51 days and counting

A total of 5 people at my job know I'm leaving at the end of August to move to Spain. Okay, maybe 6. Mostly because Thursday Ray came in to get the update of his study's status and proceeded to tell me to leave directions on putting together a study before I leave for Spain. I raised one eyebrow and was like, "huh?" And he's like, you know, before you go to Spain so the next person knows what to do. Of course I fell for it and ended up asking him who told him. His response was something like, "Nobody, but I'm a surgeon and I always go in with confidence." Touché. So, 6 people know. Actually 7.

Yesterday I finally told the main doctor I work with (and the only immediate person I work with who didn't already know). My friend and coworker, Jaime, gave me the pep talk I needed to finally muster up the courage to tell him.

"He probably went home already, so go downstairs and see if he's there. If he isn't, tell him on Monday, if he is, tell him today. Just do it."

At 3:38pm I decided to go downstairs to tell him. While I usually take the stairs from the 8th floor to the 4th floor (tangent: I read somewhere that French women are skinny not because they don't indulge in tasty goods, but because they take the stairs and walk everywhere, which has since inspired me to take stairs whenever possible) I chose to wait for the elevator. 5 million years later the elevator came. And stopped on every floor. When I finally got to the 4th floor, I walked off, made a sharp left around the corner (the kind I hate when other people make because it's a blind curve at that angle) and ran right into the doctor who was on his way home.

Our exchange went as follows:
Me: "I was just coming to see you."
Him: "About budget?"

*Prior to continuing, I should mention this doctor has an accent. I should also mention he is one of my favorite people at work and have a tremendous amount of respect and appreciation for him, which is why it took so long for me to tell him.*

Me: "No, not about the budgets, but you know, I'll just come see you on Monday."

Him: "No, no. Walk with me."
Me: "I'd really rather just come back on Monday."
Him: "No, no."

So there we are, waiting for the elevator in the 4th floor hallway to go down one level to the 3rd floor.

Me: "Well, I just wanted to tell you that I will be leaving at the end of August to move to Spain."
Him: "This a joke?"

We enter the elevator. It's crowded, but yet we continue our conversation.

Me: "No."
Him: "You getting married?"
Me: "No."
Him: "You're sure?"
Me: "About getting married or about going to Spain? Either way, I'm 100--120% sure. Well, maybe 100% seeing as I still am waiting for my visa."
Him: "Hm."

We exit on the 3rd floor and walk to the next elevator.

Him: "So, you have about two month left. Where you going?"
Me: "Sevilla."
Him: "Where that?"
Me: "In the South of Spain, near where your daughter is, near Granada. I, uh, just wanted to tell you because even though I haven't resigned yet and no one really knows, I just thought you should know."

The elevator comes and he steps in.

Me: "So, yeah, I'll get those budgets to you on Monday. Have a nice weekend."

The doors close and I go back upstairs. All this happened within about a 5-7 minute period of time. Jaime says, "He wasn't there, huh." I told her that I ran into him (literally) on his way out and managed to tell him. I'm nervous for Monday, but feel great otherwise. One step closer.

The World Cup has not made keeping things a secret any easier. As the resident Hispanofile everyone keeps asking me about Spain, the Spanish soccer team, and when I am going back to Spain or when will I be moving there. I keep hemming and hawing saying things like, "Hopefully soon, but it's too expensive, plus I've already been back so many times this year." At least it probably won't come as a shock to anyone when I do make the announcement at the end of the month.

After work Friday I took the next small step in finalizing my visa application by taking my recently received FBI report to the UPS store to get notarized. The UPS store is located on Beverly Blvd. a few blocks away from the hospital, but I wasn't quite sure if I'd be able to find parking or not, so I ended up deciding to walk the half a mile (1 full mile round-trip). Imagine all the french pastries I can indulge in now. Anyhow, now I have the affidavit notarized that says my FBI record is legit ('cause I say it is and paid someone to stamp it). Luckily, the LA county registrar doesn't need me to be the person to take in the documents to authenticate the notary so my wonderful mother will be driving to Norwalk to get the authentication for me so I don't have to miss more time from work to deal with more bureaucracy. Then after that I have to figure out a time to make my way Downtown to the Secretary of State regional office for the apostille. And then find a time between 8am-12pm to drop off the FBI report, notarized affidavit, authenticated notary, and apostille to the Spanish Consulate. But step by step. Only 51 days to go.

Tomorrow is the World Cup final between Spain and the Netherlands. Paul the Octopus predicted Spain will win...or he thought the mussel in the Spain tank looked tastier. Either way, viva España!