So as you may be aware, I live in Paris, but I'm not a French citizen. This means that I need to have a work VISA to be here and collect a paycheque.
From the beginning it has been a debacle getting our VISA's arranged, and this is largely due to either a shocking lack of aptitude or interest on the part of the HR team at my company.
At first it took 8 months to get our initial VISA's, a process that was only supposed to take 2 months. On top of the delay it was discovered that no paperwork was submitted by my company on behalf of my wife, and we were left to scramble on our own to get her a VISA.
Nearly two years after accepting this job the debacle continues, unabated by the ravages of time. I am in the process of renewing my VISA for the first time. the renewal process started in October (even though I'd ask to start it in august, given the delay of the first application). In the mean time I was sent on mission to North Carolina, where I would spend the next 7 months.
I would have to fly back to France in December under the guise of completing the renewal process, only to discover that my HR contact didn't know what was going on, and the meeting we'd been flown across an ocean for was merely to pick up the application for the renewal process.
Months pass and my mission in North Carolina ends. We return to Paris on Monday morning, 7 am, severely jet lagged. I am expected to attend an appointment Tuesday morning, 10am. I am told by my HR contact that this meeting is "in the same place we went last time", referring to the last trip over in December that my HR contact actually attended with me. Here are the wonderful details of that specific disaster.
It is also revealed to me that I will need to go out and purchase, on my own, a "Timbre Fiscal" or a tax stamp as I am told. This can be purchased from any Tabac (cigarette shop), and if you speak French it is probably very easy to do so.
This is the thought of my HR contact, as she doesn't bother to purchase this for me to ensure there is no problems. Instead, it is left up to the guy who speak effectively no french to buy this stamp. Without it I cannot renew my VISA, but it isn't seen as a problem to leave it up to me.
I am unable to buy a stamp.
I return home after failing to find a stamp or renew my VISA. Before even making it back to Paris I expressed my disappointment that my HR contact was not going to attend this meeting, and made it clear that if there was any problems I would likely not be able to solve them myself.
This has no effect on anyone, and I inevitably fail at the task. As it turns out I wasn't even at the right building. When returning to the office the next day to talk about what happened, my HR contact was shocked to learn that I went to the same place I went last time with her, despite her telling me the day before that is exactly what I was supposed to do.
Now, as a result, I have been sent home from work for legal reasons. It is felt as a risk to have me in the office working now that my VISA status is unclear. All of this could have been easily avoided if my HR contact had done one thing: her fucking job. I expect this will be somehow framed up on me as my incompetence, but should that come to pass I have no problem being a real prick about making it clear what has happened to bring things to this state of affairs.
So now I am home, Wednesday morning. I have been back in Paris little more than 48 hours and I want to shoot myself. As much as I love living here, this city is the right sort of adventure for me, the VISA process and my company's HR department makes it an entirely vulgar affair.
I have only been back a few days and I want to leave.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
French (Re)Connection
This week marks my final week living abroad, abroad. This is to say that I have been living in the US for the past 7 months, but will now return back to Paris.
I have deeply enjoyed my time here in North Carolina, it's been refreshing and easy to live here. Obviously the lack of a language barrier goes a long way, but the people I have been working with have been a top shelf sort of professional.
Returning to Paris will be a mixed blessing. We return to renew our VISA's, but this renewal process comes three months after our initial VISAs have expired. This means that returning home could be troublesome.
We will be arriving at the French border control with clearly expired French VISA's in our passports, and very little in the way of compelling paperwork to justify our entering the country. Anyone reading this that is already familiar with border control agencies, regardless of nationality, are likely already cringing at this state of affairs as these agencies aren't known for their easy-going approach to their work.
Now granted I hold a Canadian passport, which tends to get me a lot of wiggle room throughout Europe as we are largely considered on the face of things the lovable tourists. I quite often get waved through checks in a number of different countries with little more than a glance at the ID page.
However, should a diligent control officer be manning the post, one who looks at all the details, My wife and I will likely be invited into a quiet little room in the back of the airport to answer lots and lots of questions. Questions that I rely on my companies HR/Legal team to back me up on.
With luck this won't happen. With luck we won't be rejected entry at the border and life in France will pick up right were we left off last summer. And if you know me well, you know that I am a lucky sort of person.
Yet I can't help but be mildly disturbed at what is pretty much a blind run at the border, all thanks to the lack luster support I have been given for all my VISA dealings from my company.
In the end though, it will be great to be back in Paris, at least for a while. I will get more physical activity again, more walking and a wonderful Parisian spring to enjoy.
In my last 7 months in the southern US I have gained a staggering 30 pounds (soundly negating the steady weight loss I was experiencing in Paris).
I look forward to walking to and from work each day, and eating a whole lot less fast food. As much as I have enjoyed my ability to call up and order a pizza and coke again, it's clear I have abused this ability. ;)
I have deeply enjoyed my time here in North Carolina, it's been refreshing and easy to live here. Obviously the lack of a language barrier goes a long way, but the people I have been working with have been a top shelf sort of professional.
Returning to Paris will be a mixed blessing. We return to renew our VISA's, but this renewal process comes three months after our initial VISAs have expired. This means that returning home could be troublesome.
We will be arriving at the French border control with clearly expired French VISA's in our passports, and very little in the way of compelling paperwork to justify our entering the country. Anyone reading this that is already familiar with border control agencies, regardless of nationality, are likely already cringing at this state of affairs as these agencies aren't known for their easy-going approach to their work.
Now granted I hold a Canadian passport, which tends to get me a lot of wiggle room throughout Europe as we are largely considered on the face of things the lovable tourists. I quite often get waved through checks in a number of different countries with little more than a glance at the ID page.
However, should a diligent control officer be manning the post, one who looks at all the details, My wife and I will likely be invited into a quiet little room in the back of the airport to answer lots and lots of questions. Questions that I rely on my companies HR/Legal team to back me up on.
With luck this won't happen. With luck we won't be rejected entry at the border and life in France will pick up right were we left off last summer. And if you know me well, you know that I am a lucky sort of person.
Yet I can't help but be mildly disturbed at what is pretty much a blind run at the border, all thanks to the lack luster support I have been given for all my VISA dealings from my company.
In the end though, it will be great to be back in Paris, at least for a while. I will get more physical activity again, more walking and a wonderful Parisian spring to enjoy.
In my last 7 months in the southern US I have gained a staggering 30 pounds (soundly negating the steady weight loss I was experiencing in Paris).
I look forward to walking to and from work each day, and eating a whole lot less fast food. As much as I have enjoyed my ability to call up and order a pizza and coke again, it's clear I have abused this ability. ;)
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Immigration Alienation
Dealing with French immigration is enough to make you want to pack up and move back to your own country. Perhaps this is there subversive intent when creating their nightmarish bureaucratic obstacle courses.
My wife and I have spent the past two months in Raleigh for my work, as I have mentioned previously. We aren't living there permanently, I am simply there on assignment to directly support one of my development teams. However, we still have to keep up all of our French legal paperwork, VISAs being chief among them.
As such we have recently returned to Paris, mid-assignment, strictly to deal with the renewal process of our VISAs. This is an important detail to attend to as it means we can continue to collect income and see our things we keep here when desired.
That said, jumping timezones is never easy, and this trip has been no exception. We are pretty badly jet lagged and not sleeping normal hours. This means that yesterday ,before going to our VISA renewal meeting, we awoke at 2am. Two in the morning is never a good time to wake up at, it's awkward, dark and disorienting.
We proceed to our meeting as scheduled at 9am. We were lucky enough to have our HR contact from work meet us there to help make sure everything goes smoothly given our lack of French language skills. She has instructed us on all the paperwork we need to bring and we have done our due diligence and come prepared.
Having never done this before we don't know what to expect. Our last encounter with Immigration Services (OFII) was in the form of a medical examination, 3 or 4 months previous, where they took x-rays of our lungs. This was an unusual but fairly efficient process, which kicked off with specific appointment periods. This detail, the once about appointment times, may not sound like something worth mentioning, but I assure you it is.
Fast forward to yesterday, we arrive and meet our HR contact our front of a different OFII office than the one for our medical exam. A line half a kilometer long, of which we are at the back of, is prominent. I wonder why the ling is so long, and why everyone is so anxious. As it turns out, there are no appointments allowed for this process. It is a first come, first served process with no guarantee of even being assigned a "ticket" (which allows you to meet with an immigration official and do your business). It is apparently very common for the tickets to run out and for people to be turned away only to return the next day and begin again.
We do not have the luxury of simply coming back should the tickets run out, as we have plane tickets waiting to shuttle us back to North Carolina once this work is sorted out. As I stand at the back of this very long and very slow line on a frigid October morning, things do not look good. Yet, even then I cannot begin to imagine how poorly the day was going to unfold.
The line continues at a snail's pace, and the three of us stood silently on the concrete. Each of us secretly assumed this would be an annoyance, but an annoyance that would be wrapped up in time to get a bite to eat for lunch.
Our first annoyance came in the form of the man in line behind us. A man who came from a country with absolutely no concept of personal space. At first it was strange that he would stand close, then after a while it became funny. It lost it's humor shortly after, and were it not for a complete language barrier between us it would have likely devolved into shouting and, likely, blows.
The line picked up it's pace and we suddenly found ourselves mercifully hustling into the immigration building itself and out of the chill autumn wind. Almost as quickly as the pace increased it came to a near halt. Where moments before we covered 10 meters in a minute, we were instead taking little more than a step every few minutes.
Minutes turned into hours and lunch began to pass us by. It was at this point, given our new interior position, that we were able to see that most of the immigration officials closed their windows and went to lunch, leaving only 2 or 3 our of the 20 windows open. The hundreds of people still standing with us in line were left with little recourse but to stand and wait.
Mr. "No Personal Space" continued to press himself against anyone within arms reach. I stood between Aja, my HR contact and him and created a wall so he could not harass them directly. He would occasionally manufacture a reason to leave the line and return a short time later, inevitably attempting to stand between myself and the women I was with.
This continued to the very moment we finally made it to the front of the line. At one point I looked down, then pointed out to Aja to look at my right foot. Beside it was his right foot. Not nearby, not right behind: BESIDE it, like two right shoes in a window display of a shoe store.
Think about how close you would need to stand behind someone to accomplish this. Now, for extra credit, go line up somewhere like the bank or the grocery store and perform this maneuver. I dare you. Why do I dare you? because it's likely you live in a country where you speak the language as everyone else, and you know you, at best will get told off loudly for it. I however did not have that ability, and did not want to drag my HR representative into translating a shouting match and/or fist fight. (**Note: for those of you who know me, you would likely know that I am not one who is quick to anger, let alone violence. But my unwanted ability to measure this guy's inseam with my buttocks was WAY more stress than I needed on a day like that. I almost hit him a number of times)
The line continues to crawl along, and never seems to fully recover from the lunch break. At 3:30 we finally make it to the front of the line, a scant 6+ hours later. We speak with the man behind the glass and discover that the process for renewals has changed, and all our paperwork must now be mailed in, along with a few forms he provided us with.
30 seconds after having walked up to our window we were dispatched with the realization that we had stood in line for nearly an entire working day to pick up forms that COULD have been provided via the internet or snail mail if anyone had bothered to think things through.
It turns out that our physical presence in this matter was completely unwarranted, much like the heavy petting and 6 hours in line. In fact, we will have to mail away all of our paperwork, wait for a reply by mail, then return to Paris once again to submit these new forms at a new location.
I can only assume that this new location will also fail to provide basic organization like previously scheduled appointment time.
My wife and I have spent the past two months in Raleigh for my work, as I have mentioned previously. We aren't living there permanently, I am simply there on assignment to directly support one of my development teams. However, we still have to keep up all of our French legal paperwork, VISAs being chief among them.
As such we have recently returned to Paris, mid-assignment, strictly to deal with the renewal process of our VISAs. This is an important detail to attend to as it means we can continue to collect income and see our things we keep here when desired.
That said, jumping timezones is never easy, and this trip has been no exception. We are pretty badly jet lagged and not sleeping normal hours. This means that yesterday ,before going to our VISA renewal meeting, we awoke at 2am. Two in the morning is never a good time to wake up at, it's awkward, dark and disorienting.
We proceed to our meeting as scheduled at 9am. We were lucky enough to have our HR contact from work meet us there to help make sure everything goes smoothly given our lack of French language skills. She has instructed us on all the paperwork we need to bring and we have done our due diligence and come prepared.
Having never done this before we don't know what to expect. Our last encounter with Immigration Services (OFII) was in the form of a medical examination, 3 or 4 months previous, where they took x-rays of our lungs. This was an unusual but fairly efficient process, which kicked off with specific appointment periods. This detail, the once about appointment times, may not sound like something worth mentioning, but I assure you it is.
Fast forward to yesterday, we arrive and meet our HR contact our front of a different OFII office than the one for our medical exam. A line half a kilometer long, of which we are at the back of, is prominent. I wonder why the ling is so long, and why everyone is so anxious. As it turns out, there are no appointments allowed for this process. It is a first come, first served process with no guarantee of even being assigned a "ticket" (which allows you to meet with an immigration official and do your business). It is apparently very common for the tickets to run out and for people to be turned away only to return the next day and begin again.
We do not have the luxury of simply coming back should the tickets run out, as we have plane tickets waiting to shuttle us back to North Carolina once this work is sorted out. As I stand at the back of this very long and very slow line on a frigid October morning, things do not look good. Yet, even then I cannot begin to imagine how poorly the day was going to unfold.
The line continues at a snail's pace, and the three of us stood silently on the concrete. Each of us secretly assumed this would be an annoyance, but an annoyance that would be wrapped up in time to get a bite to eat for lunch.
Our first annoyance came in the form of the man in line behind us. A man who came from a country with absolutely no concept of personal space. At first it was strange that he would stand close, then after a while it became funny. It lost it's humor shortly after, and were it not for a complete language barrier between us it would have likely devolved into shouting and, likely, blows.
The line picked up it's pace and we suddenly found ourselves mercifully hustling into the immigration building itself and out of the chill autumn wind. Almost as quickly as the pace increased it came to a near halt. Where moments before we covered 10 meters in a minute, we were instead taking little more than a step every few minutes.
Minutes turned into hours and lunch began to pass us by. It was at this point, given our new interior position, that we were able to see that most of the immigration officials closed their windows and went to lunch, leaving only 2 or 3 our of the 20 windows open. The hundreds of people still standing with us in line were left with little recourse but to stand and wait.
Mr. "No Personal Space" continued to press himself against anyone within arms reach. I stood between Aja, my HR contact and him and created a wall so he could not harass them directly. He would occasionally manufacture a reason to leave the line and return a short time later, inevitably attempting to stand between myself and the women I was with.
This continued to the very moment we finally made it to the front of the line. At one point I looked down, then pointed out to Aja to look at my right foot. Beside it was his right foot. Not nearby, not right behind: BESIDE it, like two right shoes in a window display of a shoe store.
Think about how close you would need to stand behind someone to accomplish this. Now, for extra credit, go line up somewhere like the bank or the grocery store and perform this maneuver. I dare you. Why do I dare you? because it's likely you live in a country where you speak the language as everyone else, and you know you, at best will get told off loudly for it. I however did not have that ability, and did not want to drag my HR representative into translating a shouting match and/or fist fight. (**Note: for those of you who know me, you would likely know that I am not one who is quick to anger, let alone violence. But my unwanted ability to measure this guy's inseam with my buttocks was WAY more stress than I needed on a day like that. I almost hit him a number of times)
The line continues to crawl along, and never seems to fully recover from the lunch break. At 3:30 we finally make it to the front of the line, a scant 6+ hours later. We speak with the man behind the glass and discover that the process for renewals has changed, and all our paperwork must now be mailed in, along with a few forms he provided us with.
30 seconds after having walked up to our window we were dispatched with the realization that we had stood in line for nearly an entire working day to pick up forms that COULD have been provided via the internet or snail mail if anyone had bothered to think things through.
It turns out that our physical presence in this matter was completely unwarranted, much like the heavy petting and 6 hours in line. In fact, we will have to mail away all of our paperwork, wait for a reply by mail, then return to Paris once again to submit these new forms at a new location.
I can only assume that this new location will also fail to provide basic organization like previously scheduled appointment time.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Foreign Familiarity
I'm back in Paris after a couple months living in the USA. Despite being gone for a while, it is nice to experience a degree of familiarity upon my return.
Of course it helps that we continue to maintain our apartment in the suburbs, so coming home is literally like coming home. But beyond that there is still a degree of familiarity here in Paris that I do not associate with my US accommodations, despite the similarities in people in culture.
We have been living in Paris for about 8 months before we left for the states, and it has been a mixed bag of experiences. I love the age and culture in the city. I love the amazing things I have seen, but in that time we have yet to really develop a real sense of belonging.
It is one thing to feel familiar and comfortable, but it is entiely another to feel as though you belong. My work goes a long way to creating that sense for me, since it gives me daily direction and a built in community among my co-workers. The same cannot be said for Aja, who has suffered far more from the isolation.
We are only back in Paris for a few days to do various VISA/Immigration paperwork, then we return to the states for a few more months. We will change up our clothes, sleep in a comfortable bed, then hop back on a plane before we have managed to shake off the jet lag.
Before coming I had a phone conference with my boss and we discussed what comes next for me, as my contract expires in the next couple months. The conversation was framed poorly, due to the language barrier, and I felt it was a "should we renew your contract" discussion. This gave me trepidation going into the conversation, but it was short lived once it was made clear that it was more of a discussion around the options we have when renewing it.
Long story short, I opted to take a 6 month extention to my current contract type, which has a lot more legal flexibility under French law regarding changing positions or locations within the company.
I love my job, it is unlike any I have had before, but I know that no matter how great it is, if it does not serve to benefit both myself and Aja, it must be re-examined. The extension buys us the time we need to complete my mission in the US and return to Paris and really ask ourselves if this is where we want to be.
Paris is wonderful, but maybe it is just not somewhere wonderful for us. This time in the states helps give contrast, and really find out if our issues are ones with Paris, or just living abroad in general.
Of course it helps that we continue to maintain our apartment in the suburbs, so coming home is literally like coming home. But beyond that there is still a degree of familiarity here in Paris that I do not associate with my US accommodations, despite the similarities in people in culture.
We have been living in Paris for about 8 months before we left for the states, and it has been a mixed bag of experiences. I love the age and culture in the city. I love the amazing things I have seen, but in that time we have yet to really develop a real sense of belonging.
It is one thing to feel familiar and comfortable, but it is entiely another to feel as though you belong. My work goes a long way to creating that sense for me, since it gives me daily direction and a built in community among my co-workers. The same cannot be said for Aja, who has suffered far more from the isolation.
We are only back in Paris for a few days to do various VISA/Immigration paperwork, then we return to the states for a few more months. We will change up our clothes, sleep in a comfortable bed, then hop back on a plane before we have managed to shake off the jet lag.
Before coming I had a phone conference with my boss and we discussed what comes next for me, as my contract expires in the next couple months. The conversation was framed poorly, due to the language barrier, and I felt it was a "should we renew your contract" discussion. This gave me trepidation going into the conversation, but it was short lived once it was made clear that it was more of a discussion around the options we have when renewing it.
Long story short, I opted to take a 6 month extention to my current contract type, which has a lot more legal flexibility under French law regarding changing positions or locations within the company.
I love my job, it is unlike any I have had before, but I know that no matter how great it is, if it does not serve to benefit both myself and Aja, it must be re-examined. The extension buys us the time we need to complete my mission in the US and return to Paris and really ask ourselves if this is where we want to be.
Paris is wonderful, but maybe it is just not somewhere wonderful for us. This time in the states helps give contrast, and really find out if our issues are ones with Paris, or just living abroad in general.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Where's France?
I'm currently living in North Carolina at a the moment. I enjoy it here, the people are warm and welcoming. However, there are moments that I am reminded how unaware some in this country are towards the rest of the world.
Take for example a recent trip to the grocery store. We loaded up on all sorts of things, since we will be here for a long time, and ended up with more than we could carry home (since we don't drive). We called a taxi to shuttle our many bags back home and he arrived in his own time.
Like most taxi drivers he felt compelled to make small talk on the ride home. As he picked us up I mentioned that I was not familiar with the the roads to take home as we had just moved to the area (simpler than telling him that I was only here on a long term, but temporary assignment). With this tidbit of info he asked where we were from, to which I replied simply 'France'.
There was a noticeable pause on his part before he responded. His response was a confounding 'oh, where's that?'.
Normally I'm fairly quick witted, but I wasn't sure how best to respond to s inquiry. I shot back 'Well, in Europe. You know, England... France'.
Again another pause on the part of the driver before he perked up and said 'Oh! England!'. He proceed to ask me about England, and I didn't bother to attempt to redirect him.
It's certainly not the first time these sorts of conversations have taken place while I've been here, I've had many like it on previous trips, but it's always a little mind blowing when they happen.
Take for example a recent trip to the grocery store. We loaded up on all sorts of things, since we will be here for a long time, and ended up with more than we could carry home (since we don't drive). We called a taxi to shuttle our many bags back home and he arrived in his own time.
Like most taxi drivers he felt compelled to make small talk on the ride home. As he picked us up I mentioned that I was not familiar with the the roads to take home as we had just moved to the area (simpler than telling him that I was only here on a long term, but temporary assignment). With this tidbit of info he asked where we were from, to which I replied simply 'France'.
There was a noticeable pause on his part before he responded. His response was a confounding 'oh, where's that?'.
Normally I'm fairly quick witted, but I wasn't sure how best to respond to s inquiry. I shot back 'Well, in Europe. You know, England... France'.
Again another pause on the part of the driver before he perked up and said 'Oh! England!'. He proceed to ask me about England, and I didn't bother to attempt to redirect him.
It's certainly not the first time these sorts of conversations have taken place while I've been here, I've had many like it on previous trips, but it's always a little mind blowing when they happen.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Living Abroad... Abroad.
I am on vacation, and have been for the past two weeks, but that comes to an end on Monday and I head back to the office. However, once I get back to the office, the office is going to move halfway around the world for a couple months.
For the next couple months I will be living abroad... in the US. I will be on assignment, working on-site with one of the American teams I oversee. I'm looking forward to it, since they are a great group.
There isn't much more to say than that, just thought I'd let you know my days will be a whole lot less French for a while.
For the next couple months I will be living abroad... in the US. I will be on assignment, working on-site with one of the American teams I oversee. I'm looking forward to it, since they are a great group.
There isn't much more to say than that, just thought I'd let you know my days will be a whole lot less French for a while.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
A Turning Point
Sometimes, as I wander the streets of Paris or find myself handling prototypes years away from public knowledge, I wonder just how it is that I have arrived at such a wonderful point in my life. I can think of many things along the way that have helped foster my deep love for gaming, and ultimately put me in this career...
A beautiful girl I grew up with, to whom I had a huge crush on for years, who loved gaming.
A socially awkward childhood that lent itself well to the escapism gaming offered.
A serious injury that left me with little to do but play games for a long recovery period.
A lifelong affinity for technology.
All of these things certainly contributed in varying degrees, but quite often I come back to what my be the defining moment, the initial catalyst that kicked it all off. A moment I recently described to a new friend, and felt that it is a moment I would like to share with the rest of you as well.
During my 3rd grade year, when I was seven, my grandfather (whom, for all intents and purposes is my father, which is another story) entered me into a bicycle safety competition, which when you think about it is strange event in and of itself (does competing against other kids really encourage safety?). The goal of the event was to motivate kids of all ages to be more active, but also to educate them on the rules of the road when riding their bikes.
The event was held in a hockey arena, without the ice thankfully, and they had a number of challenges laid out on the cement floor in white tape. Some where mocked up to resembled traffic intersections and scenarios, while others were straightforward agility and skills challenges.
I loved my bike at that age, since I had been late to learn how to ride it, I appreciated it all the more. I flew through the challenges, and some days later was told that I had placed second in the entire city. They brought me to an office one night to receive a prize, which turned out to be an alarm clock (not exciting prize for a 3rd grader), and to ask me if I would like to compete in another round against all the other kids who had won in different cities across the province. The following weekend I was doing the same thing in the provincial capital.
Like the first time, the results had to be tabulated, so no one would no who won for a few days. I didn't think much of it, since I wasn't in need of another alarm clock, and went back to my daily 3rd grader routine. A few days later though, that routine took a sharp, and unexpected left turn.
One afternoon, while in the middle of our math lesson, two uniformed policemen arrived at our classroom unannounced. The teacher was visibly surprised, and they asked sharply if "James is present today". At the time, there were four kids in my class named James, three of whom used different names for ease of reference by the teacher: I was going by Jamie. We all sheepishly raised out hands while the rest of the class all ominously murmured that "Ohhhhh" sound that kids make when they know trouble is coming, like when you are called to the principle's office.
The officers, a little annoyed at the copious amount of James' in the class then asked "James Mouat?". The other three boys lowered their hands and the murmur from the class grew exponentially. The teacher set about settling the class and the policemen announced, slowly, that because of something I had done that they had come to see me today. In retrospect it seems clear now that they were playing to the crowd, but i'll be damned if it didn't work; the kids ate it up and ignored the teachers attempts to bring silence.
At this point, I suspect that I am going to jail or something even more terrible, and I don't even know why! After a pregnant pause in their speech, laid on for dramatic effect, they reveal that I had placed first in the entire province for the bicycle competition, and as such they were here to deliver my prize: a brand new NES videogame system, which one officer produced by learning out of the classroom door and retrieving it from it's hiding place in the hallway. At this point in my life was this akin to winning the lottery, in more ways than one.
Two things happened simultaneously at that moment: One, a huge rush of relief mixed with euphoria washed over me, and Two, the entire class lost their collective mind. Even my teacher, who was a an evil spawn of the devil on her best days, was uncharacteristically happy. The class was screaming, yelling and cheering at the top of their lungs as I ran up to the front of the room to claim my prize.
Remembering back to the days and months that followed this moment, I see the deep irony in the chosen award. Without a doubt it set me on my path to becoming a designer, as I took to gaming in a deep and important way, far beyond simply being entertained. The irony though came in my the form of my poor neglected bicycle. Practically overnight it went from my constant companion to a lump of rubber and steel that I passed by going to and from school each day.
I don't think I rode my bike for at least 3 months after that day. I suspect that this wasn't the outcome that the organizers of a contest meant to promote safety and physical activity had intended.
I look back on that moment as one of those moment that shaped my life, and is in large part responsible for why I know live in Paris and have a job that I love. Sure, I had been exposed to games before this, I had even had my own computer since the first grade (I learned Basic in the second grade), but until that moment it really hadn't been important to me.
Crazy huh?
A beautiful girl I grew up with, to whom I had a huge crush on for years, who loved gaming.
A socially awkward childhood that lent itself well to the escapism gaming offered.
A serious injury that left me with little to do but play games for a long recovery period.
A lifelong affinity for technology.
All of these things certainly contributed in varying degrees, but quite often I come back to what my be the defining moment, the initial catalyst that kicked it all off. A moment I recently described to a new friend, and felt that it is a moment I would like to share with the rest of you as well.
During my 3rd grade year, when I was seven, my grandfather (whom, for all intents and purposes is my father, which is another story) entered me into a bicycle safety competition, which when you think about it is strange event in and of itself (does competing against other kids really encourage safety?). The goal of the event was to motivate kids of all ages to be more active, but also to educate them on the rules of the road when riding their bikes.
The event was held in a hockey arena, without the ice thankfully, and they had a number of challenges laid out on the cement floor in white tape. Some where mocked up to resembled traffic intersections and scenarios, while others were straightforward agility and skills challenges.
I loved my bike at that age, since I had been late to learn how to ride it, I appreciated it all the more. I flew through the challenges, and some days later was told that I had placed second in the entire city. They brought me to an office one night to receive a prize, which turned out to be an alarm clock (not exciting prize for a 3rd grader), and to ask me if I would like to compete in another round against all the other kids who had won in different cities across the province. The following weekend I was doing the same thing in the provincial capital.
Like the first time, the results had to be tabulated, so no one would no who won for a few days. I didn't think much of it, since I wasn't in need of another alarm clock, and went back to my daily 3rd grader routine. A few days later though, that routine took a sharp, and unexpected left turn.
One afternoon, while in the middle of our math lesson, two uniformed policemen arrived at our classroom unannounced. The teacher was visibly surprised, and they asked sharply if "James is present today". At the time, there were four kids in my class named James, three of whom used different names for ease of reference by the teacher: I was going by Jamie. We all sheepishly raised out hands while the rest of the class all ominously murmured that "Ohhhhh" sound that kids make when they know trouble is coming, like when you are called to the principle's office.
The officers, a little annoyed at the copious amount of James' in the class then asked "James Mouat?". The other three boys lowered their hands and the murmur from the class grew exponentially. The teacher set about settling the class and the policemen announced, slowly, that because of something I had done that they had come to see me today. In retrospect it seems clear now that they were playing to the crowd, but i'll be damned if it didn't work; the kids ate it up and ignored the teachers attempts to bring silence.
At this point, I suspect that I am going to jail or something even more terrible, and I don't even know why! After a pregnant pause in their speech, laid on for dramatic effect, they reveal that I had placed first in the entire province for the bicycle competition, and as such they were here to deliver my prize: a brand new NES videogame system, which one officer produced by learning out of the classroom door and retrieving it from it's hiding place in the hallway. At this point in my life was this akin to winning the lottery, in more ways than one.
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| Welcome to winning the 3rd grade popularity contest! |
Two things happened simultaneously at that moment: One, a huge rush of relief mixed with euphoria washed over me, and Two, the entire class lost their collective mind. Even my teacher, who was a an evil spawn of the devil on her best days, was uncharacteristically happy. The class was screaming, yelling and cheering at the top of their lungs as I ran up to the front of the room to claim my prize.
Remembering back to the days and months that followed this moment, I see the deep irony in the chosen award. Without a doubt it set me on my path to becoming a designer, as I took to gaming in a deep and important way, far beyond simply being entertained. The irony though came in my the form of my poor neglected bicycle. Practically overnight it went from my constant companion to a lump of rubber and steel that I passed by going to and from school each day.
I don't think I rode my bike for at least 3 months after that day. I suspect that this wasn't the outcome that the organizers of a contest meant to promote safety and physical activity had intended.
I look back on that moment as one of those moment that shaped my life, and is in large part responsible for why I know live in Paris and have a job that I love. Sure, I had been exposed to games before this, I had even had my own computer since the first grade (I learned Basic in the second grade), but until that moment it really hadn't been important to me.
Crazy huh?
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