Here we are in mid March, and I still haven't finished detailing my carte de sejour story. Bet you thought (or were hoping) I'd forget.
Unfortunately, this story is long but forgotten.
Where was I.
I'd just been shooed out of the Nanterre prefecture and told to try again at the Versailles prefecture with a French police report.
The next day I went back to the local police station to again ask them for a French police report. This was two days before Christmas, and I was greeted by a very cheerless receptionist. I put on my sweetest, cutest face and began to explain my situation.
My bag was stolen, and I lost -
- your passport? Go to the embassy.
Yes...but also my carte de sejour, and -
- Go to the prefecture.
NO. I NEED A FRENCH POLICE REPORT, AND THAT IS WHY I AM HERE.
We don't do that.
Well how do you propose I get a French police report?
I don't know.
The prefecture told me to come here.
Exasperated, she went to the room behind her desk and rustled up a police officer. The wary officer patiently waited while I explained everything again, and took the Spanish report out of my hands back into his room. Probably to check with someone else.
A few minutes later he returned and bent to mutter something to the receptionist. I very clearly saw her indicate to me with a look of "You tell her."
He approached me carefully and explained that they could not provide me with a French police report if I already had a Spanish one. Maybe I should try a translator?
Hah, the last time we hired a translator he did the work at the last minute in his bathrobe while David stood there waiting. And he got my birth date wrong. On a translation of my birth certificate.
Defeated, I took back my Spanish report and hissed a very Merry Christmas to the receptionist as I walked out.
Knowing full well that French administration rules can be flexed one way or another on any given day, I went to the Versailles prefecture the next day with the Spanish report anyway.
The Versailles prefecture is smaller and more pleasant, but the wait was especially long that day, and I beat a new waiting record at two hours. Fortunately, I had picked up another book that morning.
When I was finally summoned I told the usual story to the girl behind the glass. She reached behind her to an assortment of papers and selected a yellow one for me. She held it up to the glass and showed me a list of items to return with. Photos, copy of my passport, etc. Obviously this wasn't getting done today.
She unnecessarily highlighted a few items on the list and slid it under the glass for me to take. Bring these things and your police report to the sous-prefecture in Saint Germain. The sous-prefecture is like a remote branch of the main prefecture. Which - yes - meant I was at the wrong prefecture again.
I had waited for two hours for a list. Maybe if this information was on the internet I could have saved us both some time. I was thoroughly annoyed. As I turned to leave I asked her if a Spanish police report would do. She shrugged - better to get it in French.
Damn. It. All.
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