Overstaying One's Welcome

Things were quiet in Goce after ringing in the New Year with friends. Running Man (RM) and I struggled to make ends meet. Every client dime I made went toward paying debt and in the dead of winter, RM had no tours to guide. We simply stayed home, bought a few groceries here and there when we needed them, and prayed the roof of the house didn't blow off during the burja winds and the chimney of our ancient, smoking stove didn't catch fire.

Our one splurge was going out for dinner on February 14. It was my birthday and Valentine's Day, so we scrimped and saved a few Euros so we could celebrate in very modest style. By late February, I started seeing signs of spring, which was incredibly early in the year for a girl from northern Missouri. First to emerge in our private little garden were zvoncki (zvaughnch-key) and trobentica (tro-ben-teetsuh), then crocus and daffodils, followed by tulips. They were all little gifts left behind by Anica, the previous owner who had loved and tended her garden with care for years.

Spring has always been my favorite time of year. As soon as snow melts, the earth starts to warm and days grow a bit longer, I start checking my planting beds, looking for tiny green shoots emerging from the cold soil. When I spot one, I carefully move old growth around the shoot and find myself filled with childlike wonder at the sight. For me, spring is an annual treasure hunt of joy.

Spring also makes me think of Easter, always a huge event in my family. Married siblings have to rotate Thanksgivings and Christmases, but there's never any competition for Easters, so everyone gathers at my parents' house. I had planned on being there for Easter this year, but wasn't sure when I would be able to afford to buy a ticket home. It was really a pretty dismal time for RM and for me. If we were stuck at the house, we would have liked to have been able to at least afford to start renovating. No, we were just stuck. Good thing it's a beautiful place because we weren't able to see much else. 

In early March, RM had a call from an old friend who owned an inn outside of a tiny village in Croatia. RM had been wanting me to see the farm-turned-restaurant and to meet his friend who owned it. We decided to take his friend up on the invitation to visit and have a great meal, so one warm Sunday after Mass, we headed down to his place, not far from the border. Getting out and about was wonderful, and I was so ready for it. When we neared the border, I pulled our passports from my purse and handed them to RM. Croatia wasn't a member of the European Union, so you first stopped at the checkpoint on the Slovenian side, then proceeded through the checkpoint on the Croatian side. We'd done it several times before. But that day, we didn't get very far.

The Slovenian officer flipped through RM's passport, then mine. He inspected mine closely, turning pages back and forth and back again. This wasn't really uncommon. U.S. passports aren't something most of these officers see every day. He took my passport over to another officer, then returned, speaking to RM in Slovene, keeping the passports in his hand and backing away from the car. RM put the car into gear and started to pull forward and over to the side of the road. His face was grim.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"He's asking me how long you've been here, and if you have a residence permit."

I breathed in sharply and a look of sheer horror spread across my face. I had been in the EU too long, and I was in trouble. The law is that unless you're a resident of the EU or have some sort of special visa to be there, you have to leave every 90 days during any six-month period. I knew that. I couldn't claim ignorance (which, as they say, isn't a defense anyway). I couldn't even claim that the thought hadn't ever crossed my mind during the past couple of months, but knew I didn't have the money to fly back to the States so I just put the thought out of my mind. Instead, I'd been focused on drumming up business in Slovenia so I could afford to go back. Sadly, my efforts hadn't panned out.

As RM told me to wait there while he spoke to the officers, my mind was racing. What happened now? Did they put me in jail? Haul me off to the U.S. Embassy in Ljubljana? Escort me to the U.S. Airforce base in Aviano, Italy, and put me on some cargo jet?

RM came back to the car, handed me our passports and buckled his seat belt.

"What happened? Where are we going now?" I asked hysterically.

"We're going back to Goce," he said, making a u-turn and pointing the car back north. "Fortunately for us, we had a very nice police officer who told me we need to turn around, go home and get you back to the U.S. as soon as possible. He also said that whatever we do, we don't want to cross the border into Croatia. They might not let you back out down there."

My shoulders sagged and I felt nauseous. RM tried to comfort me.

"He could have fined us," he said. "Instead, he gave us good advice."

"I need to go to the Embassy, " I said. "I need to find out what I should do. I am a criminal!"

"You're not a criminal," RM said.

"Yes, I am! I've broken the law. I could be persona non gratis and not even be allowed back in the EU for years!"

"Okay, now. Don't get so upset. We'll go to the Embassy in the morning and they'll help you," RM said calmly, trying to reassure me.

I was so angry with myself for not paying better attention to life in general. "What an idiot," I thought about myself. "Idiot" continued to resound through my head all night as I tossed and turned, waiting for morning to arrive. 

We left early to make the hour-long drive into Ljubljana. I was quiet the entire way there -- always a sure sign of being either incredibly anxious about something or incredibly angry. I had visions of sitting down with the U.S. Ambassador to Slovenia and having him lecture me on the importance of international relations. I knew my law breaking wouldn't spark an international incident, but I did wonder about spending time in court or other sanctions, like being expelled from the country. I was also disappointed that my first visit to the Embassy was a dire stupidity emergency. That's precisely the good impression I wanted to make on the ambassador from my homeland, serving my adopted country. 

I was rehearsing what I was going to say as we walked into the security area outside of the Embassy. There, Slovene security employees searched our persons and my purse, which they told me I needed to leave there with them. My mental rehearsal was interrupted by wondering why my Embassy wasn't guarded by U.S. Marines. Aren't Marines supposed to guard American soil abroad? I  surmised that a tour of duty for a Marine in Slovenia might be a waste of a good soldier and started rehearsing my lines again.

When we walked through the front door of the Embassy, another Slovene security guard sat at a desk, barely looking up when we walked into the reception area. I asked to see someone about a visa issue. He pointed toward a door to our right and we walked in, then turned to face a wall of glass windows with little speaker grates like those that tellers use at some banks. There appeared to be only one person there, a woman who approached the window and asked, how she could help us. She, too, was Slovene. Where in the heck were my countrymen and women?

My voice was shaking, along with my hands, as I gave her the reason for our visit.

"I'm an American citizen and I own a house in Goce. I don't have a residence permit yet, and I've been here longer than 90 days. I need to know what to do."

The woman's eyes widened as she looked at me, leaned toward me from her side of the glass, then said slowly and in a loud whisper, "You have to leave," with an emphasis on the word,"leave."

"I understand that, but I need to know how to go about doing that," I replied.

She leaned toward me again.

"You have to leave now," she said, still wide-eyed and soft spoken, this time with the emphasis on the word, "now."

Ah, geez. I needed to talk to an American.

"Is there anyone else I can talk to here? Another American citizen, perhaps?" I asked, not wanting to insult her but needing some better advice than the painfully obvious.

"Please take a seat in that room to your left," was her noncommittal response.

RM and I sat down in a tiny room with four chairs and a small table and waited for what seemed like half an hour. My hope of seeing an American -- any American -- walk through the door was dashed when the same woman walked in, bearing sheets of paper in her hand. As she laid them down in front of me, I saw immediately they were copies of the Schengen Agreement of the EU countries. She proceeded to tell me the law regarding my stay, which I already knew.

"Yes, I understand the rules and that I am in violation of them," I said. "But I need to know what to do to get back to the States. I don't even have money to buy a plane ticket."

"But you've been here longer than 90 days, so you have to leave," was her reply. 

I refrained from pulling hair -- mine and hers. I was really frustrated now, and extremely disappointed that when I needed my fellow Americans serving at the U.S. Embassy, they had left me with this very soft-spoken and kind but incredibly unhelpful Slovene citizen. Apparently, I was going to have to ask my question differently to stand a chance of getting some truly useful intel here.

"Okay, so I just buy a ticket and what happens when I get to the airport? Do they detain me when they see I've been here for too long?" Frustration was supplanting fear by now.

"They don't arrest you," she said. "You have to pay a fine." 

Now, maybe we were getting somewhere.

"How much? I asked.

"Four-hundred Euros," she said.

"I can't even afford to buy a plane ticket, how can I pay 400 Euros?" I gasped.

"That's the same as I would have to pay if I stayed in another country too long," she said in the same soft, British English-inflected voice she'd maintained throughout our entire conversation.

Suddenly, I realized why so many people who break the law once are repeat offenders. They can't afford to get out of their life of crime!

"But if you pay them 200 Euros immediately, you can go ahead and leave the EU," she said.

I cocked my head and looked at her quizzically. 

"So, if they catch me and I can't pay, I have to stay even longer until I can go to court and pay my fine and then leave," I said. "Or, I can hand them 200 Euros at the airport and that's that?"

I now had a shadowy mental image of crossing some passport control official's palm with cash and hoping he would take the bribe and let me leave Europe. The woman must have seen that vision playing through my mind.

"I could pay them 200 Euros immediately, same as you, same as anyone," she said. "This is official in the EU."

I slumped back in my chair, despondent over the amount of money I was going to somehow come up to get out of Europe and back to the States. I still felt like a criminal, but at least I knew what I had to do. And, fortunately, bribery wasn't involved so I wouldn't be compounding my sins.

We thanked the woman and left the embassy, gathering our items from the guards and making the drive back to Goce. I was relieved about knowing what to do but totally stressed about how to get it done. 

RM and I had been working on a translation from Slovene to English for a company in Slovenia. We finished it the next day and emailed the invoice, telling them we needed payment right away. I got online to see what my airfare home would be. I couldn't just make the least expensive flight arrangements, which is typically what I do. RM and I developed a strategy for getting me home without incident, and that wouldn't necessarily be the least expensive way.

First, I needed a direct flight from Europe to the U.S. I couldn't risk having some passport control official in another country noticing that I'd overstayed my 90 days and holding me or fining me again for it. Once would be enough.

Second, I needed to choose carefully the airport I flew out of. Pick the right one and I might not have to hand over my on-the-spot fine. RM said the Slovenes would nitpick everything and would notice the problem. Same went for the meticulous character of airport officials in Austria and Germany. Nope. RM told me I needed to fly out of Italy where everyone -- including the officials -- were much more laid back and far less likely to notice my "issue." I searched for direct flights from Italy to the States and fortunately, Delta had one from Venice. Then, another thought entered my mind.

"What happens when the passport control officer in the States sees that I've been in the EU for longer than 90 days?" I questioned RM, as if he was the authority on the subject. "Will they detain me or fine me or something?"

RM chuckled. "Dah-ling, I don't think they care if you've been gone that long. But it's a good thing I haven't overstayed 90 days in the States and am trying to leave from there. Your passport people would definitely notice," he said. 

Now, I had to figure out how to pay for my ticket. I scrounged together as much money as possible in my checking account in the U.S., invoicing two clients a few days earlier than usual and asking them if they could pay immediately. I was still short, so I emailed my good friend, J., and told her about the situation. She saved me again by immediately depositing the difference into my account. I booked my flight for the first week in April, packed my bag and continued to lay low. No matter what. I did not want to do anything that would require me to show anyone my passport. 

During the two weeks before my flight, we pressured the Slovenian company to pay us. That took multiple attempts, but they did, probably blaming our relentless pursuit as "the American way." It was enough for me to have 200 Euros in cash and leave RM with a little money for gas and tolls to and from the airport.

It was a nervous farewell for me after I checked my bag and prepared to go through security for my flight. RM had been reassuring throughout this whole ordeal, but I knew I wouldn't be calm until I was on the plane. I kissed him goodbye and headed for security. I wouldn't be able to talk to him again until I landed in the States; my Slovene phone didn't work in Italy. I prayed that if something went wrong and I was detained, someone at the airport would let me call him.

The security checkpoint involved the usual undressing, scanning and re-dressing. Carry-on and passport wallet in hand, I started that long, dead man's walk to the international gates and toward the line of three Italian passport control officers, each seated in a glass box. I tried to not look suspicious as I approached them, which means I probably looked suspicious as hell or at least conspicuous. There were no long lines of people waiting so I couldn't count on mass confusion. It was pretty much just me and three fashionably dressed officials (yes, even law enforcement is stylish in Italy) on their thrones, waiting for me. I pulled my passport from my wallet and for the tenth time that day, counted the four 50 Euro bills inside. I took deep breath and headed toward Italian bachelor number two, smiled and handed him my passport and ticket.

"Buongiorno, signora," he said, looking me in the eyes.

"Buongiorno," I replied with the most relaxed smile I could muster under the circumstances. Gosh, how I wish I looked like some young American supermodel instead of a dumpy almost 50-year-old woman who probably smelled a bit like wood smoke, mud and by now, sweat. Flirtatious distraction would be a fabulous tool to use right now.

He looked at my ticket, then at my passport photo, then up at me and back down at my photo. He flipped randomly to one of the back pages, stamped it, then looked up at me again, smiling as he handed me back my passport and ticket.

"Grazie. Arrivederci," he said, quickly turning back to his conversation with the official in the next booth.

"Grazie," I replied, a massive smile breaking out on my face. RM had made the right call. Thanks to the laid back, casual qualities of Italians, I was on my way home and had a couple hundred Euros to send back to RM. My life of crime was over. It had been far too stressful for me.

I sat down at the gate to wait for my boarding call, feeling like a huge load had been lifted from my guilt-ridden shoulders. 

"Note to self," I thought, as I settled in to wait. "Get your resident permit."

Note to my readers: I have enabled ads to be placed on my blog; however, I do not choose those ads. As I previewed this entry prior to publishing it, an ad appeared at the bottom of this blog post. The headline: Ever Been Arrested? Since I'm not sure that ad will continue to appear, I wanted to share the irony with you. :)

Excitement. Exhaustion. Panic.

When you operate your own business and you are your sole employee, leaving the office for a few days is always a bit of a challenge. But when you're leaving the country for a couple of weeks, it's a downright struggle. Progress on client projects has to continue despite travel for work or pleasure. So, you work your tail off for weeks, trying to put all of the proverbial balls into your clients' courts to buy you a few day's worth of "free" time. And every aspect of your travel arrangements is dampened by "The Work Factor."

Since the Running Man (RM) had graciously volunteered to make my lodging arrangements in Europe, I passed off The Work Factor responsibilities to him. I needed daily access to free, high-speed Internet from my own laptop computer which, of course, would require the appropriate adapter so my power cord could plug into the circuitry of whatever country I would be in at the time. To simplify my life, RM suggested that I lodge in a single location during the vast majority of my stay. Of course, that decision also undoubtedly simplified his life since he would need to find only one lodging establishment that would offer that lifeline to my sole means of support. 

Working so many hours before my trip didn't allow me to do what I really wanted to spend my time doing -- packing and re-packing, researching places to visit and finding more properties to see while I was there. My excitement about taking my first trans-Atlantic trip didn't help my focus on work, either. I also had to make arrangements for someone to keep an eye on my empty house and not only feed my two outdoor dogs and six farm cats but to take the time to pet them as well. After all, that's what they are accustomed to. Then, of course, there was making sure bills that would come due during my absence were already paid or that I had the necessary information with me to pay them online from Europe, trying to figure out how much money I should take and could afford to take, calling credit card companies and the bank so I could use my debit and credit cards. Well, you get the idea. I had a lot on my mind.

I faced a three-hour drive to the airport in Kansas City the night before I was scheduled to depart. Fortunately, my baby brother and his wife live less than 10 minutes from KCI so they generously put me up for the night and, after a relatively sleepless night, tossing and turning and fearing that I would oversleep, they let me leave my car in their driveway and dropped me off at the terminal well ahead of schedule. By the time I actually sat down on the plane for the first leg of my journey, I was exhausted. I was glad, though, because I assumed I'd be able to get some sleep on the 9-1/2-hour flight from Newark to Rome which I would surely need when I arrived in Europe. I didn't want to get there and have to spend days getting over jet lag. I worried about jet lag a lot because it usually takes me a week to adjust to the mere one-hour switch back and forth between Daylight Savings Time. Sad, I know.

Once I settled into my seat on the plane that would wing me to Italy, I finally had the time and luxury to think about what I was doing. I was so excited about going to Europe -- finally traveling somewhere to see the world. Then, without warning, I experienced what I suppose might be a common and quite natural moment of panic as I thought to myself, "What in the hell are you doing? You're going to countries where you can't speak the language, all by yourself, to look at houses!  Oh, well, no, you aren't going to be all by yourself, you're going to be relying upon a man you hardly know! Are you crazy?"

Deep breath. Sip of incredibly pedestrian chardonnay. Calm.

"You know him well enough. One of your best friends has traveled with him more than once. He's a tour guide. He can speak seven languages. And you don't have to buy a house; you can just look."

Another deep breath. Another sip of wine. Calm again. Try to get some sleep. 

Much to my chagrin, I barely slept during the flight. It's obvious why, on these long flights, people buck up for first-class seats, and it's not about the food and free drinks. As the sun started coming through the plane windows after the long night, I washed my face with the warm, damp towel the flight attendant handed me with her tongs, ate my breakfast and enjoyed my adventure. When the plane landed, without incident and on time, I got off and tried to follow the people I had ascertained, during my shrewd observations on the flight, were far more seasoned travelers than I. I followed them through a security checkpoint then down to the baggage area where my luggage seemed to take forever to come around the belt. I started to nervously check my watch. My arrangements had left me less than two hours between the flight in Rome and the connecting flight to Trieste. When I finally saw my huge, overweight bag (yes, I had paid an extra $50 for the privilege), I grabbed it, tossed my carry-on on top and walked as quickly as I could to customs. The line was longer than one to the only women's bathroom at a KISS concert. And no one except me -- certainly not the customs agents -- was in a hurry. Finally through customs I ran toward my gate which was, naturally, at the other end of the airport.

My step-lively pace suddenly ground to an abrupt halt. "What's this?" I might have actually uttered that aloud. It was another long line, snaking around stanchions and rope. Passport control. While I was fuming, four, very tall German guys in their 20s butted into line in front of me and 100 other people, rudely pushing and speaking loudly. If I spoke German, I'm confident I would have said something. I certainly wouldn't say anything in English, immediately marking myself as an American and having the people of all those European countries standing in line around me thinking I was bossy. So, instead, I stood in line quietly, sweating and praying that I wouldn't miss the connecting flight. My cell phone didn't work in Europe. If I missed the flight, I would have no way to let RM know what had happened.

After what seemed to be an eternity, I finally reached the passport control booth where the agent asked me, slowly of course, what my business was in Italy and how long I was going to stay and where I would go while I was here. Then, he looked at my photo. He looked at me. He looked back at my photo. He rifled through the pages of my near-virgin passport, finally raising an arm, stamp in hand, hovering over an empty page. Yet another look at me then POW! The inked stamp made contact. I didn't even have time to savor the moment. I had 14 minutes to get to the other end of a large unfamiliar airport and to my gate. I started to run.