Having anticipated a very long process of gathering the necessary documents for my application to study in Morocco, I haven’t up to this point been too frustrated each time a new and interesting hurdle pops into my path.
To clarify and update: I have the scholarship, I know my host country. But I don’t yet know exactly where I’ll be taking classes. I have to apply through a government agency in Morocco, via the American embassy (are you still with me?) so that they might place me in a program.
This application requires that I submit a pile of documents so high that just to list them (plus translations and certified copies) takes about an entire page. Typed in 12 point font.
So at this point I’ve gathered the most annoying items–medical clearance (long story, but not interesting), criminal file, replacement IB diploma (£36)…
To give you an idea of the amount of energy that’s gone into this application (loving energy), consider this. And this will make more sense for those of you who know me best: Yesterday I went to Staples to buy a plastic report folder, with several pockets and tabs, to organize my application. Which I’ll send to Morocco.
I don’t think so much love and care and brand-new plastic folders went into even my college application.
And so I arrive at the point where all I need is to certify copies of my documents. This is the last piece of the puzzle, the ultimate step towards Morocco, which can only be executed once I’ve jumped through so many hoops to begin with…and my impatience is creeping up on me.
Every time I scan the application directions one more time I tense up, expecting a roadblock (like the time, this morning, when I found out I also had to submit a sworn statement. Sworn. Because the plastic folder doesn’t speak for itself? I guess they don’t know me well enough…). I’ve already scared away one notary public. She was spooked by the ‘international’ thing, and I had to spend a half hour googling “how do I certify a document?”
But boy, when I FedEx that heavy sucker, I’ll be able to breathe a little easier, clear my desk of copies of my passport and drafts of my awkward formal French letters…and hope to God that the original copy of my birth certificate doesn’t get lost in the mail, or someone’s desk.