My Latest Accomplishment

After some time away from blogging, I’m back with the latest installment of my carte de séjour saga. You may remember my posts from months hence, detailing the trials of navigating this horrendously bureaucratic process. Those light-hearted, playfully sarcastic missives were spawned from a more fresh-faced, wide-eyed, innocent (or dare I say, naïve) version of my expat self. My experiences with this process have since turned me into a hardened, cynical (or dare I say, more begrudgingly realistic) woman, one who’s resigned to a potential fate of always missing one document and thus forced to return to the Prefecture every three months – my imagined “Groundhog’s Day”-esque personal version of hell. Overly dramatic? Maybe. Entirely warranted in this country? Yes.

We arrived at the Préfecture at the appointed time of 8:45am with my hefty folder containing every darn official paper the French government deems necessary for the residency process, including copies of both our passports, proof of our marriage translated into French, a bank statement in my name (thank gawd we were able to clear that issue up in a timely five-month manner), my lease, a letter proving I am currently awaiting my French social security number, and our 2006 tax documents. That’s all!

We got on the queue winding practically around the corner from the building entrance and slowly but surely inched our way into the building, where upon entering had to go through “security” – a bag x-ray contraption of the airport variety, except the two guys appointed to the demanding task of watching the items passing through on the screen had their backs turned to the monitor and were busy chatting about weekend plans and showing each other pictures stored in their cell phones. Good thing I smuggled in all that contraband.

Then we went to the dreaded room where dreams are crushed and fates are sealed: the Foreigner Services Department, Americas Region, the French government’s equivalent to the Pit of Sarlac (that was for all you Star Wars geeks), the dominion of my favorite fonctionnaire to date, La Vache Bête, the woman who was painfully malicious on our last visit. We took a number and I said a silent prayer that we wouldn’t be called to her window. After a surprisingly short beat, we were called to the window neighboring hers. Pfew.

On my previous visit, I had only advanced my French skills so far and I’d had food poisoning the day before, so I’d been in no condition to parler français bien. This time, Nate and I equally vowed to only revert to English when absolutely necessary. My initial attempts to speak French seemed to sit well with the lady handling us, but we reached a hurdle when she asked for my dossier. What dossier? You don’t mean the bulging folder of documents I’ve plopped onto your table? No, the dossier this department has prepared. You should’ve received it when the receptionist clocked you in and gave you your number. Go back to the waiting area while we locate it. Great.

15 minutes can be excruciatingly long when you’re tired, not in the least happy to be where you are, and assaulted by a TV screen blaring the French infomercial channel, which you (of course) must pay for the privilege of calling to enquire about the godawful products advertised. After watching some guy shill a parade of tacky Cuisinart-like devices, we were called back.

I started presenting my documents. Of course, one was wrong (because it was so clearly described in the first place), but miraculously, “c’est pas grave” (it’s not serious). What follows is a long period of the fonctionnaire examining the documents and hand-writing some details in my dossier. At one point, La Vache Bête peers over and seemingly recognizes us. We politely smile and say hello through slightly gritted teeth, but she’s surprisingly nice and starts making small talk. She grumbles (like the last time we saw her) that she’s annoyed to be at work and it’s Friday, but still barely 9:00. Nate takes this cue to launch into a long complaint about his workweek (which, admittedly, was not a cakewalk what with two days of unnecessary training, a one-day business trip to Montpelier, and now this). It works like magic, as she’s nodding sympathetically and making comments of solidarity. Nate has broken the barrier by speaking her language, the lingua franca of bitching and moaning. I proceed to win the ladies over by dramatically rolling my eyes and saying teasingly, “Ah, c’est dure, c’est très dure “ (Oh, it’s tough, it’s so tough). Even though I’m not speaking in complainy code, they like the marital theatrics.

Eventually the fonctionnaire is satisfied and has drained all the ink in her pen writing in my file. However, it’s not over yet. I have to go to a different building in the complex to make my requisite medical exam appointment, which consists of a series of medical questions and an x-ray (in case, you know, Jimmy Hoffa or America’s secret Iraq strategy is hidden in my rib cage). I schedule my appointment and get a brochure about the government services provided to naturalized residents. I am “entitled” to (more like required to commit to): an opportunity to attend a collective meeting to welcome newcomers (I’m not much of a newcomer after nearly six months of living here, but OK), an individual interview to assess my level of French (hmm), a day of civic training to present the fundamental rights, principles, and values of the French Republic (let the propaganda begin), and information session on life in France (but will it be snarky?), and if I cannot speak French, a language training course adapted to my needs (that would pretty darn cool, if not for…) culminating in the examination to obtain the initial diploma in French. Ending in this friendly warning label: “If you do not respect your commitments, the préfet could terminate your contract, refuse to renew your residence permit or to issue a residence card.” Jeez. I haven’t heard anything about this.

Anyhow, I returned to the Americas Region office to make a copy of my medical appointment slip and turn it in, so it could be added to my bulging dossier. I have to go back one last time after the medical exam, at my leisure (no appointment = spending half the day waiting to get seen, probably) to finally receive my resident permit. But I can’t do this right after the medical exam. No, I have to wait at least one additional month after then for reasons that are unclear. Well, I won’t question it. All I know is, I’m two months away from getting the damn card, at last!

And so ends the latest chapter. I’m happy to report that the steely pessimism I’d cultivated all this time was for naught. Now that I’ve passed the most annoying and time-consuming of obstacles, a weight has been lifted. Or maybe not. Gotta figure out this language exam situation…although I can probably pass with flying colors if I demonstrate fluency in the lingua franca of complaining.