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Well, f.
A week or so ago, goaded on by my job counselor-guy, I actually looked at the essay section of my Foreign Service exam., and discovered it was due a week earlier than I'd thought--this Wednesday, in fact. Said essay section consists of my absolute favorite sort of thing: write an essay about some occasion when you've displayed X skill. I figured that I had a hole card for the Communication section, since some weeks ago I was hangin' out in the career center when two guys from the DR Congo came in and wanted to sign up on the Maine Job Bank, and no one who actualy spoke French was behind the counter, and I can only listen to people failing to communicate in a language I even sort of speak for so long.
Anyway, I figured, THAT for Communication. Sure, they want a reference to someone who can testify that any example you used actually happened, but that should be straightforward. I'd just track down the woman at the Job Center who was trying to help these guys until I intervened, get her contact info., and we'll be set.
The Job Center, however, has a policy that they won't act as a reference. For anything.
OK, I thought, well, I can still handle this. I'll...track down the actual Congolese guys, I guess. OK, anyone trying to verify my references will have to speak French, but if any organization can find someone who can, it'd be the Foreign Service, right? So I'll go find...refugee services or whatever it's called (across the street, as it turns out) and see if they can put me in touch with them. There can't be THAT many accountants from Kinshasa called Guyguy, and (darnit, what was that guy's name? Serge?) Serge isn't that common either.
Refugee services, of course, couldn't give me info like that, but they did give me the phone number for the head of the local congolese refugee community. I called him up.
"Guigui? No, can't remember him... But Serge, now, Serge is a great guy.."
He gave me Serge's number. Unfortunately, I wrote it down wrong.
< Peter visit then intervenes. No work gets done for three days. >
I called the refugee community leader again this evening, and he gave me Serge's number (again). I called it. A woman answered.
"Allo, Serge?"
"Non, je suis la femme de Serge..."
Alarm bells started ringing in my head at this point: I'd gotten the distinct impression that Serge and Guigui were sharing a bachelor apartment. And when I got Serge on the line, his voice was unfamiliar, and of course he didn't remember any such incident. I had the wrong Serge. Or possibly had the name totally wrong. Either way, I was screwed.
I guess I better hope Fulbright can actually get back to me so I can write about Germany instead.
A week or so ago, goaded on by my job counselor-guy, I actually looked at the essay section of my Foreign Service exam., and discovered it was due a week earlier than I'd thought--this Wednesday, in fact. Said essay section consists of my absolute favorite sort of thing: write an essay about some occasion when you've displayed X skill. I figured that I had a hole card for the Communication section, since some weeks ago I was hangin' out in the career center when two guys from the DR Congo came in and wanted to sign up on the Maine Job Bank, and no one who actualy spoke French was behind the counter, and I can only listen to people failing to communicate in a language I even sort of speak for so long.
Anyway, I figured, THAT for Communication. Sure, they want a reference to someone who can testify that any example you used actually happened, but that should be straightforward. I'd just track down the woman at the Job Center who was trying to help these guys until I intervened, get her contact info., and we'll be set.
The Job Center, however, has a policy that they won't act as a reference. For anything.
OK, I thought, well, I can still handle this. I'll...track down the actual Congolese guys, I guess. OK, anyone trying to verify my references will have to speak French, but if any organization can find someone who can, it'd be the Foreign Service, right? So I'll go find...refugee services or whatever it's called (across the street, as it turns out) and see if they can put me in touch with them. There can't be THAT many accountants from Kinshasa called Guyguy, and (darnit, what was that guy's name? Serge?) Serge isn't that common either.
Refugee services, of course, couldn't give me info like that, but they did give me the phone number for the head of the local congolese refugee community. I called him up.
"Guigui? No, can't remember him... But Serge, now, Serge is a great guy.."
He gave me Serge's number. Unfortunately, I wrote it down wrong.
< Peter visit then intervenes. No work gets done for three days. >
I called the refugee community leader again this evening, and he gave me Serge's number (again). I called it. A woman answered.
"Allo, Serge?"
"Non, je suis la femme de Serge..."
Alarm bells started ringing in my head at this point: I'd gotten the distinct impression that Serge and Guigui were sharing a bachelor apartment. And when I got Serge on the line, his voice was unfamiliar, and of course he didn't remember any such incident. I had the wrong Serge. Or possibly had the name totally wrong. Either way, I was screwed.
I guess I better hope Fulbright can actually get back to me so I can write about Germany instead.
