Recovering: The Passport

When asked how I spent my Christmas vacation, I summarize it with three words: Rome, London, and Administration.

It wasn't a very relaxing holiday.

The day after I returned from Valencia, I started researching what I needed to prepare for the American embassy and French prefecture. I decided to tackle the American embassy first, as the website recommended arriving early in the morning, and told me exactly which papers I needed to bring. At least if I followed these instructions, I knew I'd walk away with what I wanted. Not so for French administration offices.

So I sent a note to my boss telling him that I'd be out of the office on Monday, packed my bag with paperwork and a new book, and psyched myself up for a day of administration.

The US embassy building, or The Chancery, is located on a prime plot of real estate just off the Champs Elysees, within view of the fountains of Place de la Concorde. I'd been to the area countless times, but I'd never seen the embassy before. You just don't see some things until you're looking for them.

As I approached the front lawn of the embassy I remembered a lesson from my high school history class - a country's embassy is a physical piece of that country. I noted with irony that I had managed to make it back to the US for the holidays.

But before I could step on American soil I had to pass the guards. I stood in line behind a handful of others who seemed to be on some kind of reservation list that the guards were checking. I started to panic - had I read something wrong on the website? Should I have made an appointment? When my turn came the guard asked me in French what I wanted. I noticed he had an American accent, but I wasn't about play the confused American tourist. I replied confidently in French: My passport was stolen.

He nodded, and directed me to step to his right. This path lead me straight to the front door of the embassy, bypassing all of the others who seemed to have appointments. Strange, but no complaints from me.

Next I came to security, who politely asked me - again in French - if they could rifle through my bag. The website had warned me to not bring any phones, ipods, or other electronic devices, but as that stuff was all stolen anyway I had nothing to worry about. I handed over my bag, thinking I'd have it back in seconds and could carry on.

The guard reached in and extracted a pair of triple A batteries, a USB thumb drive, and a USB cable: you can't bring these inside. I couldn't help but laugh - what kind of damage could I cause with two dead batteries and a USB cable? He shrugged - this is America after all, and we have tight security these days.

He dumped my terror weapons in a plastic bag and handed me a claim ticket - now I was allowed inside the building.

Dumbfounded, I proceded into the embassy building. Just inside the door I was greeted by a man standing next to a ticket machine. He asked me politely in French what I needed. I wondered again why we were speaking French. I gave the well-practiced answer, and he punched a button on the machine to produce a ticket. He handed it to me and indicated to the large waiting room behind him.

It was the standard administration waiting room, with seats in the middle and a series of numbered windows around the perimeter. However, these windows were not marked "guichet", but "window" above each. This little bit of English amused me, and as I sat there smiling about it I noticed two large framed photos on the wall beside me. President Obama and Hillary Clinton smiled benevolently down on me, flanking an American flag. In a weird way, I was home.

When my number came up half an hour later, I marched up to the window with paperwork in hand. The woman behind the window smiled and said: "Qu'est que vous-voulez?" - What would you like?

I stared at her for a beat - why was she speaking French? Are we not in America? I distinctly remembering the woman in the French consulate in Chicago stubbornly speaking to us only in French. What's the big idea?

I decided I had to play the game. Fortunate for me, I'd told the story so many times by then, I knew all the French words. She nodded, took my papers, and started processing my request.

"Now, you go to the payment window", she declared.

I sat back down and waited for the payment window to call my number. When I was beckoned, the man behind the glass reviewed my receipt and said, "Ca sera cent dollars"- That will be 100 dollars.

I gaped at him, too. Did this man just ask me to pay him 100 US dollars in French? In FRANCE? No..I'm in America. Then why are we speaking French? I am so confused.

I blinked and thought about it - when was the last time I had US dollars?

"Can I pay with a card?"

He took my card (David's card, in fact, because of course, mine was gone) and swiped it through his machine. The machine beeped unhappily and he frowned, turning the card over in his hand.

"The magnetic strip on your card is bad."

"Well the puce works fine". The puce is the metal chip that all French credit card machines use instead of the strip.

"Yes, but we're in America here. You pay with the strip". He was smiling, as if acknowledging the silliness of it all.

Then he inspected the card more closely: "Who is David Basson?"

Ugh.

"Ok, I have euros. Do you take euros?"

He seemed relieved that I was actually carrying European currency: "70 euros, s'il vous plait."

Fine. Done, and I was sent back to wait.

Another 30 minutes passed and I was called to a third window. I held my breath as I approached, until a downright cheery blonde woman behind the glass said,

"Hi there! How can I help you?"

I exhaled in relief and told her my story in English. She was nice, and sympathetic, and chatted amiably while she processed my information swiftly. Then she directed me to sit and wait again - it would be another hour.

40 minutes and three chapters of my book later, I was called to yet another window. Behind this one was an enthusiastic young man with a passport in his hand and a choice: English or French?

I wanted to skip the talk and just reach under the glass and snatch my passport out of his hands, but instead I smiled prettily and said English, please.

He walked me through the process, explained that this was a temporary passport and only good for three months, and I'd have to send it back for a permanent one as soon as I was done with my immediate travel. Then he paused, regarded me for a moment, and said, "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

This question usually leads to "Where are you from", "What is your nationality", or "How did you get your name", and while I don't mind answering these questions, I hardly found this to be the time or place. However, I wasn't about to argue with the man dangling my passport mere inches from my hands, so I said "Yes, of course."

For a moment I thought he was going to ask me out - which would have been extremely uncomfortable - but instead he asked, "Were your parents into Chinese medicine?"

Well that was an entirely new twist on the "How did you get your name" question, and it threw me off for a minute. Where the heck did he get that idea? I blushed and said no, my mother is Vietnamese, you see. He nodded in understanding, then waved his hand dismissively. "Well, I like it very much anyway".

Mmm. Can I have my passport now?

So finally it was in my hands, my temporary passport. It looked just like the real thing, but with fewer pages. Amazing that they were able to crank it out in less than two hours. I tucked it safely into a zippered pocked in my bag, feeling extremely relieved to have identity again. I took a final glance at the President and Secretary of State, bade them a silent thank you, and made for the exit, where I collected my terror weapons and continued on my way, back on French soil.

Next up: the prefecture, and my carte de sejour. Certain to be more challenging, and no choice of speaking English.