How Not to Get a French Driver's License

According to the French government, this is what you need to get a French Driver's License:

1. Passport + copy
2. Residence permit + copy
3. Current driver's license + copy
4. Certified translation of current driver's license
5. Letter from home country stating the date that original license was obtained
6. Translation of above letter
7. Copy of utility bill proving residency (no, an original is not acceptable)
8. One pre-addressed A5 envelope with 3,34 euro postage
9. One application form
10. One whole morning to spend at the prefecture

And THIS is the easy way, because Michigan has an exchange agreement with France. "All" we have to do is turn in our old licenses and get new ones.

If we had come from another state without an exchange agreement, we would have had to take the infamous French driving test. And personally, I'd rather walk to work then take that test.

When Roch and Sue lived in France, Roch spent four years driving around with his Michigan driver's license. Dave and I were hoping to do the same, but the car insurance company had other ideas. But since we bought a car before we had our residence permits (#2), they gave us one year on our Michigan licenses. Which is the same amount the French government allows before we have to take The Test.

So about a month ago we decided that we might as well get going with this inevitably painful process. The thing we were worried most about was the letter from the Michigan government stating the dates that our first licenses were issued. It's not exactly the kind of thing you go to the Secretary of State or DMV to request.

Fortunately-ha ha!-my dad works for the Michigan government, and within a few phone calls knew exactly who we needed to talk to. So it turned out to be the easiest step of the process, and today I was fantasizing about how easy life would be if my dad worked for the French government.

So we had the letters, but they expired within 30 days. Well, of course, nothing gets done in France in August, so in early September I started looking for an official translator. With the help of the relocation company (when they returned from holidays), I got the name and phone number of a guy and contacted him last week.

Gerard was certainly a character on the phone. When I first tried speaking to him in French (yes, of course the translator speaks English but I didn't want to be presumptuous), he immediately cut me off and said "Would you rather we speak in English?" with a proper British accent. I continued in English, and when he spoke again, he had changed his accent to American. How funny.

Anyway, I sent him faxes of our licenses and the letters from the Secretary of State. On Monday, I received a fax at work (Gerard doesn't have e-mail and doesn't seem to be too fond of the phone) that the translations were done and to please send payment. Well, Dave and I had planned a trip to the prefecture on Thursday, and we knew a back and forth mailing (the check to Gerard, the translations to us) would take at least a week, so we decided to drive to his place to pay and pick up the translations ourselves.

So last night after work we drove to the other side of Paris to the sleepy suburb where Gerard lives. It was my mistake, making arrangements to meet him right after work, because the rush hour traffic in Paris was painful and we were over an hour late.

At chez Gerard I went to the house while Dave waited in the car. I was ushered in the front door, which, surprisingly, led down to the basement. Gerard, who had to be at least 80 years old, led me to the back of the basement, took my check, and said "Wait here".

So there I was, in some random old guy's basement, in some unknown suburb in France, at night, looking at the rusty garden tools, thinking that this is what they make horror movies about.

It must have been 10 minutes before he hobbled back cheerfully, not with a bottle of chloroform, (by then I'd decided that Gerard probably preferred something less messy than knives or garden tools), but with carefully typed translations of our licenses.

"What about the letters?" I asked.

He waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, you probably won't need them. But it depends. If you do, just call me back. It will cost you more, you know."

I didn't want to argue, it was too late anyway, and I wanted to get out of the basement. When Dave and I got home we examined the list of requirements again. "Look," Dave said, "it says official translation of our licenses. Here is just says 'translation' of the letters. We can do it ourselves."

So were up late last night, struggling to translate the letters. Just before bed I sent one to Wally for him to check, and when I got up this morning he had sent back the corrections. Actually, he hadn't so much as corrected our French as rewrite the whole darned letter.

We left the apartment at 8:15, worked through the maze of La Défense, found a parking spot, and walked to the prefecture just before the license exchange office opened at 9.

Here's how the rest of the morning went:

8:55 Took a number ticket from the automated machine: "You have 3 people in front of you. Your wait will be approximately 11 minutes". How clever and helpful, this ticket! Love France.

9:10 Office opens and accepts first ticket

9:40 Our number is called. We walked to the little office, which is more of partition, and sat down together with cheerful "bonjours". The unsmiling woman said in French "Have you visited the reception desk?" We had. Months ago. They gave us the stupid list. Dave said "oui" and opened his folder full of stuff. She glanced at the pile of documents, and said "NON". She pointed to a sentence at the top of the list. "You must visit reception before coming to the office". But we had, we pleaded. Non. Go back. And next time, don't come together. But we're married, Dave argued. It doesn't matter.

Hate France.

9:45 Got in reception line, which at this point is nearly out the door.

9:55 Take two more number tickets. There are 10 people in front of us.

10:00 Reach receptionist. He quickly goes over our documents and separates them into neat piles before stuffing each set into a clear plastic folder and handing them back. Useful.

10:30 Our first number is called. Dave leaves and I fidget in the waiting area.

10:32 Dave returns for The List of Things You Need, which the receptionist had put into my folder. Apparently even the stupid list is on the list.

10:40 David storms out of the office. I jump up: my turn? He beckons me over to the side while my number flashes on the board. "It's not going to happen. They want the the letters officially translated".

Really really hate France.

As we marched out of the prefecture, the gray cartoon clouds storming over our heads, he filled me in.

Apparently when the grumpy woman pointed out that our translations weren't stamped by an official translator (if only she'd known they were translated by a drunk rock journalist), Dave had argued that The List did not say "official translation". "Mais c'est logique!" she told him.

"Logique!" David scoffed as we put the prefecture behind us. "There is nothing logique about the French government!"