A journey of a thousand steps

I decide to attack the visa application process.  It's very bureaucratic, but if I want my guitarist to come here, I have no choice but to play the Immigration game.  There's no point feeling paralysed by it.

I'm not normally wrapped up in red tape; this is not what I do in my day-to-day job.  I'm not weary from it, so I can cope with the prospect of tussling with a Government department.  I will focus on the task and attend to the detail.  I feel buoyed by the fact that I've recently succeeded in extending the scope of my business trademark all by myself, even though I've never practised in intellectual property law.  I should be able to handle this visa challenge.

There are two application forms.  I must apply to be approved as an Entertainment Sponsor, then I must nominate  Eneias as my proposed "act".

It takes me a couple of hours to complete and check both forms, dig out and photocopy bank statements and passport, meet up with a lawyer friend and have him to certify all my documents, photocopy the lot and scan them to computer.  I can't quite supply all the detail required - I'll deal with their requisitions in due course, but let's start the conversation.  They want Eneias' date of birth.  I find it on his Facebook page.  I will have to ask him for a certified copy of his passport.  I can't yet supply evidence of consultation with the Australian Musician's Union; I attach a copy of their email to me advising of their process.

Is my event "for-profit"?  I tick the "not-for-profit" box, doing the "math" for them, and pointing out that there won't be any profit at the end of the exercise.   What would I do if this musician were unable to come to Australia?  My answer - "I would not perform this show, as it is preparation for a show in Brazil, with ticket proceeds to a Brazilian charity".  Will there be a "net employment benefit" for Australians?  Well, the show is 50% Australian content (me), and employment will be generated for graphic designers, printers, venue owners, bar staff and sound and lighting technicians.

A wave of perseverance carries me through.   I have to specify dates for the visit and the shows, but I can't book those dates without knowing how long the process will take.  This is logistically impossible.  I spit in the face of the Catch 22 problem - I write in randomly selected, hypothetical dates.  I am required to notify the Department and the Union of any changes to the itinerary.  So once we've got the visa, I'll change the fake dates to real ones.

I've got two fat piles of paper to send.

When I'm addressing the envelope, I notice that the two applications have to go to different Departments, both at the same Post Office Box.  I mail them in two separate Express Post bags.

Hah, off they go!

Back at the office I email the Musician's Union with as much of the required information as I can.  For the rest of the day I check my inBox repeatedly, hoping to see a reply.  I guess it will take a while for them to read all the stuff I've sent them.

Who knows how long this process will take?  I'll never know unless I make a start.

As they say, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.  And a journey of a thousand steps...starts with the first one.

The power of sleep

Thank goodness for sleep.

Obtaining a visa for Eneias starts to seem very difficult.  There is a lot of red tape.

The process involves three main steps:
1. I have to be approved as an Entertainment Sponsor.
2. I have to nominate Eneias as the "act" I want to bring to Australia.
3. Eneias applies for his visa, quoting my Sponsor Approval Number.

I must provide financial statements for the past six months to demonstrate my worth and capacity to support my musician while he is in Australia.

The documents I submit must be "certified copies".

I am required to consult with the Australian Musicians Union, to show cause why an Australian musician cannot do the job instead of someone from overseas.

There is a "Catch-22" in the Visa process.  The Nomination form requires me to specify the dates of his visit.  And the Musicians Union wants to see a completed Nomination Form.  But how can I book dates with theatres until I know when (and if) he'll get the visa?

In the late afternoon it starts to look impossible.

But I wake up in the morning feeling rejuvenated and ready to attack the process.

This will obviously take a while.  I turn my attention to my show for the Cabaret Fringe.  Finally I am offered dates, and we are able to set times that suit both the venue and my pianist Emma.  I'm doing three performances of my new solo show "Unbreak My Heart".

I'm relieved to have a new project on track, while I unravel the red tape.

It could be very tempting to give up on my Brazilian dream.  But I suppose I can't expect it to be plain sailing, and I shouldn't let this setback defeat me.

Put on your "game face"

Preparing for a show in the Cabaret Fringe Festival is a game of logistics.

Coordinating the availability of the venue with the work schedule of your busy pianist requires patience and diplomacy.

I book a session with my cabaret mentor Catherine.  We work through the whole heart surgery story and she hits on some insights that I hadn't thought of.  She's looking at it from an audience point of view; what will resonate with them?  I come away with pages of notes and a recording of our conversation, both of which I review later.

While I wait to be offered performance dates and times, I book a photo shoot, and in preparation for this, I decide to have some laser treatment on my face.  This appointment has to fit in between a day when I'm giving three conference presentations and the day of the shoot; my face must be healed by then.

Over the past few months I've had several brown blotches treated, with good results.  This pigmentation started appearing on my face when I was pregnant.  It's faded a bit over the years but has never completely gone away.  I want it gone.

I turn up at the clinic on Monday morning, and laser nurse Lucy ushers me into the treatment room.   I point to the particular spots I'd like her to zap.  She declares "You've only got sprinkles now - I'm gonna get rid of them!"  I lie down on the bed and Lucy fits me with heavy, metal eye shades.

She fires up the laser and starts on one side of my face.  It crackles and stings.  Lucy seems a little too delighted to be wielding this tool; she almost breaks into song as she works.  As I lie there, I start to realize that she's treating a much wider area than I had indicated.  I wonder how much it's going to cost; not that I can do much about this now, as Lucy, with Monday-morning fervour, hoses my face liberally with a burning flame.

Since I'm there, I decide to get her to zap a brown patch on each arm.  She does so, with evident pleasure.

Lucy surveys her work and exclaims happily "Ooh, you've had a good reaction!"  She brings a mirror and a face from a horror movie looks back at me.  "I'll bring you some ice", she chirps brightly from the next room.  I slump in an arm chair and hold an icepack to my face, pressing it to my swollen skin.

Twenty minutes later I pay my account, which turns out to be quite a reasonable price.  Lucy offers a parting tip: "You can put makeup over it", she says.  What she omits to mention is that makeup is no match for this mess; I could put makeup on it, but it wouldn't make any difference.

My face is covered in red welts.  Back at the office I explain that I'm OK, don't worry about me; it's just vanity.  Next morning the swelling has gone down but the red blotches remain.  I have to keep remembering to tell clients why I look so terrible; that I haven't been beaten up, I'm not sick or on medication.  I try to get this out of the way early in the conversation or training session.  I don't want them feeling worried for me or being distracted by the grotesque sight.

My daughter says "Mum, why do you even bother?  You're married!"  I tell her it still matters to me when I look in the mirror.  I guess I am vain.

After a few days the redness turns to brown, and after a week it takes on more of a speckled appearance.  Some patches start to flake off, revealing clear, new skin.  It will probably take another week for the mottled look to subside.

By the day of the photo shoot it should be possible to cover it with makeup.

In my daily life I'll have the choice to go makeup-free, but I want a stunning new photo to publicize my new show.

On with the game face.

Back on the road

I return home from my trip.  I'm jet-lagged and tired, and the fatigue opens a gap which permits self-doubt to creep in.

What am I doing?  Am I just wasting my skills?  I could be working as a serious lawyer.  Am I being a "dilettante"?  Am I even good enough?

I feel I've come to a halt.  I have no idea how to get moving again.

I register for the Cabaret Fringe Festival.  This will force me to create a show.

My singing teacher invites me to attend a Saturday morning singing class, based on a new method that he thinks is interesting.  It's a half-day and it's cheap.  I decided to go along, even though that means missing my Portuguese language lesson; I message the teacher to let her know I won't be in class that day.

The session is pretty theoretical; it's all about vocal anatomy and how you can control bits of it to various effects.  It's quite interesting but there's not much in practical terms that I can take away and use.  I would have liked to hear somebody sing, but the only singing we did was in a group.  But this session is a promotion for a week-long singing program that is coming up soon.

Is this what I need next?  Well, an intensive week of singing could be therapeutic.  It would give a huge boost to my skills and confidence.  My diary for that week is blank.  The fee is reasonable.  There is no reason not to do it.  I've come this far; what's another week?

I take a flyer and read about the presenter.  She was part of a group that was very successful.  I never went to see them (too busy being a lawyer), but instantly I recognize the name.  She's a cabaret performer; a woman after my own heart.

As soon as I get home I go online and register for the course.

I also check my email, and there's a message from Eneias' visa agent, forwarding information from Australian Immigration.  OK, it's just a process; I will work through it.   Apparently it takes 2-3 months.  If only I'd known about this earlier, I could have got it through in time.  The thought is maddening, and I have to let it go.

I have to keep going.  I've told everyone what I plan to do, and they're all expecting a show.  Declaring your goals is a great way to make you accountable for them.  At the conference in Vienna I told the story as part of a piece about building relationships internationally, and I've had lots of messages of encouragement.

Right now, I'm being tested.

Now is not the time to give up.

Watch my conference presentation in Vienna

Someone left the cake out in the rain

I pay for the flyers and posters.

Then I open up the parcel and trash the lot.

The airline and hotel payments will be refunded, minus deductions for cancellation fees.

One theatre has been paid in full; the other one sends me an invoice for the balance due.

The ticketing agency promises to charge me "twice the internal cost", whatever that means.

My plans are in ruins and I've achieved precisely nothing.

It's a mess.  I can't help thinking of the song:

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet, green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain

I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again, oh noooooo

I have to keep reminding myself that I do still have the recipe.  The art work for the flyers can be used again; it was only the cost of printing that was wasted.  The bookings can be re-made.  The plan was good; I just need to navigate my way through the bureaucracy.

I contact migration agent Yana to check on the process for becoming an approved "entertainment sponsor".   You never know - this could be my new career; anyone got a phone number for One Direction?

I am still perplexed by the requirement for a work visa.  Lots of overseas artists come here to perform in the Fringe festival - comedians, musicians, magicians.  Do they all busily apply for work visas, months in advance, all sponsored by respectable Adelaide citizens?

The WOMAD (world music) festival is on this weekend, and I pick up a brochure at my local coffee shop.  There are artists from all around the world, but not a single one from Brazil.  Is there some sinister reason for this?

And now that I am living in visa-land, another thought has occurred to me.

Will I need a work visa to perform in Brazil?  I'd better check this out; I don't want to be detained at the airport or arrested on-stage.

Tied up in red tape

Everything is organized for the show in April.  The Brazilian guitarist Eneias is coming to Adelaide to perform with me.  I've booked flights, hotel, theatres.  Tickets are on sale.  Flyers and posters have been printed.

Everything is ready.

But there is one thing I have not prepared for; the labyrinth that is Australian immigration law.

I thought it would be best for Eneias to organize his own visa, rather than trying to arrange it from here.  He has engaged a visa agent, and I have provided the information they required, and have responded to their various questions.  I'd assumed that the visa would soon be issued.

But now Eneias sends me a new form.  What is this?  Application for an entertainer's work visa?  Apparently, this is what he needs if he intends to play in a public performance here.  The form requires him to provide a "sponsorship approval number".  I am supposed to be registered as an "entertainment sponsor".  This is ridiculous.  I'm not a concert promoter.  I'm not bringing the Rolling Stones here to play Adelaide Oval.  Our event is really low-key and small-scale.

I'm on holidays with my husband in Budapest.  This is not what I want to find when I check my email.

Quickly I download and print the form he's sent me, and I suggest responses to some of the questions that he had trouble answering.  I google the process for becoming an entertainment sponsor, and print out the application form.  The accompanying information suggests that the sponsorship and visa applications can be sent together to speed up the process.  My husband has a rest before dinner while I work on filling out the enormous form and ask the hotel staff to scan and email it to me; then I forward it to Eneias.

We email back and forth.  He thinks there is still time to obtain the visa, but I must provide my approval number.  I explain that I don't have one.  We're both using online translation, but it's hard to understand the nuances of each other's conversation.  We're not getting anywhere.  But he sounds as anxious as I feel.

This development has completely knocked me sideways.  I had never thought of our arrangement as one of "employment'.  I was inviting him to come to Australia as a friend, to have a holiday for a week and a half, and to play a bit of music with me.  I had never considered his visit to be an "immigration" issue.  In Australia we are fortunate to travel quite freely.  I can go to other countries to speak at conferences without getting a work visa.  I had assumed that his visa would be a mere formality.

But I was wrong.  We are tied up in red tape.

My husband and I are out sightseeing in Budapest.  I try hard to focus my attention on the sights, but I can't let go of the thought that my carefully-organized plans are falling apart.  I feel panicked.  I try to persuade myself that it's just a temporary glitch; that it will work out.

I am completely unfamiliar with immigration law; I've never had to deal with it before.  I email my friend Yana who is a migration agent in Adelaide.  Yana tells me that the application for this visa comes in three stages.  It could take 2-3 months; maybe longer.  This is not what I want to hear.

It's too hard.  There is a real risk that the visa will not come through in time.  We decide to postpone the show until later in the year.

This is a terrible disappointment.  I set about cancelling all the arrangements.

I must start to unravel the red tape.