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.
Showing posts with label Expatriation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Expatriation. Show all posts
3.13.2010
Recovering: The Carte de Sejour - Round 2
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.
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.
2.01.2010
Recovering: The Carte de Sejour - Round 1
With my passport application underway, I set out to tackle a far more painful process: recovering my carte de sejour, or residence card.
The day before setting out on this administration adventure I had paid a visit to our local police station. I had heard from others with previous experience that I needed a French version of my Spanish police report because of course a police report in a foreign language isn't going to do anything for me.
I brought David along to help with any language problems, and we walked to the station together. Since it was a Sunday there wasn't a receptionist, but an officer on duty met me in the waiting room. We explained the situation and he scanned over the Spanish report.
"This report is fine," he said.
"But it's in Spanish," I insisted.
"No no. It's ok. You can use the Spanish one."
Fine with me.
So the next day after I had secured the temporary passport, I was off to Nanterre.
My absent carte de sejour had been issued from Nanterre, even though my current prefecture is in Versailles. I figured I should go to the birthplace of my carte and took the train from the American Embassy outside the city limits to Nanterre. I wound up La Defense - which is the city next to Nanterre - around lunchtime, and knowing full well that I shouldn't bother with any administration office during lunch break I decided to feed myself while I waited for the second half of the day.
Remembering a sushi bar somewhere in my memory, I surfaced from the train station and maneuvered my way around the professionals on lunch break into the mall. There I found the sushi bar, completely full and with a line of people waiting for tables. Good news is that single diners are easy to squeeze into a bar, and soon I was seated in front of the conveyor belt, eying the fish and rice as it rolled by.
Best French sushi lunch ever.
Anyway, that's not the point.
After filling up on lunch, I psyched myself up for the prefecture. But not before a quick stroll through the bustling Christmas market that had been set up in the square in front of the mall. I'm a sucker for Christmas markets.
French Christmas markets are not as charming as German markets in my opinion, but maybe that's because I'm desensitized to French culture now. What did impress me was a giant cast iron skillet - maybe two meters in diameter - filled with potatoes, ham, and reblochon cheese, cooked by a guy with a long wooden stick. If you're not familiar with the smell of reblochon cheese, it's a rather pungent scent. The taste is far less offensive, however, and this delicious concoction is called a tartiflette (I had to provide a link to the French Wikipedia because the English version doesn't do it justice).
Anyway, I'm digressing again. But isn't French cuisine make a more interesting story than my continued misadventures in administration?
Finally at the prefecture, I walked into the newly redesigned foreigners' department, which was lovely enough but didn't mean that the lines were any shorter. I queued for a good thirty minutes before I could explain my predicament to a girl behind a window who promptly handed me a ticket. I don't suppose I could have pushed a button on a machine and done that myself 30 minutes ago?
I planted myself in a seat - at least the the redecoration efforts had added chairs - and continued along in my book until my number was called again nearly an hour and a half later. I rose, shook the blood back into my legs, and shuffled to my appointed window.
Surprisingly, the girl behind the window was smiling and pleasant. Maybe they improved the employees along with the remodeling. I told her what had happened and slid my papers under her bulletproof glass (France might not believe in the guns like Americans do, but if anyone is going to go nuts and start shooting, I'd wager they'd start with the prefecture).
She nodded and began filling in papers, and I felt a surge of progress. She reviewed the photocopy of my old card and tut tutted in sympathy: "Oooh, it was a new card, too!" like I'd just suffered the death of a kitten.
I began filling in forms on my side of the counter and paused at the field for my address. Do I use my current address, or my old address?
At this point I knew I was a goner. If I used my old address they would send the card completion notification to our old apartment in Levallois. If I used my current address she would tell me I was in the wrong prefecture. Nothing to do but face the music.
"Umm....I've moved..."
And there you have it. I was in the wrong prefecture. She frowned at me in sympathy again and promptly returned my papers. Go to Versailles. Bring all this stuff, and a copy of the police report. A French police report.
Having wasted half my day for nothing but not the least bit surprised, I collected my possessions and trudged out of the prefecture, vowing once again to never come back.
I mean it this time.
On the train home I finished my book. The same book I'd started that morning.
The day before setting out on this administration adventure I had paid a visit to our local police station. I had heard from others with previous experience that I needed a French version of my Spanish police report because of course a police report in a foreign language isn't going to do anything for me.
I brought David along to help with any language problems, and we walked to the station together. Since it was a Sunday there wasn't a receptionist, but an officer on duty met me in the waiting room. We explained the situation and he scanned over the Spanish report.
"This report is fine," he said.
"But it's in Spanish," I insisted.
"No no. It's ok. You can use the Spanish one."
Fine with me.
So the next day after I had secured the temporary passport, I was off to Nanterre.
My absent carte de sejour had been issued from Nanterre, even though my current prefecture is in Versailles. I figured I should go to the birthplace of my carte and took the train from the American Embassy outside the city limits to Nanterre. I wound up La Defense - which is the city next to Nanterre - around lunchtime, and knowing full well that I shouldn't bother with any administration office during lunch break I decided to feed myself while I waited for the second half of the day.
Remembering a sushi bar somewhere in my memory, I surfaced from the train station and maneuvered my way around the professionals on lunch break into the mall. There I found the sushi bar, completely full and with a line of people waiting for tables. Good news is that single diners are easy to squeeze into a bar, and soon I was seated in front of the conveyor belt, eying the fish and rice as it rolled by.
Best French sushi lunch ever.
Anyway, that's not the point.
After filling up on lunch, I psyched myself up for the prefecture. But not before a quick stroll through the bustling Christmas market that had been set up in the square in front of the mall. I'm a sucker for Christmas markets.
French Christmas markets are not as charming as German markets in my opinion, but maybe that's because I'm desensitized to French culture now. What did impress me was a giant cast iron skillet - maybe two meters in diameter - filled with potatoes, ham, and reblochon cheese, cooked by a guy with a long wooden stick. If you're not familiar with the smell of reblochon cheese, it's a rather pungent scent. The taste is far less offensive, however, and this delicious concoction is called a tartiflette (I had to provide a link to the French Wikipedia because the English version doesn't do it justice).
Anyway, I'm digressing again. But isn't French cuisine make a more interesting story than my continued misadventures in administration?
Finally at the prefecture, I walked into the newly redesigned foreigners' department, which was lovely enough but didn't mean that the lines were any shorter. I queued for a good thirty minutes before I could explain my predicament to a girl behind a window who promptly handed me a ticket. I don't suppose I could have pushed a button on a machine and done that myself 30 minutes ago?
I planted myself in a seat - at least the the redecoration efforts had added chairs - and continued along in my book until my number was called again nearly an hour and a half later. I rose, shook the blood back into my legs, and shuffled to my appointed window.
Surprisingly, the girl behind the window was smiling and pleasant. Maybe they improved the employees along with the remodeling. I told her what had happened and slid my papers under her bulletproof glass (France might not believe in the guns like Americans do, but if anyone is going to go nuts and start shooting, I'd wager they'd start with the prefecture).
She nodded and began filling in papers, and I felt a surge of progress. She reviewed the photocopy of my old card and tut tutted in sympathy: "Oooh, it was a new card, too!" like I'd just suffered the death of a kitten.
I began filling in forms on my side of the counter and paused at the field for my address. Do I use my current address, or my old address?
At this point I knew I was a goner. If I used my old address they would send the card completion notification to our old apartment in Levallois. If I used my current address she would tell me I was in the wrong prefecture. Nothing to do but face the music.
"Umm....I've moved..."
And there you have it. I was in the wrong prefecture. She frowned at me in sympathy again and promptly returned my papers. Go to Versailles. Bring all this stuff, and a copy of the police report. A French police report.
Having wasted half my day for nothing but not the least bit surprised, I collected my possessions and trudged out of the prefecture, vowing once again to never come back.
I mean it this time.
On the train home I finished my book. The same book I'd started that morning.
1.28.2010
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.
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.
6.24.2009
I'm Legal!
I suppose it's only karmic that those who face obstacle after obstacle with French administration should have their own turn of good luck. Today was my day.I received news on Monday that my 10 year residence permit - carte de sejour - was ready for me to pick up. I was pleasantly surprised; my temporary permit expires this Friday and I was anticipating a few uncomfortable weeks of illegality before my permanent card was ready.
The consulting company recommended that I go to the prefecture between 2 and 4 p.m. to avoid the lines, so I took off from the office after lunch today. I brought my charged ipod and an apple and braced myself for an afternoon waiting in line with hundreds of other immigrants. But this time I didn't mind the wait - I was getting my 10 year carte!
I arrived in Nanterre and found a parking spot easily - another unexpected surprise. I breezed through security, and when my bangle bracelets set off the metal detector the guard waved me past. I guess a cursory glance at my summer office outfit would tell anyone that I wasn't carrying a set of car keys on my body, let alone a weapon.
Once inside the prefecture, I made a beeline for the information desk. I needed to buy something called an OMI stamp in order to obtain my card. This is typical France - for example, when you get a parking ticket, you can't just write a check and pop it in the mail. You have to buy a special 35 euro (or whatever the price for your offense) stamp, stick it on your ticket, and mail that. Stamps can be bought "from any tabac", the French will tell you, but good luck finding a tabac who has them in stock in the quantity you are looking for. The hassle alone is enough to make anyone follow the parking laws.
Anyway, the information desk directed me to a treasury department upstairs for my stamp. As I walked up the stairs I imagined myself standing in first one long line for the stamp, then a second for the card. Oh well, still getting my 10 year permit, still in a good mood.
I found the treasury department nearly empty. I followed the signs for the OMI stamps and found a bored young man reading a newspaper. After a brief exchange he took my 70 euros and handed me two small stamps, not unlike postage stamps.
"That's all?" I asked.
"Yes, that's all" he answered, turning a page in his newspaper.
Cool, that was easy. Now all I have to do is wait for my card. I walked back downstairs and looked for the mass of hot, irritated immigrants jostling for position in line, but there was no one. The usual waiting area had been replaced with a hallway leading to the driving permit department. Don't want to go down that road again, thanks.
I returned to the information desk and politely asked where I needed to go to get my residence permit. She directed me upstairs again.
"Oh, everything has moved!" I remarked.
"Yes, we are working on the building to improve the department for foreigners" she answered.
Well how about that. They actually acknowledge that thier department for foreigners was lousy.
So I trotted back upstairs and followed my directions. Top of the stairs, take a left and...? I looked left and right and saw no sign for the department for foreigners. What I did see was two bored girls in glass cubicles in the middle of an empty hallway. I decided to ask them where I should go.
As I approached, I spotted a set of familiar-looking cabinets behind the girls. The drawers were labelled with different regions of the department. My jaw dropped.
"I believe...." I began stupidly, "...that you might have my carte de sejour."
"Well I might" the bored girl replied. "Do you have your old one?"
I produced my passport, temporary permit, expired card, and stamps. She wheeled back to the drawers and pulled my new card out of a file folder. As she processed the release papers for my precious card, I stared at it, reeling from the shock.
"Where is everyone?" I asked. "I don't believe this!"
"Eh." she answered. "This time of day is pretty slow. But this is fairly exceptional."
From my experience, this was beyond exceptional; this was nothing short of a miracle. I had to be dreaming. And then it got better.
"According to my screen, you have nothing to pay." she reported as she slid my card under the glass.
This was more than a dream. Someone must have slipped drugs into my drink at lunch.
"Really! Well what am I supposed to do with these stamps?"
"I don't know. Try the treasury department."
I scooped up my card, bid my thank you and bonne journée, and walked back to the treasury guy. Unfortunately, my wild luck ended there, because even though we'd made an exchange just 10 minutes before, he wouldn't return my 70 euros in cash. He printed out the address of an office to contact for my reimbursement, as well as a list of things to mail. Ah..there's the ol' French administration I know so well.
No matter, I finally have my carte de sejour and don't have to worry about getting kicked out of the country any time soon. On my last visit to the Nanterre prefecture, my administration karma has finally been cashed in.
4.19.2009
God Save the Queen
Or: How to nearly get fired and kicked out of France
Here it is, the long overdue story of my work woes. I'll warn you in advance, it's a dark tale.
This story is actually very long and complicated, but now that it's a few months behind me, I'm tired of thinking about it and will skip some of the uglier details.
Sometime in mid February, I went to the local prefecture to renew my residence permit. Since David and I have moved, we go to a new prefecture. This one is in Versailles, situated on a cobblestone road, just a stone's throw from the palace. I had visions of Louis XIV in a plush velvet robe - not Sarkozy in a snappy Armani suit - personally kicking me out of France if I didn't get my residence card.
My former permit expired last October, but I had a small piece of paper testifying that I had applied for a new card in the fall. In fact, I hadn't applied yet, but I'd begun the process. However, I knew I was getting a new contract in January, we were going home for Christmas, we were moving - well, a lot of things happened between December and January that gave me reason to delay my application process. Finally in February I had all of my papers in place and went back to re-apply.
Well, unbeknownst to me, I only had a three month window to reapply for my residence card. The woman at the prefecture told me to go back to the US and apply for a work visa again. Ohhhh no.
The next day I told the story to my director, who immediately frog marched me to the HR manager. There was some chin rubbing, some muttering, and I was told to wait while they figured it out.
By the end of the week I had a letter in my hands stating that without a residence permit, I was no longer legally allowed to work on site. I was banished from the workplace on paid leave until a consulting company could sort out the mess and get me a new permit. Worse, the estimated time was one month. One month!
Legally I wasn't required to work during this time - I could have had a free vacation. But professionally, I knew I was toast, and I had to spend my time out of the office working as best I could from home. During a time of financial crisis, no one wants to cost their company the added expense of an immigration consultant company, not to mention full pay for not even showing up to the office.
All of this led up to the day before my birthday, and I walked out of the office on February 26 with the letter stuffed into my bag and tears in my eyes. The next day I drove to the consultant company in Paris with all of the supporting documents to help their mission.
The consultants' office was a surprisingly small, chic loft with only a few employees. I was greeted warmly at the door by a young woman who immediately saw my misery written quite plainly on my face. She guided me to a table, handed me a glass of water, and opened my file. Then she asked the question that turned everything around:
"Please tell me that I'm correct - your husband is English?"
That afternoon she had a meeting with a French immigration official. She took copies of my work contract and David's English passport. David and I left for Carnac for the weekend, and I tried my best not to think about the potential consequences of her meeting not going well.
The following Monday I was online and working by 7:30 a.m. I had a list of things to do from by boss - the kinds of things that can be done out of the office. At 9:15 I decided that the consultant girl had had enough time to get into the office and have her coffee. I dialed her number, and she gleefully reported:
"I have your temporary residence card!"
My temporary card - or recepisse - is the official paper that will hold me over until the end of May, when my permanent card is processed. The permanent card allows me to live and work in France for 10 years. If David wasn't employed I'd be entitled to five years (yeah...I don't understand it either). All this because I married a boy with British parents. All this because his parents registered his birth with the British consulate when he was an infant, and because they encouraged him to apply for his English passport before we moved to France.
And so I was able to return to work the next day. Never have I been so happy to return to the office.
Lots of hugs and kisses to Roch and Sue for this one.
10.01.2008
Absentee Voting
So this is what absentee ballots look like:
It was a surprise to find them in our mailbox last night, considering I asked for the ballots to be sent either a) by e-mail or b) to David's parents' house. Whatever.
They look just like the regular ballots I remember from the gubernatorial (did I just use the word "gubernatorial"?) election, but these come with "secrecy envelopes". Oooh, the intrigue! Despite all the printed instructions, it's pretty simple: check the boxes, stick the ballot in the secrecy envelope, put the secrecy envelope in the postal envelope, sign the envelope, and toss them in the mail.
Better yet, next week I'll hand carry the envelopes back to the US, where we trust the postal service.
It was a surprise to find them in our mailbox last night, considering I asked for the ballots to be sent either a) by e-mail or b) to David's parents' house. Whatever.They look just like the regular ballots I remember from the gubernatorial (did I just use the word "gubernatorial"?) election, but these come with "secrecy envelopes". Oooh, the intrigue! Despite all the printed instructions, it's pretty simple: check the boxes, stick the ballot in the secrecy envelope, put the secrecy envelope in the postal envelope, sign the envelope, and toss them in the mail.
Better yet, next week I'll hand carry the envelopes back to the US, where we trust the postal service.
1.25.2008
Return to the Prefecture
This past Thursday I paid a visit to my least favorite place in France, the Nanterre prefecture. If you haven't read my previous stories about the prefecture, it is the main administrative building located in each region. Your place of residency determines your prefecture, and ours happens to be in Nanterre.
Incidentally, this was also the day I learned the French word for "worst".
Remembering how long and difficult the process was to get our cartes de sejour (residence permits) last year, I decided to be proactive and contact Crown, the relocation company, a month and a half before they expired. This was in mid December.
"Don't worry," they assured me. "When you get back from Christmas holidays you'll have three weeks before they expire. You can do it then". And by the way, they added, we won't be assisting you this time. Unless you'd like to ask your company to sign another check?
Bah.
Not only was I without the insider assistance (and trusty translation) from Crown, I was alone on my quest for a carte de sejour because-hah hah!-David is an English citizen and thanks to the EU, he can live anywhere on the continent without (much) paperwork. You can imagine his smugness.
But he felt sorry for me, and offered to take me to the prefecture to help. What a sport.
Thanks to the help of the new intern at work, who is Moroccan and has gone through this process a few times himself, I started making phone calls to the prefecture just after the Christmas holidays. After a week of calling, we finally managed to get through to request an appointment. We were curtly informed that the next available appointment was in 2 months (I mentally cursed Crown) and I had better just show up and get in line.
So I picked last Thursday to be the day, blocked 4 hours in my calendar at work, and informed my boss: I'm going to be late, and I'm going to be cranky.
On Thursday morning, on Zak the intern's advice, I decided to get to the prefecture early. David dropped me off in front of the building at 7:40, a whole hour and 20 minutes before they opened, and already there were about 20 people in line ahead of me.
By the time they started letting people in at 8:40, there was a queue of at least 150. We finally passed through security and found our way back to the department of foreigners. Here was another line, as we patiently waited for the guy behind the window to acknowledge our presence at exactly 9:00.
It wasn't too long of a wait, but the guy spoke broken English and we had a terrible time understanding his administrative-speak French. Finally we figured out that the next steps are:
All this hassle for a residence permit that no one looks at and will undoubtedly expire 8 months after receipt. Maybe next year I'll skip it and see if I can get away with being an illegal immigrant. Joking, joking....
Incidentally, this was also the day I learned the French word for "worst".
Remembering how long and difficult the process was to get our cartes de sejour (residence permits) last year, I decided to be proactive and contact Crown, the relocation company, a month and a half before they expired. This was in mid December.
"Don't worry," they assured me. "When you get back from Christmas holidays you'll have three weeks before they expire. You can do it then". And by the way, they added, we won't be assisting you this time. Unless you'd like to ask your company to sign another check?
Bah.
Not only was I without the insider assistance (and trusty translation) from Crown, I was alone on my quest for a carte de sejour because-hah hah!-David is an English citizen and thanks to the EU, he can live anywhere on the continent without (much) paperwork. You can imagine his smugness.
But he felt sorry for me, and offered to take me to the prefecture to help. What a sport.
Thanks to the help of the new intern at work, who is Moroccan and has gone through this process a few times himself, I started making phone calls to the prefecture just after the Christmas holidays. After a week of calling, we finally managed to get through to request an appointment. We were curtly informed that the next available appointment was in 2 months (I mentally cursed Crown) and I had better just show up and get in line.
So I picked last Thursday to be the day, blocked 4 hours in my calendar at work, and informed my boss: I'm going to be late, and I'm going to be cranky.
On Thursday morning, on Zak the intern's advice, I decided to get to the prefecture early. David dropped me off in front of the building at 7:40, a whole hour and 20 minutes before they opened, and already there were about 20 people in line ahead of me.
By the time they started letting people in at 8:40, there was a queue of at least 150. We finally passed through security and found our way back to the department of foreigners. Here was another line, as we patiently waited for the guy behind the window to acknowledge our presence at exactly 9:00.
It wasn't too long of a wait, but the guy spoke broken English and we had a terrible time understanding his administrative-speak French. Finally we figured out that the next steps are:
- Take this tiny piece of paper. This proves that you've been here and your carte de sejour is temporarily extended by two months.
- Fill this envelope with various papers: proof of residency, proof of employment, 4 photos, etc.
- Return this envelope to the box here. No, you can't mail it.
- Two months from this date, no sooner, and not too much after, come back here and go to Window D.
All this hassle for a residence permit that no one looks at and will undoubtedly expire 8 months after receipt. Maybe next year I'll skip it and see if I can get away with being an illegal immigrant. Joking, joking....
10.21.2007
Victory! French Driving Licenses
Or:
How to Get a French Drivers License: Go on Friday and Look Pathetic.
The metro strike wages on, but the trains have gone back to a part time schedule. On Thursday and Friday, the days without trains, the traffic was heavier, but not too bad until Friday night, when the drive home took about 2 hours.
Of course, we missed the a.m. rush hour on Friday because we spent the morning at our favorite place, the prefecture. If you recall our last visit to the French Center for Red Tape, we lost an entire morning and a lot of love for France when we were denied driver's licenses after a series of hoop-jumping.
So the return visit was certainly not something we looked forward to, but the letters from the Michigan Secretary of State (see The List) expired on October 20. And my buddy the translator didn't send the translated letters back until just last week, so we had a small window.
The first happy surprise was had that morning was the refreshingly close parking spot we found on the street. Definitely a first.
We went through the usual security points (by now the guards must recognize us), and into the offices for driving licenses. We went straight for the reception line, but no one was there. And taped to a nearby pole was a sign that said "The office of license exchanges is closed on October 18".
A small part of me rejoiced at the excuse to put off this horribleness by another day, and I was already composing another "I hate France" blog post in my head. But Dave looked at his watch and said "It's the 19th", and just then, a woman sauntered up to the reception chair and smiled brightly at us.
We turned over our sheaf of documents, passports, photos, and translations, and she sang a little song as she shuffled everything into plastic folders. Then she handed everything back in their neat little packets and told us to take one ticket for the both of us. We exchanged looks: last time we were firmly told to take one ticket each. What was going on?
We skeptically walked over to the machine, took one ticket, and looked back at her. Was she sure? She bobbed her head merrily. Go on then, go sit down.
So we sat, and I examined the ticket: You are the first in line. Your estimated wait is 0 minutes. That couldn't be right. Maybe the machine was broken.
In fact, we were the first in line. And the wait ended up being about five, but I was not about to complain. When our number flashed on the board, we walked together to the little booth and prepared for the other shoe to drop.
Unbelievably, the woman at the license exchange desk was even cheerier than the receptionist (David later told me that she was not the same person he'd dealt with last time). She spoke to us in about 80% French, only switching to perfect English when we looked at each other in complete bewilderment.
We'd done a few things not perfectly, but she guided us through the corrections with ease and efficiency. She flipped through our piles of papers, muttering "perfect" here and there, checking for dates, asking a few questions. With every inquiry, we leaped forward in our seats, eagerly pointing out the required dates and figures.
Then she pulled our Michigan drivers licenses out of the folders and slid them across the desk to us. "You take these back" she said.
I eyed her skeptically (it was a morning of skepticism). Was she sure? According to the US Embassy website, books, and personal accounts, the French government takes and destroys your US license. In fact, I just Googled it and found three independent websites that confirm this fact.
"Yes", she said proudly, "In France, we give you a French license, and you keep your old one."
Well, best not question an esteemed member of the French government. We scooped up our Michigan licenses and tucked them away. There's a headache adverted when we go home this Christmas!
Finally, apparently satisfied with our offering, she gathered up our papers and happily informed us that our French licenses would arrive in the mail within three or four days. Three or four days?? Every book or website I'd read said it would take a minimum of 6 months. Was she sure?
Maybe the pure mental exhaustion from grappling with French bureaucracy over the past months had left me with a look of pathetic hopelessness, because she gave me a kind of patronizing smile and said yes, three to four days. Why would it take any longer than that?
We sat back stunned. She smiled and said au revoir, and suddenly I remembered something.
"What do we need to pay?" I asked.
She looked equally stunned. "Pay? You pay nothing! I am sure of this!"
What? We get to keep our Michigan licenses? Our French licenses arrive within four days? And we pay nothing?
Had we somehow stepped into a parallel French universe? What country is this?
Well, we'll hold off the celebrations until we actually get the licenses in the mail. Which should be interesting, considering that they're being sent by certified mail and the Levallois-Perret post office is under construction.
But I'm sure that will be another story.
How to Get a French Drivers License: Go on Friday and Look Pathetic.
The metro strike wages on, but the trains have gone back to a part time schedule. On Thursday and Friday, the days without trains, the traffic was heavier, but not too bad until Friday night, when the drive home took about 2 hours.
Of course, we missed the a.m. rush hour on Friday because we spent the morning at our favorite place, the prefecture. If you recall our last visit to the French Center for Red Tape, we lost an entire morning and a lot of love for France when we were denied driver's licenses after a series of hoop-jumping.
So the return visit was certainly not something we looked forward to, but the letters from the Michigan Secretary of State (see The List) expired on October 20. And my buddy the translator didn't send the translated letters back until just last week, so we had a small window.
The first happy surprise was had that morning was the refreshingly close parking spot we found on the street. Definitely a first.
We went through the usual security points (by now the guards must recognize us), and into the offices for driving licenses. We went straight for the reception line, but no one was there. And taped to a nearby pole was a sign that said "The office of license exchanges is closed on October 18".
A small part of me rejoiced at the excuse to put off this horribleness by another day, and I was already composing another "I hate France" blog post in my head. But Dave looked at his watch and said "It's the 19th", and just then, a woman sauntered up to the reception chair and smiled brightly at us.
We turned over our sheaf of documents, passports, photos, and translations, and she sang a little song as she shuffled everything into plastic folders. Then she handed everything back in their neat little packets and told us to take one ticket for the both of us. We exchanged looks: last time we were firmly told to take one ticket each. What was going on?
We skeptically walked over to the machine, took one ticket, and looked back at her. Was she sure? She bobbed her head merrily. Go on then, go sit down.
So we sat, and I examined the ticket: You are the first in line. Your estimated wait is 0 minutes. That couldn't be right. Maybe the machine was broken.
In fact, we were the first in line. And the wait ended up being about five, but I was not about to complain. When our number flashed on the board, we walked together to the little booth and prepared for the other shoe to drop.
Unbelievably, the woman at the license exchange desk was even cheerier than the receptionist (David later told me that she was not the same person he'd dealt with last time). She spoke to us in about 80% French, only switching to perfect English when we looked at each other in complete bewilderment.
We'd done a few things not perfectly, but she guided us through the corrections with ease and efficiency. She flipped through our piles of papers, muttering "perfect" here and there, checking for dates, asking a few questions. With every inquiry, we leaped forward in our seats, eagerly pointing out the required dates and figures.
Then she pulled our Michigan drivers licenses out of the folders and slid them across the desk to us. "You take these back" she said.
I eyed her skeptically (it was a morning of skepticism). Was she sure? According to the US Embassy website, books, and personal accounts, the French government takes and destroys your US license. In fact, I just Googled it and found three independent websites that confirm this fact.
"Yes", she said proudly, "In France, we give you a French license, and you keep your old one."
Well, best not question an esteemed member of the French government. We scooped up our Michigan licenses and tucked them away. There's a headache adverted when we go home this Christmas!
Finally, apparently satisfied with our offering, she gathered up our papers and happily informed us that our French licenses would arrive in the mail within three or four days. Three or four days?? Every book or website I'd read said it would take a minimum of 6 months. Was she sure?
Maybe the pure mental exhaustion from grappling with French bureaucracy over the past months had left me with a look of pathetic hopelessness, because she gave me a kind of patronizing smile and said yes, three to four days. Why would it take any longer than that?
We sat back stunned. She smiled and said au revoir, and suddenly I remembered something.
"What do we need to pay?" I asked.
She looked equally stunned. "Pay? You pay nothing! I am sure of this!"
What? We get to keep our Michigan licenses? Our French licenses arrive within four days? And we pay nothing?
Had we somehow stepped into a parallel French universe? What country is this?
Well, we'll hold off the celebrations until we actually get the licenses in the mail. Which should be interesting, considering that they're being sent by certified mail and the Levallois-Perret post office is under construction.
But I'm sure that will be another story.
9.14.2007
Ew.
I just got off the phone with the translator. I was supposed to give him an earful for misleading us, but instead I cut straight to the point to get off the phone as soon as possible. He chuckled and said he’d look for the fax with the letters, then asked me to “quit” my husband for him.
Who would have thought this situation could get any more uncomfortable.
Needless to say, we will NOT be driving back to his house for this round.
Who would have thought this situation could get any more uncomfortable.
Needless to say, we will NOT be driving back to his house for this round.
9.13.2007
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!"
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!"
6.11.2007
Les Cartes de Sejour
Yesterday we finally received our Cartes de Sejour, or residence permits.
The process for receiving a Carte de Sejour usually takes two months. We applied for ours in March, and expected a letter in May. Well May came and went, and in early June I received a message from the relocation company: they didn't know what the holdup was, we should have news by now, and by the way, our temporary IDs would expire on June 15.
So we made plans with Chantal, the relocation agent, to rendezvous at the prefecture, notfication letter or not.
We got to the prefecture about 15 minutes after they opened and went through two security checkpoints. Then found ourselves back in the same packed, mis-managed hallway, waiting in a long line with a hodgepodge of immigrants. After about 45 minutes we were within sight of the end and watched as one of the three attendants closed her shade at her window. As we got closer, people started cutting into the front of the line. One woman pleaded pregnant, another one was elderly, one was just plain pushy. I couldn't believe they were getting away with this (at least the pushy one), and I wished I spoke enough French to tell them off.
Finally, after an hour and a half, we were at the window and Chantal nudged us to the side while she sweet talked the attendant. The woman opened a big drawer labeled "Levallois" and pulled out our Cartes. I was astounded. I was sure we'd be sent away and told to come back later.
On the way out, Chantal told us that all workers coming into France now have to sign up for both language and culture classes. This is to improve the big integration problem they're having here. If Dave and I had arrived a month later, we would have had to do the same.
Anyway, now we're legal, but only for seven months as the Cartes expire in January. Then we have to start all over again. Plus, we can begin the torturous process of applying for our French driving licenses. Another long line at the prefecture, but next time I'm bringing a book.
The process for receiving a Carte de Sejour usually takes two months. We applied for ours in March, and expected a letter in May. Well May came and went, and in early June I received a message from the relocation company: they didn't know what the holdup was, we should have news by now, and by the way, our temporary IDs would expire on June 15.
So we made plans with Chantal, the relocation agent, to rendezvous at the prefecture, notfication letter or not.
We got to the prefecture about 15 minutes after they opened and went through two security checkpoints. Then found ourselves back in the same packed, mis-managed hallway, waiting in a long line with a hodgepodge of immigrants. After about 45 minutes we were within sight of the end and watched as one of the three attendants closed her shade at her window. As we got closer, people started cutting into the front of the line. One woman pleaded pregnant, another one was elderly, one was just plain pushy. I couldn't believe they were getting away with this (at least the pushy one), and I wished I spoke enough French to tell them off.
Finally, after an hour and a half, we were at the window and Chantal nudged us to the side while she sweet talked the attendant. The woman opened a big drawer labeled "Levallois" and pulled out our Cartes. I was astounded. I was sure we'd be sent away and told to come back later.
On the way out, Chantal told us that all workers coming into France now have to sign up for both language and culture classes. This is to improve the big integration problem they're having here. If Dave and I had arrived a month later, we would have had to do the same.
Anyway, now we're legal, but only for seven months as the Cartes expire in January. Then we have to start all over again. Plus, we can begin the torturous process of applying for our French driving licenses. Another long line at the prefecture, but next time I'm bringing a book.
3.26.2007
Râler
The French word "râler" means "to complain", or something stronger I won't mention on a PG blog.
I've noticed that lately I have written more about fun weekends in Paris or funny things that happened at work and not more of the hassles we've been going through. I guess I figured no one wants to read about me whining. But I don't want to give the impression that we're having nothing but fun or that things are particularly easy right now.
So if you're interested in what kind of weird meat I had for lunch today, I might suggest you not read the rest of this post.
David's Job
Fortune has smiled upon us and David has two companies that have expressed interest in the past week. He's really happy that he'll be able to work soon, but now he's presented with an extremely difficult decision.
Company 1 is McLaren, manufacturer of possibly the coolest cars on the planet. McLarens are even more rare and expensive than Lamborghinis. So you can imagine the stars in my car-loving husband's eyes. It's a dream job.
And it's in England.
Which means he'd be commuting to and from Woking, England (about 3o miles from London) every week. He'd have to find lodging and transportation and open an English bank account (that's right, we'd be dealing with 3 different currencies, 5 different banks).
He'd be working in English, obviously, which is both good and bad because then he wouldn't be learning French.
Company 2 I'm not going to mention by name lest I offend someone. It's an American company, but they have a site near the Charles deGaulle airport in Paris. The job isn't as interesting, and the fate of the division is questionable as the company filed for Chapter 11 last year.
He'd do some interesting travelling and have to pick up French quickly.
So it boils down to: dream job in England, or mediocre job in Paris?
We've been working out the pros and cons for the past four days. And the scales tipped this morning when the offer from McLaren came in. He's still waiting for word from the other one.
I'm biased, naturally. And I'm having a hard time not being selfish and begging him to not leave me alone in Paris for five days a week. But you have to understand, asking David not to take a job with McLaren is like asking a pilot not to take a job as an astronaut. It's an opportunity of a lifetime.
More to come as the situation progresses.
Vacation Time
Last week I learned from Faurecia's headquarters that I had lost five vacation days for the year. They told me that the "rules" had changed, so I assumed that meant everyone lost five days.
Well, then I asked some friends. It seems the company started a sort of 401(k) program that allows employees to give up five vacation days in exchange for a savings account that they'll be able to access when they are in their 60's. Apparently they gave everyone the option, and everyone said 'no' (I love how much the French love their vacation). So they started making it mandatory for all new employees.
Fair enough, except:
1. I'm not a new employee. Ok, I'm new to Méru, but I'm not new to Faurecia. But fine, I'll give them that.
2. My contract states the full vacation time. Doesn't it seem that if HR is going to change details of my contract they'd have to give me some kind of warning? Add an addendum to my contract? Isn't that whole point of a contract?
3. I have my own 401(k) in the States, why do I need one here? And furthermore, I won't even BE here when I'm in my 60's, so how can I expect to see that money?
Ok, now you could argue that I already have an obscene amount of vacation time, which is very true. But the fact that I pretty much had these days stolen from me without a truthful explanation really makes my blood boil. It's the principle!
So now I'm trying to compose a polite e-mail in my head that I can send to HR that will at least get a fair explanation as to how I can expect to see this money or get my vacation days back.
Before I left, my boss in Auburn Hills told me to choose my battles wisely. I was ok letting this one go until they tried to trick me.
My Screwed up Salary
And speaking of being tricked, I got my first paycheck with housing allowance and cost of living adjustment last week. When Dave and I worked out the math, we seemed to be about $800 short. What the h---! (PG...must remain PG) Here's another polite, yet annoyed e-mail to send to HR.
I feel like I spend all of my time and energy fighting something. If it's not the language or French bureaucracy, it's my own company. I don't like fighting. Why can't we all just get along?
Ok, that's the end of my complaining. More on lunch tomorrow.
I've noticed that lately I have written more about fun weekends in Paris or funny things that happened at work and not more of the hassles we've been going through. I guess I figured no one wants to read about me whining. But I don't want to give the impression that we're having nothing but fun or that things are particularly easy right now.
So if you're interested in what kind of weird meat I had for lunch today, I might suggest you not read the rest of this post.
David's Job
Fortune has smiled upon us and David has two companies that have expressed interest in the past week. He's really happy that he'll be able to work soon, but now he's presented with an extremely difficult decision.
Company 1 is McLaren, manufacturer of possibly the coolest cars on the planet. McLarens are even more rare and expensive than Lamborghinis. So you can imagine the stars in my car-loving husband's eyes. It's a dream job.
And it's in England.
Which means he'd be commuting to and from Woking, England (about 3o miles from London) every week. He'd have to find lodging and transportation and open an English bank account (that's right, we'd be dealing with 3 different currencies, 5 different banks).
He'd be working in English, obviously, which is both good and bad because then he wouldn't be learning French.
Company 2 I'm not going to mention by name lest I offend someone. It's an American company, but they have a site near the Charles deGaulle airport in Paris. The job isn't as interesting, and the fate of the division is questionable as the company filed for Chapter 11 last year.
He'd do some interesting travelling and have to pick up French quickly.
So it boils down to: dream job in England, or mediocre job in Paris?
We've been working out the pros and cons for the past four days. And the scales tipped this morning when the offer from McLaren came in. He's still waiting for word from the other one.
I'm biased, naturally. And I'm having a hard time not being selfish and begging him to not leave me alone in Paris for five days a week. But you have to understand, asking David not to take a job with McLaren is like asking a pilot not to take a job as an astronaut. It's an opportunity of a lifetime.
More to come as the situation progresses.
Vacation Time
Last week I learned from Faurecia's headquarters that I had lost five vacation days for the year. They told me that the "rules" had changed, so I assumed that meant everyone lost five days.
Well, then I asked some friends. It seems the company started a sort of 401(k) program that allows employees to give up five vacation days in exchange for a savings account that they'll be able to access when they are in their 60's. Apparently they gave everyone the option, and everyone said 'no' (I love how much the French love their vacation). So they started making it mandatory for all new employees.
Fair enough, except:
1. I'm not a new employee. Ok, I'm new to Méru, but I'm not new to Faurecia. But fine, I'll give them that.
2. My contract states the full vacation time. Doesn't it seem that if HR is going to change details of my contract they'd have to give me some kind of warning? Add an addendum to my contract? Isn't that whole point of a contract?
3. I have my own 401(k) in the States, why do I need one here? And furthermore, I won't even BE here when I'm in my 60's, so how can I expect to see that money?
Ok, now you could argue that I already have an obscene amount of vacation time, which is very true. But the fact that I pretty much had these days stolen from me without a truthful explanation really makes my blood boil. It's the principle!
So now I'm trying to compose a polite e-mail in my head that I can send to HR that will at least get a fair explanation as to how I can expect to see this money or get my vacation days back.
Before I left, my boss in Auburn Hills told me to choose my battles wisely. I was ok letting this one go until they tried to trick me.
My Screwed up Salary
And speaking of being tricked, I got my first paycheck with housing allowance and cost of living adjustment last week. When Dave and I worked out the math, we seemed to be about $800 short. What the h---! (PG...must remain PG) Here's another polite, yet annoyed e-mail to send to HR.
I feel like I spend all of my time and energy fighting something. If it's not the language or French bureaucracy, it's my own company. I don't like fighting. Why can't we all just get along?
Ok, that's the end of my complaining. More on lunch tomorrow.
3.16.2007
Carte de Sejour
Today we went for our long awaited Cartes des Sejour. By the way, when we received our Visas in Chicago the consulate firmly informed us that we must apply for our Cartes des Sejour within eight days of landing in France. And here it is, two months later.
We met the relocation agent Chantal at the RER station in Nanterre. One must apply for a Carte de Sejour in the prefecture where one lives, and ours is in Nanterre. Chantal is about 50 years older than she sounded on the phone, but very sweet and patient. And she just raved about how beautiful my name is so how could I not love her.
We walked to the prefecture together and went through a few security checkpoints before finally entering the department for foreigners. It was packed with people standing in a variety of lines, but she navigated us to a small frosted glass cubicle apart from the crowd to wait. While we waited there was a loud commotion in another cubicle and and we could see an Asian woman sobbing and screaming at an agent. Chantal nodded gravely and said "Yes, this is quite common. Many people want residency in France, and it's not easy". This left a terrible feeling in my stomach as I imagined what we might be in store for. After a 40 minute wait, we were finally allowed inside.
Chantal's contact Pierre was a well dressed, harassed-looking man who I thought bore a striking resemblance to Steve Carrel (Dave disagrees). Every surface of his small glass office was piled with stacks of documents and paperwork and exotic trinkets from foreigners he's helped. Chantal handed over our paperwork and he tapped everything into his computer while they laughed and shared stories of troublesome foreigners.
He cut apart our photos, asked us to sign a few things, and 20 minutes later we were done.
We were each given a Recepisse de Demande de Carte de Sejour, which serves as a temporary residence permit. After two months we'll have to go back to pick up the permanent cards. The cost of mine has already been covered by Faurecia, but we'll have to pay 220 euros for David's. I was really annoyed by this seemingly pointless administration fee until Chantal assured me that Faurecia will reimburse the cost.
And then, after all this work, the Carte de Sejour is only valid for 9 months! After seeing my obvious discomfort and irritation, Pierre scratched out the date and changed it to 12. How kind!
Here are the photos from our temporary permits, I scanned them because they're just so bad. We had them taken in one of the many photo booths in the city (remember Amalie?). The booth I chose had some color imbalance and I look like I have jaundice. Dave looks gaunt and sickly. Our mothers are going to think I'm not feeding him enough.
We met the relocation agent Chantal at the RER station in Nanterre. One must apply for a Carte de Sejour in the prefecture where one lives, and ours is in Nanterre. Chantal is about 50 years older than she sounded on the phone, but very sweet and patient. And she just raved about how beautiful my name is so how could I not love her.
We walked to the prefecture together and went through a few security checkpoints before finally entering the department for foreigners. It was packed with people standing in a variety of lines, but she navigated us to a small frosted glass cubicle apart from the crowd to wait. While we waited there was a loud commotion in another cubicle and and we could see an Asian woman sobbing and screaming at an agent. Chantal nodded gravely and said "Yes, this is quite common. Many people want residency in France, and it's not easy". This left a terrible feeling in my stomach as I imagined what we might be in store for. After a 40 minute wait, we were finally allowed inside.
Chantal's contact Pierre was a well dressed, harassed-looking man who I thought bore a striking resemblance to Steve Carrel (Dave disagrees). Every surface of his small glass office was piled with stacks of documents and paperwork and exotic trinkets from foreigners he's helped. Chantal handed over our paperwork and he tapped everything into his computer while they laughed and shared stories of troublesome foreigners.
He cut apart our photos, asked us to sign a few things, and 20 minutes later we were done.
We were each given a Recepisse de Demande de Carte de Sejour, which serves as a temporary residence permit. After two months we'll have to go back to pick up the permanent cards. The cost of mine has already been covered by Faurecia, but we'll have to pay 220 euros for David's. I was really annoyed by this seemingly pointless administration fee until Chantal assured me that Faurecia will reimburse the cost.
And then, after all this work, the Carte de Sejour is only valid for 9 months! After seeing my obvious discomfort and irritation, Pierre scratched out the date and changed it to 12. How kind!
Here are the photos from our temporary permits, I scanned them because they're just so bad. We had them taken in one of the many photo booths in the city (remember Amalie?). The booth I chose had some color imbalance and I look like I have jaundice. Dave looks gaunt and sickly. Our mothers are going to think I'm not feeding him enough.
2.20.2007
I'm a Bad American
In the States, when the weather is weird we blame global warming.
In France, they blame the Americans.
And, as a representative of the United States in France, I personally catch a lot of flack (I understand this is common for American ex-pats). Like I'm personally responsible for being too lazy to climb into my giant SUV to drive over to the local government office to sign the Kyoto Protocol.
The French can't make me feel guilty. I drove a small (for the US) car and didn't vote for the offending president. And hey, I don't buy aerosol hairspray so get off my back.
Another perk of being the US Ambassador to Faurecia Meru is that I get grilled on the American way of life. I'm really the wrong person for this task because I'm not too up to date with politics, economics or any current social issues.
Today Alfredo asked me why I thought Americans were buying foreign cars and what lead to the downfall of the American auto industry. What a difficult topic, especially considering the language barrier (although Alfredo's English is great...he came up with the word "parsnip" today) and that I'd like to sound relatively intelligent when talking to my boss.
What do I know, anyway? I wasn't expecting to have to represent the whole darned country and justify its choices and mistakes.
I don't really consider myself a typical American, anyway. If I was I probably wouldn't be here.
In France, they blame the Americans.
And, as a representative of the United States in France, I personally catch a lot of flack (I understand this is common for American ex-pats). Like I'm personally responsible for being too lazy to climb into my giant SUV to drive over to the local government office to sign the Kyoto Protocol.
The French can't make me feel guilty. I drove a small (for the US) car and didn't vote for the offending president. And hey, I don't buy aerosol hairspray so get off my back.
Another perk of being the US Ambassador to Faurecia Meru is that I get grilled on the American way of life. I'm really the wrong person for this task because I'm not too up to date with politics, economics or any current social issues.
Today Alfredo asked me why I thought Americans were buying foreign cars and what lead to the downfall of the American auto industry. What a difficult topic, especially considering the language barrier (although Alfredo's English is great...he came up with the word "parsnip" today) and that I'd like to sound relatively intelligent when talking to my boss.
What do I know, anyway? I wasn't expecting to have to represent the whole darned country and justify its choices and mistakes.
I don't really consider myself a typical American, anyway. If I was I probably wouldn't be here.
2.02.2007
Viste medicale
For lunch yesterday I had cous cous, which apparently in this country comes with four different kinds of meat. And only one was of questionable nature this time, so I was happy.
Dave picked me up at from work at 1:00 and we drove up to Beauvais for our medical appointments. What an interesting experience.
The first thing they do is height, weight (I couldn’t be upset until I got back to the hotel and looked up the conversion), and blood pressure. Then they sit you down and a nurse asks the standard questions: are you taking any medication, any surgeries, etc. She asked if there was any “t---(indistinguishable)” in my family. I said “What? Tuberculosis?” She shook her head, and tried to come up with the word for a few minutes before giving up and moving onto the next question.
“Cancer?”
I said “oui”. Her eyes widened and she leaned forward.
I thought oh geez, maybe I shouldn’t have said that.
I said “Mon grand-pere! Pas moi!”
She said “t----?” I said “no! cancer!”
She made a little note on her clipboard and I decided that I’m going to get kicked out of the country because they think I have tuberculosis.
Next I was sent to a trailer parked outside the clinic, where a technician pushed me into a small cubicle with a curtain and motioned for me to remove all clothes above my waist. This was a time-consuming activity as the cubicle was small and I was wearing a few layers. Then the tech (yes, a female) escorted me to a platform on a machine and dashed out of the room (I say “room”, but it was more of a closet). I said “What? What do I do?” She answered “Don’t move!” and the next thing you know I’m being zapped by the x-ray.
I climbed back into my layers of clothes and repeated everything to Dave, much to the relief of the technician. She pushed him into another stripping cubicle and I got ready to make my escape. Then another tech grabbed my arm and said “no. You see the doctor”, pointing to the other end of the trailer.
I squeezed into the rear room of the trailer to find a tall, skinny, older man with a stethoscope. He looked tired and obviously had no intentions of leaving his stool in the corner. He motioned with one tired arm for me to remove the top half of my clothes that I had just finished buttoning up again. Then he listened to my breathing, examined my x-ray, and finally sent me away. The technician sealed our documents in an envelope and said “You go to the prefecture”.
As we were walking away, Dave told me that a nice guy in the waiting room of the clinic had told to him in clear English that after meeting the doctor we would have to go to the prefecture for our carte de sejour. I found this information to be disturbing as I had read in at least two books that the application for obtaining a carte de sejour was similar to a root canal or a day spent at the DMV. But we were confused and unsure, so we went.
We found the prefecture of Beauvais without issue. The glamorous woman behind the front desk opened our sealed envelope, glanced at our documents, and said we were in the wrong place, we needed to go to the prefecture annex. Of course. She took us to the street, made a few “left” and “right” remarks, and we started walking.
A few blocks later we started asking questions, and eventually we were told that no, the prefecture annex is right next to the prefecture. So we walked back. By then I was pretty annoyed, but Dave kept his head and found the annex.
Once inside the annex we took a number and started talking about the carte de sejour. We eventually figured out that we didn’t have the right paperwork, but we remained in line anyway. When our number was called we stammered in bad French through the window that we had completed our medical tests but didn’t know what else we needed. We were given a checklist and sent away to come back again. Just like in the books.
So we’ll have to go back to Beauvais. But after talking to the relocation company today it seems that they’re going to walk us through the whole process anyway.
When we got home we opened the envelope to have a look at our paperwork.
I have to say, seeing one’s x-ray for the first time can be unnerving. Dave thinks his spine is crooked.
Dave picked me up at from work at 1:00 and we drove up to Beauvais for our medical appointments. What an interesting experience.
The first thing they do is height, weight (I couldn’t be upset until I got back to the hotel and looked up the conversion), and blood pressure. Then they sit you down and a nurse asks the standard questions: are you taking any medication, any surgeries, etc. She asked if there was any “t---(indistinguishable)” in my family. I said “What? Tuberculosis?” She shook her head, and tried to come up with the word for a few minutes before giving up and moving onto the next question.
“Cancer?”
I said “oui”. Her eyes widened and she leaned forward.
I thought oh geez, maybe I shouldn’t have said that.
I said “Mon grand-pere! Pas moi!”
She said “t----?” I said “no! cancer!”
She made a little note on her clipboard and I decided that I’m going to get kicked out of the country because they think I have tuberculosis.
Next I was sent to a trailer parked outside the clinic, where a technician pushed me into a small cubicle with a curtain and motioned for me to remove all clothes above my waist. This was a time-consuming activity as the cubicle was small and I was wearing a few layers. Then the tech (yes, a female) escorted me to a platform on a machine and dashed out of the room (I say “room”, but it was more of a closet). I said “What? What do I do?” She answered “Don’t move!” and the next thing you know I’m being zapped by the x-ray.
I climbed back into my layers of clothes and repeated everything to Dave, much to the relief of the technician. She pushed him into another stripping cubicle and I got ready to make my escape. Then another tech grabbed my arm and said “no. You see the doctor”, pointing to the other end of the trailer.
I squeezed into the rear room of the trailer to find a tall, skinny, older man with a stethoscope. He looked tired and obviously had no intentions of leaving his stool in the corner. He motioned with one tired arm for me to remove the top half of my clothes that I had just finished buttoning up again. Then he listened to my breathing, examined my x-ray, and finally sent me away. The technician sealed our documents in an envelope and said “You go to the prefecture”.
As we were walking away, Dave told me that a nice guy in the waiting room of the clinic had told to him in clear English that after meeting the doctor we would have to go to the prefecture for our carte de sejour. I found this information to be disturbing as I had read in at least two books that the application for obtaining a carte de sejour was similar to a root canal or a day spent at the DMV. But we were confused and unsure, so we went.
We found the prefecture of Beauvais without issue. The glamorous woman behind the front desk opened our sealed envelope, glanced at our documents, and said we were in the wrong place, we needed to go to the prefecture annex. Of course. She took us to the street, made a few “left” and “right” remarks, and we started walking.
A few blocks later we started asking questions, and eventually we were told that no, the prefecture annex is right next to the prefecture. So we walked back. By then I was pretty annoyed, but Dave kept his head and found the annex.
Once inside the annex we took a number and started talking about the carte de sejour. We eventually figured out that we didn’t have the right paperwork, but we remained in line anyway. When our number was called we stammered in bad French through the window that we had completed our medical tests but didn’t know what else we needed. We were given a checklist and sent away to come back again. Just like in the books.
So we’ll have to go back to Beauvais. But after talking to the relocation company today it seems that they’re going to walk us through the whole process anyway.
When we got home we opened the envelope to have a look at our paperwork.
I have to say, seeing one’s x-ray for the first time can be unnerving. Dave thinks his spine is crooked.
2.01.2007
Levallois-Perret
Yesterday Dave went apartment hunting with the relocation company (Crown) consultant, Magali. The night before, she sent a list of the 6 apartments she had lined up for us to review. She was cheerful and optimistic that we'd find a place by the end of the day. I was fairly sure it would take at least a week.
So you can imagine my surprise at four in the afternoon when Dave called me from Magali's phone and said "I've looked at 3. Two of them are great. I'm submitting applications by the end of the day". I really wanted to see our future home before we committed to anything, but it seems that Paris is the same as any big city; if you find an apartment, you jump on it immediately.
When I met him back at the hotel at 7, he said "Forget what I said earlier. I found two more that are even better". We went through the pictures he took and we talked it out until we settled on one. I'm not going to share any more details until we sign the lease, just in case we don't get it. But he loves it and he loves Levallois-Perret, (I'm still learning how to say it), so I think it's going to be great.
Originally we wanted to begin our search in the northern-most arrondissements of Paris. But after my lunch with Irantzu, I e-mailed Crown and requested that we focus on the town of Levallois-Perret. I had never been there, but Irantzu assured me that it was where we wanted to live. It's just outside the Paris periphery, but still on a Metro line.
On other good news, we seem to have a very interested buyer for the house. I'm also not going to jinx that by giving too much detail.
More later.
In the meantime, here's a funny picture I took in Paris over the weekend.
So you can imagine my surprise at four in the afternoon when Dave called me from Magali's phone and said "I've looked at 3. Two of them are great. I'm submitting applications by the end of the day". I really wanted to see our future home before we committed to anything, but it seems that Paris is the same as any big city; if you find an apartment, you jump on it immediately.
When I met him back at the hotel at 7, he said "Forget what I said earlier. I found two more that are even better". We went through the pictures he took and we talked it out until we settled on one. I'm not going to share any more details until we sign the lease, just in case we don't get it. But he loves it and he loves Levallois-Perret, (I'm still learning how to say it), so I think it's going to be great.
Originally we wanted to begin our search in the northern-most arrondissements of Paris. But after my lunch with Irantzu, I e-mailed Crown and requested that we focus on the town of Levallois-Perret. I had never been there, but Irantzu assured me that it was where we wanted to live. It's just outside the Paris periphery, but still on a Metro line.
On other good news, we seem to have a very interested buyer for the house. I'm also not going to jinx that by giving too much detail.
More later.
In the meantime, here's a funny picture I took in Paris over the weekend.
1.19.2007
Jet Lag
Wow, we've been through a lot these past few days. We're absolutely exhausted, but we made it to France, all three of us, no messes.
I'm behind, so let me go back a few days.
Tuesday, January 16: Chicago
After spending a few days with my parents, we took a train from Kalamazoo to Chicago for the long-awaited visa appointment. The original plan was to drive, but an ice storm hit Michigan over the weekend and we weren't ready to take on the driving conditions.
We had all day to spend in the city, but the weather was so bitter cold we could only walk for a few blocks at a time before ducking into a coffee shop to warm up.
Our appointment was 10 minutes long (talking to a small French woman behind bulletproof glass), and it only took another 45 minutes before the visas were processed and ready to go. We had dinner in a local pizza restaurant and then hopped back on the train bound for Kalamazoo.
When we got back to Kalamazoo we picked up the car and drove straight home to Dave's parents' house in Ann Arbor. We arrived around 11:30 to find that the ice storm had been a bit more serious on the east side of the state and the Basson home was without electricity. It was about 48 degrees inside the house. We turned on the fireplace and set up a little bed in the living room to keep warm.
Well, let's be honest: I whimpered next to the fireplace while Dave set up a little bed in the living room.
Wednesday, January 17: Dave's Birthday
We woke up cold and irritable, so Dave's birthday started off a bit sour. But as soon as we got into the warm car things were looking up.
We spent the day running around, taking care of last minute details.
- Met the realtor at the house to sign over selling responsibilities
- Drove down to Livonia to sign the Power of Attorney
- Drove up to Lansing to pick up Oliver's second set of certified papers
Then dinner at one of Dave's favorite restaurants in Ann Arbor. He got a candle in his dessert, I'm afraid that's as festive as we got that day.
Oh, aside from the celebration when the electricity came back on at the house
Thursday, January 18
Our last day in the U.S. was spent frantically running around.
- Picked up my repaired car from the dealer. How I missed my car. They even fixed the scratch on the driver's side I'd been procrastinating on having fixed.
- Dropped off the car at chez Baillet for Virginie
- Came home and packed everything
- Paid all outstanding bills
- Met my brother for a quick dinner at the Heidelburg, then back to the house to pill the cat, then off to the airport!
Grant was kind enough to help us carry our bags in and drive the Civic back to Ann Arbor for us. Checking in was no problem, and the Northwest agent barely glanced at Oliver's certification paperwork. TSA had to check his kennel over, then he was gently carried off by a handler while I cried with guilt. If you saw how pathetic Oliver looks when he's drugged, you'd feel bad too.
Friday, January 19
The flight was good; we slept a lot (for a flight) and at least two stewards stopped by to assure us that Oliver was safe.
The weather in Paris was balmy, about 48 degrees (I really need to start using centigrade) and cloudy. We were so happy to feel the relatively warm weather after the past few icy days in Michigan.
Oliver was waiting at the edge of the baggage claim and the three men that I'm assuming were customs officials didn't bat an eye as we walked past. I have to hand it to Virginie and Marie-France, they were perfectly accurate when describing French customs.
Miraculously, Oliver hadn't made a mess in his cage, and he was just getting over the effects of the drugs.
Avis couldn't find a reservation under our name, so we got whatever they had around; a red Citroen Picasso. Dave's a little disappointed, but hopefully next week we'll have a Faurecia pool car. Which may or may not be any cooler, but the Picasso shouldn't be hard to beat.
Anyway, we didn't have any maps to the hotel because we had complete faith in our Tom Tom. Unfortunately, the Tom Tom couldn't find a GPS signal until we were literally half a block from the hotel. We guessed our way into Cergy using the static maps on the Tom Tom and making a lot of guesses.
Our hotel is called a "flat hotel" because the rooms have a tiny kitchen unit, which includes two stovetop burners, a mini-fridge, and a sink. Our hotel room is large by European standards, but
small by "have-to-live-here-for-a-month" standards. We're just a few doors from the lap pool, though.
As soon as we let Oliver out he found a place to hide. He spent most of the day in a cabinet between the plates and the silverware.
We had just settled into our room and were getting ready to go to the grocery store when the moving company showed up with our air shipment. I'm happy to have my clothes, but there is definitely not enough room in here for us to unpack everything.
After signing off on the delivery we set out on foot for the grocery store. The Leader Price was about a quarter of a mile (I really need to start using km) away in the center of Cergy. Although
Dave thinks I'm crazy, it's always been my dream to be able to walk to the grocery store. We're lucky it was so warm, it was a really nice walk.
On the way back we bought a bagette. The girl at the patisserie basically wrapped a tissue around the middle of the bread and handed it to me. I didn't mind, but I accidentally smacked the bagette on probably half a dozen dirty surfaces on the way back to the hotel.
Next we made a trip to the local pet store, Animalis, for a new litter box. It was a really big store with rabbits, puppies, huge tropical fish, and canaries. I took a dive into a pile of dog beds, good thing Dave didn't have the camera with him.
We came back to the hotel room and Dave slipped into a jet lag nap while I started this epic novel. Around 7 he woke up and we found our way to the Cergy port (on the Oise river) and a German restaurant I visited during a workshop last year.
That leads us to right now. Dave's watching Jeepers Creepers dubbed in French, which really doesn't take away from the plot at all. Oliver spent some time with us on the bed before crawling back onto the silverware shelf.
Sooo tired. I think I'm going to go to bed.
Bisous
I'm behind, so let me go back a few days.
Tuesday, January 16: Chicago
After spending a few days with my parents, we took a train from Kalamazoo to Chicago for the long-awaited visa appointment. The original plan was to drive, but an ice storm hit Michigan over the weekend and we weren't ready to take on the driving conditions.
We had all day to spend in the city, but the weather was so bitter cold we could only walk for a few blocks at a time before ducking into a coffee shop to warm up.
Our appointment was 10 minutes long (talking to a small French woman behind bulletproof glass), and it only took another 45 minutes before the visas were processed and ready to go. We had dinner in a local pizza restaurant and then hopped back on the train bound for Kalamazoo.
When we got back to Kalamazoo we picked up the car and drove straight home to Dave's parents' house in Ann Arbor. We arrived around 11:30 to find that the ice storm had been a bit more serious on the east side of the state and the Basson home was without electricity. It was about 48 degrees inside the house. We turned on the fireplace and set up a little bed in the living room to keep warm.
Well, let's be honest: I whimpered next to the fireplace while Dave set up a little bed in the living room.
Wednesday, January 17: Dave's Birthday
We woke up cold and irritable, so Dave's birthday started off a bit sour. But as soon as we got into the warm car things were looking up.
We spent the day running around, taking care of last minute details.
- Met the realtor at the house to sign over selling responsibilities
- Drove down to Livonia to sign the Power of Attorney
- Drove up to Lansing to pick up Oliver's second set of certified papers
Then dinner at one of Dave's favorite restaurants in Ann Arbor. He got a candle in his dessert, I'm afraid that's as festive as we got that day.
Oh, aside from the celebration when the electricity came back on at the house
Thursday, January 18
Our last day in the U.S. was spent frantically running around.
- Picked up my repaired car from the dealer. How I missed my car. They even fixed the scratch on the driver's side I'd been procrastinating on having fixed.
- Dropped off the car at chez Baillet for Virginie
- Came home and packed everything
- Paid all outstanding bills
- Met my brother for a quick dinner at the Heidelburg, then back to the house to pill the cat, then off to the airport!
Grant was kind enough to help us carry our bags in and drive the Civic back to Ann Arbor for us. Checking in was no problem, and the Northwest agent barely glanced at Oliver's certification paperwork. TSA had to check his kennel over, then he was gently carried off by a handler while I cried with guilt. If you saw how pathetic Oliver looks when he's drugged, you'd feel bad too.
Friday, January 19
The flight was good; we slept a lot (for a flight) and at least two stewards stopped by to assure us that Oliver was safe.
The weather in Paris was balmy, about 48 degrees (I really need to start using centigrade) and cloudy. We were so happy to feel the relatively warm weather after the past few icy days in Michigan.
Oliver was waiting at the edge of the baggage claim and the three men that I'm assuming were customs officials didn't bat an eye as we walked past. I have to hand it to Virginie and Marie-France, they were perfectly accurate when describing French customs.
Miraculously, Oliver hadn't made a mess in his cage, and he was just getting over the effects of the drugs.
Avis couldn't find a reservation under our name, so we got whatever they had around; a red Citroen Picasso. Dave's a little disappointed, but hopefully next week we'll have a Faurecia pool car. Which may or may not be any cooler, but the Picasso shouldn't be hard to beat.
Anyway, we didn't have any maps to the hotel because we had complete faith in our Tom Tom. Unfortunately, the Tom Tom couldn't find a GPS signal until we were literally half a block from the hotel. We guessed our way into Cergy using the static maps on the Tom Tom and making a lot of guesses.
Our hotel is called a "flat hotel" because the rooms have a tiny kitchen unit, which includes two stovetop burners, a mini-fridge, and a sink. Our hotel room is large by European standards, but
small by "have-to-live-here-for-a-month" standards. We're just a few doors from the lap pool, though.As soon as we let Oliver out he found a place to hide. He spent most of the day in a cabinet between the plates and the silverware.
We had just settled into our room and were getting ready to go to the grocery store when the moving company showed up with our air shipment. I'm happy to have my clothes, but there is definitely not enough room in here for us to unpack everything.
After signing off on the delivery we set out on foot for the grocery store. The Leader Price was about a quarter of a mile (I really need to start using km) away in the center of Cergy. Although
Dave thinks I'm crazy, it's always been my dream to be able to walk to the grocery store. We're lucky it was so warm, it was a really nice walk.On the way back we bought a bagette. The girl at the patisserie basically wrapped a tissue around the middle of the bread and handed it to me. I didn't mind, but I accidentally smacked the bagette on probably half a dozen dirty surfaces on the way back to the hotel.
Next we made a trip to the local pet store, Animalis, for a new litter box. It was a really big store with rabbits, puppies, huge tropical fish, and canaries. I took a dive into a pile of dog beds, good thing Dave didn't have the camera with him.
We came back to the hotel room and Dave slipped into a jet lag nap while I started this epic novel. Around 7 he woke up and we found our way to the Cergy port (on the Oise river) and a German restaurant I visited during a workshop last year.
That leads us to right now. Dave's watching Jeepers Creepers dubbed in French, which really doesn't take away from the plot at all. Oliver spent some time with us on the bed before crawling back onto the silverware shelf.
Sooo tired. I think I'm going to go to bed.
Bisous
1.12.2007
French Kitty Problems
I was on the phone today with Northwest, confirming our flight and Oliver's. In passing, I asked the customer service rep about the veterinary certification; does it have to be certified within 10 days of flight? This was something the vet had mentioned we might need to worry about. She looked it up and said no, there was no mention of a date.
So we moved onto the subject of choosing our seats, and while that was being processed she stumbled upon some more pet rules. And what do you know, the certification must be completed within 10 days of flight.
Dammit! I frantically called the vet and made an emergency appointment for tomorrow morning. Then I'll have to FedEx the paperwork to Lansing, which they won't get until Tuesday due to MLK Day, then pray that they'll send it back by Thursday.
I can't believe we have to go through this again. And pay for it again. On a condensed schedule.
Right now I'm really irritated with the relocation company for not warning me about this. Surely we are not the first Americans to move to France with a cat.
So we moved onto the subject of choosing our seats, and while that was being processed she stumbled upon some more pet rules. And what do you know, the certification must be completed within 10 days of flight.
Dammit! I frantically called the vet and made an emergency appointment for tomorrow morning. Then I'll have to FedEx the paperwork to Lansing, which they won't get until Tuesday due to MLK Day, then pray that they'll send it back by Thursday.
I can't believe we have to go through this again. And pay for it again. On a condensed schedule.
Right now I'm really irritated with the relocation company for not warning me about this. Surely we are not the first Americans to move to France with a cat.
1.05.2007
Visa Issues
This is the procedure for obtaining a work visa for France:
1) Apply for work permit
2) Work permit is approved
3) Labor Department sends work permit to ANAEM (have no idea what/who ANAEM is)
4) ANAEM approves and sends permit to French Consulate in US
5) French Consulate notifies individual and invites to book visa appointment online
6) Individual logs onto consulate webpage and makes appointment
7) Individual travels to consulate for 10 minute appointment and visa
But don't forget we're dealing with French bureaucracy here.
And the following problems ensued:
a) I got a new passport after changing my name. I gave a copy to the relocation company's contractor I met with in September, who promptly lost it. Hence, my work permit application was delayed until I found the issue and faxed a new copy.
b) The fax was not legible. I sent a scanned file the next day.
c) The one girl handling my work permit at ANAEM was out sick for a week (made arrangements to delay flight)
d) The French consulate was closed in observance of President Ford's death.
Which leads us up to the consulate finally acknowledging that they received my work permit on Wednesday, January 3. Our flight is Saturday, January 6. I got online to book the appointment, and found that the earliest available appointment is Tuesday, January 16.
Made arrangements to delay flight.
That's right, we're stuck here for another week and a half. I think we're going to drive Dave's parents crazy.
1) Apply for work permit
2) Work permit is approved
3) Labor Department sends work permit to ANAEM (have no idea what/who ANAEM is)
4) ANAEM approves and sends permit to French Consulate in US
5) French Consulate notifies individual and invites to book visa appointment online
6) Individual logs onto consulate webpage and makes appointment
7) Individual travels to consulate for 10 minute appointment and visa
But don't forget we're dealing with French bureaucracy here.
And the following problems ensued:
a) I got a new passport after changing my name. I gave a copy to the relocation company's contractor I met with in September, who promptly lost it. Hence, my work permit application was delayed until I found the issue and faxed a new copy.
b) The fax was not legible. I sent a scanned file the next day.
c) The one girl handling my work permit at ANAEM was out sick for a week (made arrangements to delay flight)
d) The French consulate was closed in observance of President Ford's death.
Which leads us up to the consulate finally acknowledging that they received my work permit on Wednesday, January 3. Our flight is Saturday, January 6. I got online to book the appointment, and found that the earliest available appointment is Tuesday, January 16.
Made arrangements to delay flight.
That's right, we're stuck here for another week and a half. I think we're going to drive Dave's parents crazy.
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