And They Say French Food Is the Best...

Some stories have happy endings. This one, au contraire, has a happy beginning. It all started a couple weeks ago when one of Nate’s coworkers from the States contacted him with an interesting proposition. An industry contact from L.A. with whom he does a great deal of business was going to be in Paris and wanted to take someone from the company out on the town to express his gratitude for the thriving business relationship. Would Nate and his lovely wife be interested in meeting the guy for a swanky dinner? Uh, let’s see…gotta untwist our arms before we can answer. Over a series of email exchanges, N ascertained that the guy seemed very friendly. He charged us with selecting a restaurant and instructed us to “go big.” So we chose the legendary Brasserie Bofinger, a Parisian dining institution since 1854 known for its decadent seafood.

We met for dinner Tuesday night and had a blast. The guy was sharp, funny, dynamic, and just gushingly positive. Sure, he was also generous as all get-out, but we genuinely liked him and enjoyed the dinner conversation. We also had an exquisite meal of oysters, lobster, and a sensational couple bottles of Burgundy. Oh la la, indeed. I had a slight hangover on Wednesday, which made me a hair crankier than usual when faced with an annoying workshop attendee who wouldn’t stop checking email throughout the full-day session (jeebus, unplug or just leave, dude!) - but otherwise I felt fine. I had a simple salad for lunch and pasta for dinner (shared with N). For a little tasty treat, I sampled a couple chocolates from the box I received from a student the day before upon her final class with me (soooo nice, right?).

Everything was great until I awoke Thursday morning with an uneasy feeling in my gut. I thought it maybe was just morning fog-induced strangeness, but within an hour I found I was horribly mistaken. What ensued was a full day of just awful, awful food poisoning. The kind when you can't even hold down the half cup of water you just timidly sipped. And just when I would think the whole shebang was winding down to a close, oh no, it would rear its ugly head again – even in the middle of the night. Now, I’m not trying to inspire pity; I’m mostly better now and don’t want to wallow. It’s just that all this setup puts the next morning’s events into sharper relief.

Friday morning rolls around, and I’m not feeling like a million bucks (or rather, not even like 50 bucks). I cancel another day of classes, but I resolve to make it to my carte de sejour (residency card) appointment at the Paris Prefecture (police station). You see, after all the hardships I faced getting my temporary CDS back in August and September, I wasn’t going to muck up my appointment for my permanent card out of fear of never getting a new appointment or getting deported (well, you just never know in this country). I had carefully gathered all the required documents for this round of the CDS process. I felt as confident as one could when dealing with French bureaucracy (meaning, racked with doubt, but determined to make some…any…modicum of progress). I barely remember getting myself out the door. I felt horribly weak, woozy, and still pretty nauseous, but I was equipped with a huge bottle of water, a plastic bag (for emergency…never had to use it, thankfully!), and a fabulous husband who fortunately had to come with me anyway, as I have the enviable position of being married to a French citizen.

When we reached the assigned room in the Prefecture, my head was swimming and I could barely speak. I charged Nate with doing most of the talking, lest my parlez-vous-ing took an unfortunate turn toward something else that begins with “p.” We were called to our appointment and sat down face to face with the woman I’ve since come to affectionately call La Vache Bête (the stupid cow). She was middle aged, with pancake makeup, a helmety coif dyed a copper hue that is an affront to hair dyeing the world over, and an ensemble of imitation Chanel pink tweed jacket, imitation Hermes scarf, and imitation leather skirt. Now, I usually am not this petty and judgmental about a person’s appearance, nor do I ever resort to juvenile name-calling, but the residual effects of spending hours hunched over a toilet had put me on edge, and her atrocious attitude didn’t do much to help her cause. She really was the rudest person I’ve ever encountered in Paris…almost to the point of caricature.

The disaffected sneer of the lifer public employee was already twisting itself into place when we sat down. I started laying out my documents, feebly trying to explain why I was there. This caused a tirade of nastiness equivalent to hissing and spitting (from my hazy perspective). Apparently I wasn’t producing the documents from my folder fast enough, my situation as wife of EU citizen was too unusual (even though it merits its own category of visa), and I was missing ONE document. And every sixth word, “vendredi” (Friday), was nearly barked out at us. It seemed the real issue was that a non-cookie cutter transaction had been dumped onto her plate on a Friday of all days. How dare we?

Nate stepped in and took charge of the situation, which you’d think would’ve helped things along, given his fluent command of the language and near-perfect bill of health. He explained that the document I was missing appeared to be listed in a “you only need one of the following documents” sub-lists of requirements for the CDS. He asked what the arcane description of this required document type meant. He tried to charm her by being overly kind and gracious. But his supplications only seemed to make her even more irritable. She huffed and puffed, rolled her eyes, and in a voice drenched in disdain, she started giving him the third degree. What was his nationality—wasn’t he French, as his passport claimed? Why was he in France anyway? Why didn’t he understand the requirements? Did he even work? (Which we translated as, You, young man, are so completely stupid could it be possible that some idiot would deign to employ you?) And when Nate stopped to translate some of her replies into English…How do you think your wife’ll learn French if you keep speaking to her in English? At this point, I wanted to grab her by her pilling faux-Chanel lapels and scream, “Listen lady, you’re lucky you’re not covered in a pool of my vomit right now, so back the frak off!”

After further dicussion, we determined that I had to make another CDS appointment for February and come back with the appropriate document that was missing – plus three new passport sized photos (I’ve already supplied at least 10 for the entire process, including my temporary visa and temporary CDS, mind you). She dispatched me to the hall to make another copy of a document I had brought (which cost me a euro instead of 20 centimes because the copiers there don’t dispense change), and apparently that’s when Cruella De Ville left the building. She became sociably chatty and almost human with Nate, marveling at the differences between San Francisco and L.A. and my isn’t California nice. But it all crumbled back into disgust as soon as I returned. Well, so much for that famous French hospitality. We finished up and I could barely look at La Vache Bête any longer for fear of really throwing up on her.

There ends the most recent chapter of the CDS saga. As far as the process tends to go, I’m actually faring pretty well – I’ve heard horror stories of people having to go back for one missing document after another and not even being informed each time that they’re still missing certain papers. Hopefully in February things will get straightened out for real. Then I’ll be on the pseudo-fast track to getting a 10-year visa, which is standard issue to all spouses of citizens, and means I won’t have to keep renewing my CDS for the duration of our stay in France, per protocol.

And at this point, I’m pretty much entirely better. I spent Friday recovering at home in a weakened state, barely mustering the appetite for apple juice and plain spaghetti. We missed the Justice show, which we’d been looking forward to for weeks (gawddammit). I wasn’t good for much over the weekend, but I managed to make it outside for some strolling, errands, and a brunch date today. I’m still at a loss as to what caused my bout of intoxication alimentaire. In retrospect, I find it very difficult to stomach (excuse the awful pun) that the renowned haute kitchens of Bofinger did this to me, but I doubt it was anything else, especially the Gerard Mulot chocolates. Or perhaps it wasn’t anything I ate at all. Perhaps my body was having an anticipatory visceral reaction to the upcoming weeklong strike, which starts in two days. It almost begs a very special “would you rather” – endure another day of food poisoning, or a weeklong transportation strike?