To be clear, I know that the French police will produce reports for crimes committed in other countries. My boss's wife had her wallet stolen in Barcelona and they went through the same thing. Although I later learned that she didn't actually show the Spanish police report as a visual aid to any officers, so maybe that's how she got hers so easily - maybe there is some kind of rule about multiple reports for the same crime.
After my failure at the police station and my useless visit to the Versailles prefecture, we had Christmas dinner with our friends. And like I said, it was there that Hector proposed the simplest plan - I had to lie.
Easy for a Spaniard to say, the Spanish are notorious for bending the rules. But I am an American and a good girl - I follow the rules.
I squirmed at the idea of lying to the police, but at this point I was out of options. On Christmas Eve (by the way, was my entire Christmas holiday spoiled by Spanish thieves? Yes it was) David drove me to the next town over and we went into the little police station together. And there I put on a forlorn face (which was not difficult to fake) and sadly reported that my wallet was stolen on the metro in Paris. Line 13, near Gare Saint Lazare (incidentally, this is the line that David takes to work every day. It's famous for its crowds). A sweet, understanding police officer took down the information, typed up an official police report, and sent me on my way.
I had a little bit of internal conflict - I had just fabricated a crime that put another chink in the crime statistics of Paris - and in three years Paris had never hurt me (unless you count the taxes - hah). But I had what I needed to get my residence permit back into my anxious foreigner's hands, and that's why I pay all those taxes anyway, right?
At the small sous-prefecture of Saint Germain the wait for a ticket was less than five minutes. The wait to be called was less than 40. The girl behind this glass window reviewed my paperwork, shuffled some things, and told me to come back.
No kidding.
Go to the copy machine over there, make a few copies of your stuff, and come back.
I trotted over to the copy machine with shaking knees and did as I was told. When I returned, I watched and held my breath as she pulled out a coveted carte de sejour récépissé form. A récépissé is an official piece of paper that holds you over legally while your carte is being made. Yes, the Americans can make a brand-spanking new passport in a matter of three weeks but the French need three months to make a laminated card. Go figure.
I kept my eyes trained on the form as she printed it, affixed my photo, and stamped it with the official mark of the prefecture. She slid it under the glass and told me to come back when my self-addressed-stamped-envelope arrived, notifying me that the carte was complete.
Happy day - I was legal! Although I won't be completely comfortable until I have the real ten-year carte back safely in my hands. The récépissé expires in 15 days, so everyone please cross your fingers, say your prayers, and make a little wish to the Sarkozy fairy that everything will be ok and my carte will come true.
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