Lady Gets a Tier 1 Visa

One of my least favorite parts of living in London is the UK Home Office's penchant for changing the rules of my visa. First they changed the name from HSMP (Highly Skilled Migrant Programme) to the yawn-inducing Tier 1. Then they decided that instead of having just an undergraduate degree, you have to have a Masters. Then, after the uproar that ensued following that change, they decided that if you already had the visa, you didn't have to have a Masters but if you were a first time applicant, you did. It gets even more confusing, but I'll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that I don't wish the UK Tier 1 visa application process on anyone.

All of this is relevant now because I just celebrated my two year anniversary of living in London. That anniversary also coincided with the expiration of my visa, so I had to apply to renew it. The visa is simple: you get points for age, earnings, UK experience, and education. Get enough points and you get a visa. Given that the Tier 1 visa is essentially the same as my HSMP visa but with a new name, it would seem that this process would be simple and straightforward. It's not.

The first problem I encountered was with the Earnings section of the application. In this section, you have to prove that you made a certain amount of income during 12 of the last 15 months. Unfortunately, to prove this income, you have to have two sources of documentation to prove it. One of those is bank statements. However, if your bank statements are e-statements, you have to have your bank stamp them with the official stamp of the bank.

What the Home Office doesn't realize is that the UK is the only country in the civilized world that still uses a physical stamp for banking purposes. When I called my bank in the US to ask them to stamp my statements, they were utterly confused. Seven phone calls to seven different branches later, I finally found one that had a stamp.

Then came the process of sending the statements to my mother along with a letter of authorization for her to get them stamped on my behalf. She was kind enough to do this for me, then mailed the statements to me. That would be the end of the story except for the fact that the good people of the Royal Mail decided to go on strike for a few weeks. Needless to say, I never received the envelope with the statements, and had to repeat the entire process. It took almost a month.

The next problem came with the UK Experience part of the application. This section gives you five points for having studied in the UK (not me) or for having worked in the UK (me). The problem here is that at least a certain amount of your earnings have to be "UK earnings." What does that mean? Does that mean that this includes earnings made while working in the UK but getting paid in the US (which was my case for awhile), or does that only include earnings made while working in the UK and being paid in the UK? I have no idea.

Apparently neither do the people at the Home Office help desk, which I called multiple times and from which I got multiple different answers. Incidentally, none of those answers were the correct one, as I later learned when I was awarded these five points but not in the way that the people at the help desk claimed that the points would be awarded. This begs the question: if the Home Office doesn't know the answers to my visa questions, how in the world should I be expected to know the answers?

The third problem with the visa came when the application was updated after I had already printed all 150 pages of it. I then had to kill several additional trees to print another copy, after which I nearly killed myself when I saw that the cost of the application had more than doubled in one day. 850 pounds later, there's still no guarantee that they'll give you the visa. And if they don't, they keep your money. How kind of them.

There were many more obstacles to my Tier 1 application process, but I'll stop there for now lest I scare anyone off from applying for one in the future.

After the ordeal of the application process and the agony of waiting to see if I would get approved, I finally received my visa in the mail and had a small impromptu dinner celebration at the local pub. After two years of anxiety over whether or not I would get my visa renewed, it was such a relief to have my Tier 1 in hand.

Yes, the UK is now stuck with me for at least three more years. After that, I'll have to apply for indefinite leave to remain, which I've heard is a much easier process than the Tier 1 application. I'll believe it when I can sit down and apply for it in less than two months, after having spent less than two hours on hold with the help desk, after printing out the application less than two times, and after less than two weeks of postal strikes right when I need the government-run enterprises to come through for me.

Lady at Cheltenham Racecourse

With my year as the Face of Ascot behind me, I wasn't sure when I would next make it back to the races. But at Royal Ascot in June my boyfriend and I were introduced to the executive director of Gloucestershire's Cheltenham racecourse. He kindly invited us to spend a day at the races in Cheltenham, an offer which we took him up on over the weekend.

As anyone who was in England on Saturday can attest, we chose the worst day of the year to go to an outdoor event. We woke up on Saturday morning to pouring rain and heavy wind, hoping that it would turn to sunshine after a few minutes as the weather tends to do in these parts. Unfortunately, we weren't so lucky. As we drove to Cheltenham, we sped through an endless cycle of drizzle, downpour, and dominating winds.

We had a bit of luck when we arrived at the racecourse and found a small break in the rain. Unfortunately, the mud on the ground had more staying power than the water in the sky, and we arrived at the entrance in a long line of racegoers with soiled shoes and freezing feet.

The rain started back up again as soon as we entered the grounds, and we made a somewhat indirect beeline for the well-hidden Royal Box, which was where we were to enjoy lunch. Guarded by an older man in a military uniform, the Royal Box was somewhat intimidating at first glance. But as soon as we gave our names—which were, in this case, Mr. and Mrs. My Boyfriend's Last Name...sigh—the stoic guard broke out a genuine smile and told us to enjoy our day.

We headed up a small staircase into the Box and were immediately greeted by the executive director. He introduced us to a number of Lords and Ladies, an MP, a local government councillor, and a number of other people with very interesting-sounding jobs. All of them were very welcoming to the foreigners from California.

We sat down to a very impressive lunch at 12:30, enjoying smoked salmon, lobster, and fresh crab for starters, and then a whole array of roasted meats and fish for mains. Between courses we took a break to watch the first race, which we completely forgot to place any bets on. It was still a treat to watch, though, as the setting is absolutely beautiful. The bright green fields of the course were offset by a stunning mountain backdrop, complete with a tiny rainbow that appeared compliments of inclement weather.

After dessert, which I'm sad to say I missed (not by choice but by my inability to eat my mountains of roast beef, poached salmon, and gratin dauphinoise quickly enough), we placed bets on the remaining races and spent a lovely afternoon conversing with new acquaintances, watching the races, and exploring the racecourse.

The duration of the last of those activities was somewhat truncated by the weather, which was somehow timed to get exponentially worse every time we stepped out the door. We got enough of a chance to walk around, though, and discovered that while Cheltenham racecourse is a world apart from Ascot racecourse in a cultural sense—trusty tweeds took the place of fancy frocks and race watchers stepped in for people watchers—the spirit and excitement of the races proved universal.

Back at the Box, we watched the final races, enjoyed tea with an MP, and made our rounds to say our good-byes at the end of the day. On our walk back to the parking lot we watched the rain grow from a light mist to an absolute waterfall, and couldn't help but laugh as we hurtled ourselves into our car, drenched to the bone and covered in mud. It was certainly a different ending from my last day at Royal Ascot, but it was nonetheless a thoroughly amusing end to a great day at the races.

Lady Goes to the Dentist

After two years of living in the UK, I thought I was done with "firsts." But on Monday I realized that there are still a few experiences I've been putting off. One of those is dentistry.

Okay, okay, so I know it's a stereotype to refuse to see a dentist in the UK just because the country doesn't have the best reputation for dental hygiene and orthodontics. Maybe I've seen Austin Powers a few too many times. Maybe my former landlady—the evil one with the bad teeth—scarred me for life. Or maybe I'm just averse to dental change.

But after visiting my childhood dentist every time I went back to San Francisco for my first two years in London, I finally decided to put UK dentistry to the test. I have to admit that the decision was driven more by the fact that my company provides UK dental insurance than by an actual desire to experience UK dental care firsthand, but either way, I went.

My boyfriend recommended a dentist on Connaught Street and told me that the dentist was US-trained. That was comforting. It was also comforting that there was a Jimmy Choo boutique a few doors down. Where there are high quality shoes, there must be high quality dentists, right?

I heard American accents as I walked into the office, and was hoping that my dentist would be from the States. No such luck. But when he inquired after my accent as he pressed the button to recline the chair, he comforted me with the good news that he had gone to dental school at USC. I relaxed. A little bit.

I'm not sure if it was just his style or if all UK dentists do this, but he spent the next ten minutes or so poking around my mouth and telling me exactly what he was looking for. It was almost as if he didn't think I had ever seen a dentist before. Maybe there are people in the UK that are over 25 and haven't, like my evil former landlady. Or maybe he was just one of those people that like to over-explain everything.

He gave my teeth an overall score out of 25 (I got a 2, which is counterintuitively good), then sent me down to the basement to get my teeth cleaned. Oh, but before that he told me that he didn't need to see me more than once a year. For someone who was raised on the gospel of semi-annual dental checkups, I was a bit disconcerted. I guess it's a good thing that my teeth are holding up that well, though. I should see it as a positive.

The cleaning stared out just like any American teeth cleaning, but with a few alterations. First, the hygienist didn't have either a water sprayer or a saliva sucker, so I was stuck swallowing mouth-full after mouth-full of that gritty toothpaste stuff they use to polish your teeth (orange flavored, incidentally).

Second, she made me sit up and rinse my mouth out with fluoride a few times, which seemed a bit strange. Third, instead of scraping the will to live out of my teeth with the scraper thing and then polishing them with the polisher thing, she did a bit of a scrape-and-paste combo. I didn't really feel one way or the other about it.

The thing I did feel one way about was the bill at the end of the appointment. A whopping 316 pounds was lifted off my credit card, the majority of which my meager insurance policy won't cover. Apparently my boyfriend hadn't noticed this when he had seen the dentist because his insurance is much better than mine, and covered the entire cost. Sigh.

I walked back down Connaught Street and past Jimmy Choo, realizing that maybe I should have known that the boutique's proximity to my dentist's office was not only a sign of high quality, but also a sign of high prices.

So now it's back to American dentistry for me, if only because even without any insurance at all my dental bills are lower there than they are here. There is certainly a first time for everything, but that doesn't mean there has to be a second.

Lady in Leeds

Today I took the fastest business trip of my life. I wanted to meet with a client up in Leeds, but the best prices on train tickets were only available if I arrived in Leeds just before noon and departed just after 2pm. After a bit of indecision, I bought the tickets, agreed to hold the meeting with the client at the train station, and hoped for a delay-free train trip.

Serendipitously, my train arrived early, the client arrived early, and the meeting ended with just under an hour left before I had to head back to London. Not wanting to while away the time in the Starbucks at Leeds train station, I asked my client to point me in the direction of "things to see" and set out on the fastest city tour of my life.

My client pointed me towards Briggate, a wide pedestrianized street with historic shopping arcades branching off of either side. My first stop was Victoria Quarter and its adjacent—and in my opinion more beautiful—twin, County Arcade. Brimming with holiday lights, full of wrought-iron Victoriana, and chock-a-block with luxury shops like Vivienne Westwood and Harvey Nicks, these two shopping areas were a delightful blend of beautiful design, both Victorian and contemporary.

After speed walking through the arcades, I raced back out to Briggate and headed north to The Headrow. Home of the famous Town Hall and the adjacent twins of the Leeds Art Gallery and The Henry Moore Institute, The Headrow was all Victorian-architecture-meets-contemporary-design.

Glancing up at the larger-than-life clock dwarfing the Town Hall's dainty cupola, I picked up my pace and sped back down Park Row and over to Bond Street. I followed the pedestrianized walk to Commercial Street, then beat a path to the Corn Exchange, a giant domed building that used to house maize and now houses two boutiques, a gym, and a food court.

The Corn Exchange was so desolate that at first I wondered if I was in a private office building. Then I saw the enormous sign begging potential tenants to rent space in the building. Ah, the recession.

I took a few pictures of the architecturally-thought-provoking-yet-mysteriously-tenant-free space, then walked back outside to check out a few more streets before my time was up.

Stumbling upon a market on Vicar Lane that sold everything from two-inch purple acrylic nails to pink foam curlers to Greek food to Tinkerbell figurines, I couldn't help but feel like I was worlds away from the nearby chi chi boutiques of Victoria Quarter. Bewildered, I exited, grabbed a quick sandwich, and flew back to the train station.

The giant clock in the station read 1:46pm when I entered, and shortly thereafter I was safely in my seat on the train. I felt exhausted from my speed walking tour of the Leeds city center and glad to not have to look at another clock until I got back to London.