’s obvious the officers here were bullied as kids and get off on making us feel small. Reading my diary? Really? Plus, my reasons for being deported are ridiculous, and every time I ask for more details or information on an appeal or how to apply for a visa I get a different answer. No one seems to know anything, or if they do, their answers all contradict each other.

The airport holding center is stocked with fruit, biscuits and store brand chips. They’ve got a pay phone that doesn’t call out, bathrooms with no locks, hotel pads of paper and those mini pens, one of which I’ve already used up. The news is on in the background and the bookcase is filled with everything from the Bible and paperback romances, to a five-year old guide to Brazil and a few children’s books written in Urdu. I did, however, find a recent issue of Wired, which is like gold in the Big House.

I’ve made two friends – an Australian and a Brazilian – both of whom were detained under suspiciously similar circumstances. I’ve spent most of of the time here bawling, and when Sam was finally able to call I was sobbing so hard my eyes were throbbing. A very tall pregnant Nigerian got me a tissue and said, “You stop crying now.” I think it was meant to be comforting.

The Bigger Picture

There is so much more to this story, but I know how ADD blog readers are, so I’ll stop at 800 words. Check back tomorrow for the ending, but keep in mind that I’m terrified that writing this means immigration officers will barge in and put me back in that damn van (hi guys!). But this isn’t just my story anymore. The past few days have been horrible, but it’s a small part of a much bigger situation. That Nigerian woman didn’t have anyone fighting for her. Being trucked off for 3 hours to the middle of nowhere with no idea what was happening must have been beyond traumatizing. I can’t even imagine what it was like for the children involved.

I was lucky as hell, because one (incredibly nice, handsome, wonderful) officer actually took the time to review my case THREE times and was instrumental in my release. I owe him my sanity, the insane amount of money I would have spent appealing in Iceland, and probably a dozen cupcakes.

Stay tuned…

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The Official “Hey, I’m moving to London” Announcement

by Marian Schembari on June 17, 2010

I guess the headline pretty much covers it, but yeah, I’m moving to London on July 7th.

AHHHHHHHH!!!! AKDFLJFDIAJIFOEOIWRFEIOFSAAAA!!!!!

That’s what my terror slash excitement sounds like.

You heard about the holy-crap-I-miss-the-UK-and-my-boyfriend drama, so I guess it’s only fair I give you the conclusion, right? Well, the conclusion is that my 3 week journey was perfection, my clients are awesome, my business is portable, my Kiwi is… well… I’m moving to London.

Oh. And after that? New Zealand, ya’ll. New Zealand.

Apparently this is what New Zealand looks like.

So what does this all mean?

Besides the whole moving-around-the-world thing, not a hell of a lot. The time difference means that I get my work done before everyone else is even awake, the lack of New York means I’ll be a lot calmer. Business will continue as usual! I don’t know yet how long before I return to the States, but the beauty of my job is that I rarely need to actually be anywhere.

I love meeting blog friends in person so now you all have an excuse to come visit me somewhere cool ;-) That said, if you are interested in hiring me, let’s take advantage of the interwebs. Skype! Screen capturing software! Ooohh…. The telephone!

I’m starting up a few different projects: job coaching, social media “consulting” (aka thuggery), more training programs…. This blog and Pajama Job Hunt will continue as normal!

So dear friends, get ready for some kick ass travel photos and wish me luck on my newest adventure!

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Finding “My London”

by Marian Schembari on May 26, 2010

Two years ago I did the typical Junior-in-college-thing and took off for my fall semester abroad. Having traveled to London before , I knew I loved the city and (to be perfectly honest) was too lazy to work on my language skills by moving to a Spanish-speaking country.

I fell in love both with and in the city, Fall semester turning into spring semester and spring semester turning into a working visa where I spent my summer serving Coronas at a Tex-Mex restaurant in Trafalgar square. My posh Chelsea “apartment” (read: dorm) turned into a dingy “council flat” (British projects/tenements) in the East End near an endless strip of curry restaurants.

Parliament + Friends = Awesome

Needless to say, when my visa expired and I was forced to return home, I cried when saying goodbye to my Kiwi Man in the airport, for most of the flight, when landing in Charlotte, NC and then again when I moved into my Davidson apartment.

I’m telling you this because…

Because that trip changed my life. It was the happiest I’ve been. However, instead of moving back after graduation and following my heart, I felt New York was the only way forward so I ended my relationship with both the city and the Kiwi. Idiot idiot idiot.

Except now I’m back; finally deciding enough was enough. You all know my hatred of NYC and, thankfully, my wonderful, perfect, amazing job allows me to work from anywhere and my Kiwi is forgiving.

This is all pretty personal stuff but it wasn’t until my soul mate, Desi (not a Kiwi), wrote about it on her blog, that I realized I wanted to share this story with you all. Desi, or “Muffin”, as she is known around the house, was my roommate freshman year at Davidson College and we’ve been attached at the hip ever since.

Being too adorable for words freshman year

After graduation we moved into a super kick-ass apartment on the Upper West Side and quickly realized the Rather Large Apple was not the right fit. Thank God we had each other.

The two of us have a catch-phrase, which goes, “You’re awesome.” That saying has gotten me through some self-doubt, random career changes, rejection, acceptance and a variety of other positive and negative life stuff.

While I may no longer live with my dear Desi, I always know she has my back. And it’s that – that knowledge of whatever I do or decide or attempt to accomplish, someone will always think I’m awesome – which keeps me going 99% of the time.

“Toughing it out” isn’t very tough at all.

Here’s a snippet of her post (though you should read the whole thing) that I want to share, so you, too can find your “London Calling”:

Why don’t more people follow Marian’s suit? The risk. The idea of it alone turns some people around right in their tracks. Even the word “change” instills fear in the hearts of many. A significant number of us will do everything we can to avoid facing the unknown. We dodge risk-taking as if it were a curse. We tell ourselves it is somehow better to keep doing what we’re doing because we know exactly what to expect from that. And then we call this “toughing it out.” That’s funny. “Toughing it out” isn’t very tough at all. It is no act of bravery. It’s safe. It’s the label we give to doing things we feel we “should” be doing but don’t want to.

What’s brave? Banishing “should” from our vocabulary and doing what we really want to do instead.

Ordinarily? I am brave, and proud of it, too. I repel the word “should.” Me and Marian: Two peas in a pod.

Lately? I haven’t been very brave. I am plagued by “shoulds.” I am ignoring my own “London-calling” because words like “responsibility” and “practical” ring in my ears at the mere thought, and names of people I want to please resound louder in my head than my own.

So, while this may not be a list of easy-to-follow steps on using LinkedIn, or a rant on social media losers, this is the most useful piece of advice I can give you:

Find your London. Go there.

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