When French people ask me why I moved to France, I say, "George Bush." It always gets a laugh. And as a comedian, I go for the easy laughs as often as possible. But, as with all things in life, my reasons are more nuanced than that.
I think my life-long love for France began when I was 10 or 11 years old and my mother took my sister and I on a summer trip with her best friend Marianne McClatchy and her daughter. Mrs. McClatchy was looking for a summer camp for her daughter, also named Marianne. So, we drove around New England and ended up at the exclusive girls' camp, École Champlain, in Ferrisburgh Vermont, where the girls were required to speak only in French while they were there. (Holy crap! Elizabeth Clare Prophet was a camp counselor there.) I saw the gorgeous lake and grounds, the beautiful horses, cuddled with a German shepherd who only listened to commands in French. I really, really wanted to go to that camp. But it was a bit too exclusive for my parents' budget. Mrs. McClatchy was married to a politician who came from a long line of Philadelphia developers. My Dad was in business for himself and was supporting six kids, all in private Catholic schools. There was no way.
On the East coast at that time, if you studied any foreign language, it was French. So I studied French all through grade school and junior high and after my family moved to Arizona, even though Spanish was the popular language on that side of America, I continued to study French in high school. If my parents hadn't sent me to Mexico in between my sophomore and junior year, I wouldn't have fallen in love with Mexico (and a certain man named Pepe) and probably would be fluent in French by now.
When I turned 50 and was looking for an escape from corporate America and Republican America (I would add some snark about the two being the same thing, but corporate America owns the U.S. government, on both sides of the aisle. Just look at the health care and financial industry lobbying right now and you'll see what I mean), I went to Mexico looking for a place to live first. But for some reason, that never came to fruition. On a second reconnaissance trip to Paris, I knew where I wanted to be.
My friend K used to say to me, "I know you'll live in Mexico some day." If you saw my condo in Arizona, decorated in Mexican colors and full of Mexican furniture and art, you would have agreed with her. But, here I am in Paris. I think I've come to understand that I'm not so much in love with one place or another, but am in love with travel and learning and living the nomadic life. I have a feeling that Paris won't be the last stop on my life's road.
And K, who had never traveled outside the U.S. except for a few forays across the border to Mexico, came to visit me here this Christmas. K had been influenced by some narrow-minded people and of course, was subjected to Republican and U.S. media fear-mongering about anything Islamic. So I knew she'd have her eyes opened by this trip.
I just didn't know how wide they'd be opened.
The day of her arrival at Charles de Gaulle airport just happened to also be the day that everyone was coming back from Mecca. I stood at the gate, anxiously surveying the crowds of Islamic people and thought, "Oh boy. This should be interesting. She's going to think that even though she narrowly avoided crashing into the ocean from a bomb on the plane, she's sure to die at the hands of terrorists upon exiting customs."
K's plane was late. There was confusion as to which gate she would exit from. I kept shoving my way through the crowds to try and see her as she came out. All the while, women in long dresses and scarves were offering me plates full of dates. My friend G, who was kind enough to come to the airport with me in her car, was happily eating everything that was offered. Then came the ululating. Oh, the ululating. Each time a person of importance came out of customs, the crowds would surge towards them, offering dates and crying "AY YAY YAY YAY YAY YAY YAY!" Grrrrreat.
K finally exited customs, but without me seeing her. She went, as I had instructed, to the friendly information desk, and asked them to call my cell phone. I made my way over to the desk and there she was, with her sweet little 3-year-old in her stroller. She looked weary and just a bit wary, but not as wide-eyed from terror as I was worried she might be. "Want a date?" my friend G says to K in greeting. "No Thanks." K says. "I don't take random food from strangers." heh heh.
Off we went in G's car to our neighborhood, full of Halal butchers and restaurants, women in veils and swarthy-looking men who would be instant terrorist suspects in America. The difference is, when there are two or three Middle Eastern men in America, they are suspicious. When you're surrounded by thousands of them, you're forced to admit that they can't ALL be plotting to kill you. Unless of course, you're an asshole. Which K is not. So, as we walked around the neighborhood, shopped in the grocery store and played in the local parks, she began to be comfortable in our multicultural environment.
Luckily, I'd moved upstairs from my first hovel of an apartment, so she didn't get a chance to hear the guy across the hall ululating at the top of his lungs accompanied by Islamic music and, um, slapping himself, every morning at 6:00. Nor did she have to hear the incessant knocking on the guy's door all through the wee hours of the night and morning, as his guy friends came to crash on his floor during Ramadan. If there ever was the makings of a terrorist cell in the imagination of the fearful, that would be it.
A Moroccan woman and her three lovely daughters moved into my old apartment downstairs. The woman wears a head scarf, as does her oldest daughter. K got to see us all kissing in happy greeting each time we encountered each other on the street or in the building's entrance hallway. Those girls are devout Muslims and since K left, I've had wonderful times visiting them, giggling with them about the slapper across the hall (I thought they'd know what he was doing, but they're just as confused as I am) and having serious discussions about the French government's recent burqa ban. Each time I spend time with them, I'm served, with traditional high-pour flourish from a beautiful Morrocan pot, the best cinnamon or mint tea on the planet. And cakes. And almonds. And love.
While K was here, she wore my long black hooded coat. She'd put a wide black headband across the top of her forehead and then pull up the hood of the coat. She looked like every Muslim woman in my neighborhood. I didn't realize this until a miracle happened. We went to see Sacré Coeur and on our way down the steps, heading towards the sins of Pigalle and the Moulin Rouge, we encountered the guys who plant themselves at the base of the steps and try to sell you bracelets made from string. These guys are relentless and I've never been able to escape them. But when they saw K in that coat, hood and headband, they turned and walked away! It made me want to invest in my own burqa.
K and I welcomed 2010 at our favorite local, owned and operated by two handsome Iranian brothers and their gorgeous sister. K and one of the brothers had been flirting with each other for a few weeks prior to New Years Eve. I'll avoid saying anything about sleeping with terrorists (by saying... sleeping with terrorists), but K extended her stay in Paris for some reason. I thought it was because she couldn't stand to leave me. Or because she'd fallen in love with Paris. Um. Well, yeah.
Since I moved to this neighborhood, if I'm too lazy to cook or have a hankering for pizza, I'm lucky to have a place right on my block where I can walk in, order and wait just a few moments while they make the pizza from scratch and put it into a wood-fired oven. The guy who owns it is Middle Eastern, in his late 20's or early 30's and sports something between a 5 o'clock shadow and a closely-trimmed beard. His swarthy friends hang out with him, clad in their leather jackets, sitting on bar stools in front of the counter and watching Al Jazeera on TV.
It could be a little intimidating to go in there, if you're an American who sees a terrorist around every corner. But every time I've stepped in the door, the young owner smiles at me and takes my order. Once, when he had run out for a moment, his friends went behind the counter and started the pizza until he came back. I sit and watch Al Jazeera with them while waiting for my pizza, or gaze at the framed photo they have on the wall, of our street in the 1800's. It was from that photo that I learned that the small parking lot inset in front of the Franprix grocery store used to be where the horse-drawn carriages could turn around.
To this day, I don't remember the name of the pizza place. Instead, I say to G when we're starving and lazy, "How about some terrorist pizza?" It's terrible, I know. But, it's funny, also too.
K returned to America, tainted. She cried all the way home on the plane. She told me she couldn't stop talking about Paris when she returned. But nobody wanted to hear about it. One guy said, "Why do you want to go there? The French hate us." And my sweet friend K said, "I've heard more hatred from Americans about the French since I returned here, than I EVER heard from French people about America while I was there." Amen, sistuh. So, in the end, she shut up about Paris. She feels lonely, now that she's different. Now she knows how I always felt when I lived in Arizona. I was a stranger, in a strange land.
K wasn't crying on the plane about missing her Iranian conquest. Because her reasons for loving Paris and wanting to move here, are more nuanced than that. Her tears were about her discovery that the world is such a big and amazing place, full of people from foreign lands, where there's always something new and different to see and do, new friends to make, new words to speak. Where you can stand in awe in front of Notre Dame's rose window and freeze to death in a line outside the French health administration building, while her friend, that would be moi, was in the last throes of the beaurocratic hell called "getting your French work visa." It's a magical place with exotic food and wine at bargain basement prices.
And of course, in a pinch, there's always Terrorist Pizza.
Confessions and observations of an American girl in Paris.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
The Enchanted Forest
I wanted you to know I've made progress on my box of letters. I cataloged them by year and they start from the first letter I wrote to my friend on the plane from Philadelphia to Phoenix in 1971 and they end in 1977. I also started a document where I'm researching all the references I made in the letters to music, movies, books, TV commercials and other events during those times. It's been a wonderful trip of discovery so far. When I first got the box, I was kind of horrified at how little I could remember, but as I look things up, memories are beginning to come back.
One of the most joyful discoveries I've made is the spirit of Lisa Wines. I'm beginning to realize that I was funny ("I know you must think I'm insane, but aren't you glad I use Dial?" - a reference to a soap commercial that only other people of a certain age will remember). I was open, creative, curious and most of all, bold. Even though I accepted the negative programming from my mother ("She's our smartest child, but she has no common sense."), I keep seeing evidence of my own young wisdom and being surprised by it. For instance, I discuss the fact that my boyfriend at the time was pressuring me to have sex, but I didn't want to because I knew he'd be going off to college, would probably meet other girls and I would get my heart broken. If I had a daughter at that age, this would be the kind of advice I would give her. I wouldn't be saying that sex was a "sin" or telling her she was "obsessed with sex" or shaming her. I'd be telling her the same practical realities of life and love that my 15-year-old self already knew.
One of the interesting surprises is the fact that even though I told my best friend the most intimate details of my life, when I was raped in college, I told her, just two days after the rape, only that I had a terrible urinary tract infection and the doctors at the student union gave me some tests and I was waiting for results so they could tell me what was wrong. In fact, I went to the hospital only because an old friend found me in my dorm room in shock, and then I was verbally shamed by the doctor, and sent home with medication for the infection. I wasn't waiting for any "results." It was here that I made a turning point in my life. Where I decided that my rape was my fault because I was so open, too creative and way too bold. I decided also that I would never have been raped if I had stayed inside my family and agreed with them and did what they wanted me to do.
My next paragraph in that letter was all about me having to go get a job. Industry would save me from the evils of my creative self and maybe erase the shame of the rape (that my mother said I deserved, because of the way I dressed). If I just worked hard and long enough, I'd finally get the respect from my parents and acceptance from the "serious people" of the world and I could stop myself from foolishly thinking I could be an artist. The tone of my letters changed from that point onward. And I've denied myself the pleasure of my own spirit ever since.
Of course, you can't keep pushing the truth aside forever. And you can't keep dating men who are artists to avoid being one yourself. I made myself sick trying to be a "grown up" and worked myself almost to death. I kept trying to fit into my family, but always failed. At 50, I finally decided I'd had enough and ran away to Paris, with no idea where it would lead me. But it led me back to myself and I'm falling in love with this young, brave girl every time I open a letter. My parents say I'm crazy now - "She's living over there with all those other Socialists." But the sad truth is, they would and will never value my spirit, or my "difference."
So, while I continue my discovery, I thought I'd post one of my drawings I made in my Big Chief tablet in 1972. It's called The Enchanted Forest.
One of the most joyful discoveries I've made is the spirit of Lisa Wines. I'm beginning to realize that I was funny ("I know you must think I'm insane, but aren't you glad I use Dial?" - a reference to a soap commercial that only other people of a certain age will remember). I was open, creative, curious and most of all, bold. Even though I accepted the negative programming from my mother ("She's our smartest child, but she has no common sense."), I keep seeing evidence of my own young wisdom and being surprised by it. For instance, I discuss the fact that my boyfriend at the time was pressuring me to have sex, but I didn't want to because I knew he'd be going off to college, would probably meet other girls and I would get my heart broken. If I had a daughter at that age, this would be the kind of advice I would give her. I wouldn't be saying that sex was a "sin" or telling her she was "obsessed with sex" or shaming her. I'd be telling her the same practical realities of life and love that my 15-year-old self already knew.
One of the interesting surprises is the fact that even though I told my best friend the most intimate details of my life, when I was raped in college, I told her, just two days after the rape, only that I had a terrible urinary tract infection and the doctors at the student union gave me some tests and I was waiting for results so they could tell me what was wrong. In fact, I went to the hospital only because an old friend found me in my dorm room in shock, and then I was verbally shamed by the doctor, and sent home with medication for the infection. I wasn't waiting for any "results." It was here that I made a turning point in my life. Where I decided that my rape was my fault because I was so open, too creative and way too bold. I decided also that I would never have been raped if I had stayed inside my family and agreed with them and did what they wanted me to do.
My next paragraph in that letter was all about me having to go get a job. Industry would save me from the evils of my creative self and maybe erase the shame of the rape (that my mother said I deserved, because of the way I dressed). If I just worked hard and long enough, I'd finally get the respect from my parents and acceptance from the "serious people" of the world and I could stop myself from foolishly thinking I could be an artist. The tone of my letters changed from that point onward. And I've denied myself the pleasure of my own spirit ever since.
Of course, you can't keep pushing the truth aside forever. And you can't keep dating men who are artists to avoid being one yourself. I made myself sick trying to be a "grown up" and worked myself almost to death. I kept trying to fit into my family, but always failed. At 50, I finally decided I'd had enough and ran away to Paris, with no idea where it would lead me. But it led me back to myself and I'm falling in love with this young, brave girl every time I open a letter. My parents say I'm crazy now - "She's living over there with all those other Socialists." But the sad truth is, they would and will never value my spirit, or my "difference."
So, while I continue my discovery, I thought I'd post one of my drawings I made in my Big Chief tablet in 1972. It's called The Enchanted Forest.
Monday, March 8, 2010
The Pain Unable To Explain
Just before Christmas of 2008, I wrote a blog post about my childhood friend Dina (pseudonym), who found me on the internet and then sent me a magical box filled with every letter I'd ever written to her. She thought it would make a good book one day. So do I.
When I first started coming to Paris, I had recently made a final break with corporate America and decided I would finally, at 50, become a writer. I'd been in denial and avoiding this precious part of myself for way too long. I blogged religiously, finding my voice. But I never worked on my book ideas, some of them quite developed. I had, and still have, an inordinate fear of taking this big step in my life, daring to legitimize myself as a published writer. The devil on my shoulder continues to say, "Who the hell do you think you are? Calling yourself a writer. Pffft!" Instead, I allowed myself to get distracted with other people's problems (my forté) and when I found freelance work, I dove into it with the same obsessive overworking that almost killed me in my past career.
A difficult relationship breakup, a writing contract for a PSP game, a teaching contract at the same time, a multi-year French work permit application process...all combined with my terror of finishing and publishing a book...made me hide in my apartment in a paralysis like I have never before experienced. I stopped blogging. I stopped living. I was just surviving from day to day, as I gathered enough nerve to go to the grocery store or to work, literally gagging from fear at every step.
Last week, I finalized my French work permit and suddenly, just as Paris has been drenched in sunlight for seven rare days in a row, I felt lighter and full of hope. I wouldn't say I'm without fear, since fear has been my nasty little habit for such a long time. I will have to retrain every cell in my body before I could dare to call myself fearless.
But this morning I finally took down the box Dina sent me, from the top of a dusty tall cabinet. It's the first step in cataloging the letters and figuring out how I will present this little gold mine. In the box is a Son of Big Chief writing tablet, filled with letters, poems and my drawings. According to Wikipedia, these tablets were printed for more than 80 years, but died a quiet death in 2001. However, I share the use of Big Chief with other literary luminaries: "In John Kennedy Toole's novel A Confederacy of Dunces, the protagonist Ignatius Reilly pens his philosophical ramblings on Big Chief tablets." What's hilarious about this Big Chief tablet cover, is the fact that because of the time that I bought it (circa summer of 1972), there's a hippie Big Chief instead of the standard Indian.
So, to get me started, I'd like to share one item with you, a story I wrote spontaneously, built around a drawing I made. It's obvious, based on my own drawings, that sometimes I copied other people's art as a way to teach myself. And this particular drawing looks like one of those copies. I named the character "Fwed" and wrote the following story when I was about 15 years old. (I didn't edit the punctuation or spelling.)
This is fwed. Fwed's my buddy. We met in a Chinese hairdresser salon while he was having hairs inserted above his ear so that he'd look like he'd have hair if he wore his cap. (I won't tell you what I was doing there...) Anyway Fwed and I started a lasting relationship over our fortune cookies and bamboo shoots. He was a master at chopsticks in any form and he lovingly instructed me of their use as he noticed most of my meal down my blouse and dribbling down the chair legs whenever we went out to eat. "Tsk Tsk" he'd say (he's got the cutest way of saying that!) and he'd wipe it all up to use as leftovers. He was the swankiest person I ever met - and high society? Whew - you name it - he was there. Remember the 1968 garbage collector's ball that was so highly publicised - Well - I was there - along with Fwed of course. I owe it all to him. He was so suave and debonair (to add a little of that "parlay-vu") (tee hee) that night. He almost swept me off my feet. I'm glad he didn't though - the floor was awful dirty - it needed it more than I did.
Fwed was a professional olive stuffer but out of business since the last pimento strike he's been free lancing as a Presidential campaign delegate - all just night work you know - so I haven't been able to see him lately. During the day he's free though and we go to all the dog shows to see if we can find his lost doberman pincer - the one who chewed up Fwed's round bed and headboard. Fwed was so mad that he scolded "pooch" cruelly which brought on an attack of shame to the dog along with "sticky-paw" (the pain unable to explain). Pooch took off for the mountains - on invitation of course - by the Don Juan of dogs himself whom no one has ever really seen. His sticky-paw dissapeared after a few days of nursing by those sexy poodles of Don Juan's. And the shame? Who knows - hopefully he's forgotten - we wouldn't want him to have a nervous breakdown. I know all this because pooche's girlfriend, smooch, travels to this area once in a while and visits my dog, mooch who in turn reports the latest. Fwed still thinks that pooch is lost and caught an attack of amnesia which stops him from coming home. His taste has become more educated and he prefers satin slippers and the like to round beds.
I've known Fwed for a while now and have gotten to know all about his personality - bad and good. He's the most different person I've ever met - to put it mildly. Why, he sleeps on top of his kitchen counter at night - due to the fact he has no bed anymore. I once asked him how he managed to stay up there all night without falling off. He claims there's a bottomless pit below which explains why he jumps onto the chandelier every morning and makes a dive for the couch which also was a surprise to me because I was sleeping on the couch. I don't know how he ever had anything to eat because the bottomless pit was right in front of the stove, sink, and refrigerator. I also wonder how he gets up on the counter to go to sleep at night - the chandelier is only a one-way deal. Yes, Fwed is a very peculiar person.
But I like him just the same. I would never marry him I'm afraid - I wouldn't be able to stand listening to that garbage he plays on the radio.
The End.
As I read this story, I can see all of the influences at the time I was writing it:
I have no idea where the following line came from however, but I know I must use it someday, somewhere in my writing: the pain unable to explain.
When I first started coming to Paris, I had recently made a final break with corporate America and decided I would finally, at 50, become a writer. I'd been in denial and avoiding this precious part of myself for way too long. I blogged religiously, finding my voice. But I never worked on my book ideas, some of them quite developed. I had, and still have, an inordinate fear of taking this big step in my life, daring to legitimize myself as a published writer. The devil on my shoulder continues to say, "Who the hell do you think you are? Calling yourself a writer. Pffft!" Instead, I allowed myself to get distracted with other people's problems (my forté) and when I found freelance work, I dove into it with the same obsessive overworking that almost killed me in my past career.
A difficult relationship breakup, a writing contract for a PSP game, a teaching contract at the same time, a multi-year French work permit application process...all combined with my terror of finishing and publishing a book...made me hide in my apartment in a paralysis like I have never before experienced. I stopped blogging. I stopped living. I was just surviving from day to day, as I gathered enough nerve to go to the grocery store or to work, literally gagging from fear at every step.
Last week, I finalized my French work permit and suddenly, just as Paris has been drenched in sunlight for seven rare days in a row, I felt lighter and full of hope. I wouldn't say I'm without fear, since fear has been my nasty little habit for such a long time. I will have to retrain every cell in my body before I could dare to call myself fearless.
But this morning I finally took down the box Dina sent me, from the top of a dusty tall cabinet. It's the first step in cataloging the letters and figuring out how I will present this little gold mine. In the box is a Son of Big Chief writing tablet, filled with letters, poems and my drawings. According to Wikipedia, these tablets were printed for more than 80 years, but died a quiet death in 2001. However, I share the use of Big Chief with other literary luminaries: "In John Kennedy Toole's novel A Confederacy of Dunces, the protagonist Ignatius Reilly pens his philosophical ramblings on Big Chief tablets." What's hilarious about this Big Chief tablet cover, is the fact that because of the time that I bought it (circa summer of 1972), there's a hippie Big Chief instead of the standard Indian.
So, to get me started, I'd like to share one item with you, a story I wrote spontaneously, built around a drawing I made. It's obvious, based on my own drawings, that sometimes I copied other people's art as a way to teach myself. And this particular drawing looks like one of those copies. I named the character "Fwed" and wrote the following story when I was about 15 years old. (I didn't edit the punctuation or spelling.)
This is fwed. Fwed's my buddy. We met in a Chinese hairdresser salon while he was having hairs inserted above his ear so that he'd look like he'd have hair if he wore his cap. (I won't tell you what I was doing there...) Anyway Fwed and I started a lasting relationship over our fortune cookies and bamboo shoots. He was a master at chopsticks in any form and he lovingly instructed me of their use as he noticed most of my meal down my blouse and dribbling down the chair legs whenever we went out to eat. "Tsk Tsk" he'd say (he's got the cutest way of saying that!) and he'd wipe it all up to use as leftovers. He was the swankiest person I ever met - and high society? Whew - you name it - he was there. Remember the 1968 garbage collector's ball that was so highly publicised - Well - I was there - along with Fwed of course. I owe it all to him. He was so suave and debonair (to add a little of that "parlay-vu") (tee hee) that night. He almost swept me off my feet. I'm glad he didn't though - the floor was awful dirty - it needed it more than I did. Fwed was a professional olive stuffer but out of business since the last pimento strike he's been free lancing as a Presidential campaign delegate - all just night work you know - so I haven't been able to see him lately. During the day he's free though and we go to all the dog shows to see if we can find his lost doberman pincer - the one who chewed up Fwed's round bed and headboard. Fwed was so mad that he scolded "pooch" cruelly which brought on an attack of shame to the dog along with "sticky-paw" (the pain unable to explain). Pooch took off for the mountains - on invitation of course - by the Don Juan of dogs himself whom no one has ever really seen. His sticky-paw dissapeared after a few days of nursing by those sexy poodles of Don Juan's. And the shame? Who knows - hopefully he's forgotten - we wouldn't want him to have a nervous breakdown. I know all this because pooche's girlfriend, smooch, travels to this area once in a while and visits my dog, mooch who in turn reports the latest. Fwed still thinks that pooch is lost and caught an attack of amnesia which stops him from coming home. His taste has become more educated and he prefers satin slippers and the like to round beds.
I've known Fwed for a while now and have gotten to know all about his personality - bad and good. He's the most different person I've ever met - to put it mildly. Why, he sleeps on top of his kitchen counter at night - due to the fact he has no bed anymore. I once asked him how he managed to stay up there all night without falling off. He claims there's a bottomless pit below which explains why he jumps onto the chandelier every morning and makes a dive for the couch which also was a surprise to me because I was sleeping on the couch. I don't know how he ever had anything to eat because the bottomless pit was right in front of the stove, sink, and refrigerator. I also wonder how he gets up on the counter to go to sleep at night - the chandelier is only a one-way deal. Yes, Fwed is a very peculiar person.
But I like him just the same. I would never marry him I'm afraid - I wouldn't be able to stand listening to that garbage he plays on the radio.
The End.
As I read this story, I can see all of the influences at the time I was writing it:
- I had a best friend in Arizona whose swingin' single mother had a round bed...covered in deep purple velvet, no less.
- My father used to say he wouldn't eat Chinese food because he hated eating "grass and bamboo shoots."
- My mother hated rock n' roll and frequently called it "that garbage on the radio."
- When my mother looked at my skinny brother, she'd say, "I don't know why he can't gain weight. His stomach is a bottomless pit."
- "Suave and debonair" was a favorite saying of my brothers, for some reason, who pronounced it like this: swave and dee-boner.
I have no idea where the following line came from however, but I know I must use it someday, somewhere in my writing: the pain unable to explain.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
French Work Permits, Xanax And Finally, Spandex
This week we had a tempête in France, where more than 50 people died. Thankfully I wasn't one of them. Most of the problems were in the West of France, but Paris received her dose of pouring rain and howling winds. So, when I woke up Tuesday morning, I was very happy to finally see blue skies and bright sunshine out of my window.
Since I'm from Arizona, where rain usually comes only twice a year during monsoon season, I actually don't mind the rain. But this particular morning I would be dealing with the French government and since this almost always means standing outside in a long line for hours, only to arrive at the reception desk to be told that you're missing one document, or the 6th copy of another document, or some other strange thing that you couldn't possibly know about even if you had the divination skills of the Oracle of Delphi, I wasn't looking forward to getting soaked and blown about with 75 other people outside of the OFII office (Office Français de l'Immigration et de l'Intégration) as I waited for my last step of my visa and work permit process - the Visite médicale obligatoire. This is the step where the government doctor screens you to make sure you're not carrying the bubonic plague into France.
My appointment was at 9AM, way across town near Bastille, where the July Column in the center of Place de la Bastille marks the place where the peasants stormed the prison and started the French revolution. The Bastille was built during the hundred year war as a fortress, later to be turned into a prison by Louis XIII. I can't help but feel like I've been in a 100-year war myself, trying to make it through the French visa process without, well, losing my head. At least they let me eat cake while I was waiting.
And I've been in my own prison of sorts - paralyzed by dread and anxiety as I awaited the verdict at every convoluted step. I think that the French have a certain affinity towards torture-through-bureaucracy, as if all my waiting and document gathering and xerox copying and line standing and number taking and stamp buying and phone calling (to phones that are never answered) builds character. If that's the case, then I could start a shop and make a fortune selling all my extra character. I might as well sell it, since I've become a twitching, drooling mess and couldn't use all that character if I tried.
I actually started this process more than 9 months ago, when I hired a great attorney (and blues guitar player) to help me figure it all out. I gathered old birth certificates and divorce decrees and took pictures of my work space and made a million copies of bank statements and even had a nice policeman in Carefree, Arizona write a letter verifying that I wasn't now, nor had I ever been, a criminal. Of course, before I went to the Carefree police station to pick up the letter, I was absolutely positive that they'd be waiting to arrest me for some minor offense that I'd forgotten about, but for which Sheriff Joe Arpaio, the FBI, CIA and AARP had been hoping to catch me for years but just couldn't find me (across the street from them).
Even though you're allowed to pack a pistol in Arizona public buildings, no guns were drawn when I arrived at the police station/town hall and the nice receptionist just handed me the letter and the cops were nowhere to be found. I had 21 glasses of wine to celebrate.
When I finally had a 4-inch-thick dossier compiled, I confidently contacted the American representative of the French consulate in Arizona, to ask for my interview. He was quite impatient over the phone and couldn't possibly understand how I could have ever imagined that I could get a French visa:
Him: Are you marrying a French man?
Me: No.
Him: Did a French or American company offer you a job?
Me: No.
Him: Well, what are you going to do, then?
Me: Write and publish books and collaborate with a French university developing video online courses.
Him: Well, I just don't think this is going to fly. Send me the cover letter of your dossier and I'll email the consulate in Los Angeles and see if they will even consider your case.
I guess the idea that an unmarried woman in business for herself was outside the realm of possibilities for him. I looked him up online and he's an older gentleman and a Mormon, so I began to see why he might think this way, even as I became overwhelmed with fear that I was heading for one more religious persecution in my life. For some damn reason, I attract Christian zealots like fly paper.
The very next day, the Arizona honorary consul forwarded me an email from the Los Angeles consulate. The LA consul said that, not only will he receive my case, but that I qualify for a much better visa, the three-year Compétences et Talents visa. It's a good thing I do qualify for it, because getting this visa has taken me 9 months and if it was a normal one-year visa, I would have to start the visa renewal process NOW. I don't think there's enough Valium in France to get me through it again.
Needless to say, I was tempted to say NAH NAH NAH NAH NAAAH NAAAAAAAH! to the Arizona honorary consul, but I avoided the temptation since I was scheduled to interview with him the following Monday. Instead, I had 42 glasses of wine to celebrate.
For my appointment, I dressed like a Mormon. I looked like I hadn't been laid in 20 years (unfortunately not too far from the truth): pleated knee-length skirt, puffy-sleeved blouse buttoned to my chin, don't-come-fuck-me pumps. He didn't notice. He was impressed, instead, by the thickness of my dossier, and the two professionally-bound copies obligatoires. He said, "Wow, you're serious about this." Uh. No. I'm just a fluffy girl without a brain in her head who thought she might want to live in France so she can drink wine and eat cheese. Jayzuz. (OK, the wine and cheese part is true but I'm definitely not fluffy.)
He asked me about 6 questions and then told me to send my dossier and my passport to Los Angeles and wait for their review and approval. So, there I was, without a passport, hoping they would send it back to me with my visa in time to catch my flight to Paris in less than 6 weeks.
I had 842 glasses of wine (and a few shots of tequila) while waiting.
I was in Las Vegas visiting my friend when I received a voicemail from the French consul in Los Angeles. I wish I had kept the voicemail. It was soooooo French (i.e. cheerfully threatening): "Hello Madame Wines! This is the French consulate calling! It is obligatory that you send us three copies - not two! - of your dossier. This is clearly stated on our website! If you do not send the third copy to me by Friday, you will have to start the visa application process all over again. Tank you!"
I overnighted the third copy and then I can't actually remember how many glasses of wine I drank, trying to drown my terror that he'd find one more thing I had forgotten to send him. But when my brother called me a week later and said I'd received a package from the consulate with a new shiny visa inside my passport, I had 685 glasses of wine to celebrate.
Back in Paris, I had exactly three months to go through the rest of the steps to get my carte de sejours (work permit) before my visa expired. That was July. Days and weeks crept by, and I never heard anything from anybody. Nada. Finally, two weeks before the visa was to expire, I asked a French friend to call the immigration office for me. After multiple tries and many hours on hold, she finally got through. They had never heard of me. She persisted. They finaly found me in the computer and said that they were waiting to receive my dossier from Los Angeles. My friend asked them what I should do if I needed to go in and out of France (i.e. to England with my brother and his girlfriend when they visited me in November). The immigration official said, "She'll have to apply for a new visa." So, I was stuck in France.
I emailed my friendly Los Angeles consul and used my best indirect, polite corporate-speak and said, "The Paris immigration office informed me that they can't process my visa until you send them my dossier. Since my visa expires in two weeks, if I can do anything to facilitate the mailing of my dossier to the Paris office, just let me know." I received a very brief reply in all caps: I SENT THE DOSSIER TWO MONTHS AGO. Oops! So sorry! Gulp.
I bought 8 bottles of cheap wine (they don't have any good tequila here) at Franprix and drank them all in one go, sitting in my apartment, in the dark.
A couple of weeks later, I received a letter, telling me I had to go to the prefecture (police station) to start the work permit process. I went to my neighborhood police station and the line was all the way out the building and around the corner. I turned around and went back home. A few days later, after fortifying myself with...coffee, I went again. No line! I breezed right through the front door, up the steps to the immigration room, and as I fumbled with the ticket machine, I looked at the 85 people waiting in chairs in front of one tiny reception desk. Good thing I had nothing to read.
Since my French is bad and all of this is new to me, I just watched what everyone else was doing while I waited for my number to be called. All of a sudden, a guy at the reception desk started yelling. And slamming his fists on the counter. And yelling. All 85 of us stared. The lady behind the desk was nonplussed. She kept repeating herself - something about the fact that he had the audacity to show up ONE DAY after his visa had expired. He was yelling that it wasn't his fault, that he had been sick. She remained obstinate. He screamed and pounded. People came out of offices behind the desk and just stared at him. We were in the freaking police station and this guy was flipping out. After what seemed like hours, two big cops sauntered in and casually placed themselves on either side of the guy and listened to him yell. They quietly asked him a couple of questions. He yelled again. They quietly answered him. Finally, he calmed down. He and the two cops casually sauntered out of the room. And the receptionist started calling numbers again. And my visa was way more than one day expired.
Finally, it was my turn. I really only had to wait about 15 or 20 minutes....to find out I was in the wrong place. I had to go to the MAIN prefecture, downtown. The receptionist kindly wrote down the address, and the room number, where I needed to go. I didn't yell at her. Or pound my fists on the counter. I was excited about having the chance to stand in another line.
By some miracle, when I arrived at the downtown prefecture, there was NO LINE. There has always been a line outside of this place. They even constructed an awning along the side of the building so people don't die from sun stroke or frostbite or malaria, depending on the season. But nobody was there! I ran inside, found a place where 85 people were waiting, and figured that was the place for me. I took a number. Then I looked at my little piece of paper that the other prefecture had given me. I was in the right building, but the wrong room.
When I found my designated room, there was NO LINE! Just 3-4 people sitting in front of desks. I was called to the desk in less than 10 minutes. This, I thought, was where the rubber met the road. This is where I had to supply 900 more copies of my entire life (and all the same damn documents I had given to Los Angeles, in triplicate) so that they could give me my work permit. Of course, I had 899 correct copies but didn't have a copy of document number 900, which I didn't think they needed. I gave them the original. They said, "Don't call us. We'll call you."
I think something was lost in translation. I think they actually said. "Don't call us. We won't call you."
Keep in mind that I was already working, without a work permit. My school was actively paying me and paying the French government's social taxes for me. But I didn't have a work permit. Awkward!
November, and my brother's visit, was looming. I'd booked three tickets for us on the Chunnel for a day trip to London. I had visions of being stopped at the border and not allowed back into France. I drank more wine. And shot some heroin.
Three days before my brother and his girlfriend arrived, I got a phone call (!!) from the downtown prefecture asking me to come in and get my work permit. I actually answered that call and actually understood her French and actually spoke French back to her. Woohoo! I went downtown the next day and went to the little office and waited for 5 minutes and when I met with the guy, he gave me an official-looking paper with my adorable mug shot affixed to it, but it wasn't that laminated carte de sejours that everyone else has. I thought I was finished. And alas, I was not. It was just my temporary work permit. "You go here," he said in English, as he pointed to the address of the OFII. "You bring these things." There was a nice and easy bulleted list that I was sure I would be able to figure out. I nodded and told him how happy I was! He grunted.
The temporary work permit was fine for my London trip and my bro and his girlfriend and I had a blast. After they left Paris, my pal Kelsie arrived mid-November, so she and I got ourselves and her little daughter all bundled up and we made the trek by bus all the way to the OFII office at Bastille. We stood in line outside and froze to death, me with my lovely documents, including one timbre (stamp) worth 15 Euros and one worth 55 Euros. I don't know why they make you go to a Tabac (tobacco store) and buy stamps instead of accepting other forms of payment, but mine is not to reason why, mine is but to do or die (of alcohol poisoning).
Finally, inside at the reception desk, I did my best "Bonjour Madame!" and handed in my papers. She stared at them and got angry with me in French. I didn't have a clue what she was saying, but she kept pointing to the one thing I didn't have - the medical certificate. Well, I was standing in line that day to GET the medical certificate. How could I bring it with me when I was there to get it from them? I was so confused. She finally said in English, "You work?" Yes. "You got a boss?" Yes. "Tell your boss he must do this." and Then she shoved my papers back at me and went on to the next person in line. I showed her my timbres. She ignored me. That hurt. I was proud of my timbres.
I was very depressed on the way home. I decided to have 1,276 glasses of wine. And some Xanax.
The next day, I took all my documents to the admin guy at work. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. We made some wild guesses. "Maybe they want you to send me to your official doctor for my medical exam and he'll give me a certificate to take back there?" "But we don't have an official school doctor." "Well, can you make me an appointment anyway?" "Well, OK." And...he never did. He's a busy guy and he forgot about it.
So, I called the director of the school and sent her all my docs and she spent an entire day trying to call the OFII office. They never answered the phone until late in the day. They told her that when I got my papers from the prefecture downtown, a letter was supposed to be sent to me automatiquement that gave me the date and time for my medical exam. I had never received that letter. She told me that I had to call them and remind them to send me the letter.
Oh sure. I'm capable of that. 7,832 glasses of wine might give me the courage to try it.
Finally, I begged for the assistance of my neighbor and partner in dinner-party crime, G. She spent one week trying to get through to the OFII office. They never answered the phone. She called nine other government agencies and they all told her to call OFII. Then, in my documents, she saw a filled-out form and asked me if I had sent it in. I said, well, no. She looked on OFII's website and found out that I was supposed to have sent this form in order to get that freaking "automatic" letter sent.
So, since I was waaaaaaaaaay expired on alllllll my deadlines and, according to the threats written in my official documents, would be hanged at noon from the Arc de Triomph for this crime, G suggested that we put a yellow sticky note on the document that said, "deuxieme envoie." Yes, my friends, it said that this was the second time I had mailed the document to them. Technically, this is a bald-faced lie. Since nobody told me to send the damn thing and only told me to go to the place. But I figured that one day in line and getting yelled at by the OFII receptionist was the same thing as sending the form in.
Two days later, I received the appointment letter. G's my hero. We took a bath in wine. Now, it isn't only our teeth that are stained red.
Oh, and by the way, I received the appointment letter last Thursday. I worked on Friday. My appointment was for Tuesday at 9AM. The letter told me all kinds of new things that I had to bring to the appointment. All of them were different than the original list that was given to me by the prefecture. You know those 15E and 55E timbres? Well, I didn't need ONE of each. I needed NINE 15E stamps and THREE 55E stamps. That would be 300 Euros in stamps. Oh and I also needed a chest X-Ray and records of all my vaccinations and hospitalizations. I had Monday to make all of this happen.
I stopped in at my local, L'Insolent, for a feeling-sorry-for-myself drink. I told Afsanet, my friendly barmaid, of my problems. She handed me a card and said, "The X-Ray place is down the street." Just go there. And it was. And I did. And they took me right away, without an appointment. And it only cost me 35 Euros ($50). And I found my vaccination record from when I was a baby. I know. Incredible. But I haven't been in the hospital lately - not since I had a boob job and nose job 30 years ago and my uterus boiled 4 years ago. I don't have those documents. I figured I'd just show the doctor how I can make my boobs dance and that would be enough.
By this time in the process, I didn't have great expectations. In fact, Tuesday morning, I was nauseous and only remembered to breathe when I noticed I was turning blue. During my sleepless Monday night, I imagined the following things:
And we arrived a half hour early. And there were 50 people in line. NAH NAH NAH NAH NAAAAAAAH NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! OK, I didn't say it. But, I wanted to.
The line moved like The Roadrunner with Wile E. Coyote on his ass. We were inside that building in a flash. I wooden-smiled my way up to the reception desk. She looked at my letter and told me to go RIGHT UPSTAIRS TO THE DOCTOR. Everyone else had to wait. Holy shit!
I had my finger pricked and was told my blood sugar was awesome. I was weighed - with my boots, heavy coat, hoodie, shirt, jeans - and didn't even try to take it all off. That's because happily, I don't know Metric measurement. As far as I can tell, what I saw on the scale made me think I should start looking for modeling jobs. As I stood on the two blue-painted footsteps and tried to read the eye chart, I couldn't explain in French that I had laser surgery, with my right eye adjusted for distance and my left eye adjusted for reading. That's why I couldn't see anything when they asked me to cover my right eye. They didn't let me explain. This was a factory and I was just one more widget to shove along the line. They noted on my chart that I was blind.
Then they sent me to get undressed for the...chest X-Ray. Now, why in the fuck, if they were going to do it there, FOR FREE, did they put in the letter that I had to bring one with me? I waved my X-Ray envelope at them and they let me move along down the assembly line.
Next was the lady doctor. She was very cool. She smiled at me! I wasn't just another cog in the wheel! She even spoke English. And I didn't have to show her my boob trick. She examined me and asked me a couple of normal questions and told me I had to get a few vaccinations. My heart sank. "So, do I have to go to a government doctor to get them?" "No. If you have your own doctor, you can go there." "And then, afterwards, how many millions of copies do I have to make of my vaccination receipt and where do I send them or do I have to come back here and stand in line to hand it in...and then after I do that, THEN can I have my carte de sejours? Or do I have to do 43 more things?"
I didn't say it exactly like that. But, close. She laughed. "No. Just take these documents from me and wait in front of that desk over there and she'll call you and tell you what to do next." I shuffled my black lungs out of the room and frumped my model-like body on a seat next to my ex. My name was called. I approached the desk. She mumbled something that I didn't understand. Then she pointed down the hall and said, "Third door on the left." Off we went.
Now, this is when it gets interesting. (That is, if you are still reading this epic.)
The sign on the 3rd door on the left said "prefecture." Thankfully, I didn't have time to process the fact that there's a police office in the OFII building (and that they probably were sending me there to get arrested). There was an L-shaped counter. Two chubby, gigantic-breasted, older women sat at desks behind the counter, facing each other. They were deep into a discussion of the pros and cons of buying clothes with elastic. They greeted me with chubby and friendly Bonjours! And one of them, still discussing spandex, stood up. She kept talking while she opened up a Tupperware container. Her friend laughed. Then she offered her a chocolate and then she turned to me and offered me one. Holy shit! I said no thanks, but in retrospect, I should have taken such a lovely gift.
She kept on talking to her friend as she made her way to the counter and took my documents. She continued to talk to her co-worker, standing there waving my documents to make another joke. She then went to a bookcase and found my file, still talking. Her friend laughed again. She came back to the desk and asked me for my stamps. I held my breath as she pasted every single one of them all over my pristine documents. Then she handed me my laminated carte de sejours. Holy shit again!
I was not expecting that. I really thought that I would have to wait for another three months and come back and stand in line and be told I didn't have the right documents and to come back with all the right stuff and then maybe, if I could recite the French alphabet backwards, I could get my card. But there it was, all nice and shiny and pink.
She went back to her desk. "C'est tous?" (That's all?) I said. "C'est tous!" she said.
I left the room in a happy daze. My ex looked up from his book, sitting with 25 people who were waiting outside the office. I put a depressed look on my face. His face fell, but then he quickly settled into a keep-your-chin-up mode. Then I flashed my card at him, with a big smile. His eyes lit up. I said, "Let's get out of here before they change their minds."
It's been sunny for the last three days. Even though it's still cold, Spring is in the air. Parisians are sitting outside at cafes, or lying in the brown grass in parks, soaking up the sun. And I have my carte de sejours. For three years.
My ex called me this morning, to play me a song about being in the darkness and going out into the light. He knows, better than anyone, how difficult and scary this process has been for me and how much I have been paralyzed by it and hiding in my apartment. He said, "You know, if you think about it, you and I are in the Winter of our lives, but we are in the Spring of this moment." It's pretty amazing that he and I started this journey together and despite our huge differences and a very difficult breakup, he happened to be with me on the day that the journey was completed. I'm very happy that I could share it with him...and that there is plenty of good cheap wine in France.
Pardon moi, while I celebrate.
Since I'm from Arizona, where rain usually comes only twice a year during monsoon season, I actually don't mind the rain. But this particular morning I would be dealing with the French government and since this almost always means standing outside in a long line for hours, only to arrive at the reception desk to be told that you're missing one document, or the 6th copy of another document, or some other strange thing that you couldn't possibly know about even if you had the divination skills of the Oracle of Delphi, I wasn't looking forward to getting soaked and blown about with 75 other people outside of the OFII office (Office Français de l'Immigration et de l'Intégration) as I waited for my last step of my visa and work permit process - the Visite médicale obligatoire. This is the step where the government doctor screens you to make sure you're not carrying the bubonic plague into France.
My appointment was at 9AM, way across town near Bastille, where the July Column in the center of Place de la Bastille marks the place where the peasants stormed the prison and started the French revolution. The Bastille was built during the hundred year war as a fortress, later to be turned into a prison by Louis XIII. I can't help but feel like I've been in a 100-year war myself, trying to make it through the French visa process without, well, losing my head. At least they let me eat cake while I was waiting.
And I've been in my own prison of sorts - paralyzed by dread and anxiety as I awaited the verdict at every convoluted step. I think that the French have a certain affinity towards torture-through-bureaucracy, as if all my waiting and document gathering and xerox copying and line standing and number taking and stamp buying and phone calling (to phones that are never answered) builds character. If that's the case, then I could start a shop and make a fortune selling all my extra character. I might as well sell it, since I've become a twitching, drooling mess and couldn't use all that character if I tried.
I actually started this process more than 9 months ago, when I hired a great attorney (and blues guitar player) to help me figure it all out. I gathered old birth certificates and divorce decrees and took pictures of my work space and made a million copies of bank statements and even had a nice policeman in Carefree, Arizona write a letter verifying that I wasn't now, nor had I ever been, a criminal. Of course, before I went to the Carefree police station to pick up the letter, I was absolutely positive that they'd be waiting to arrest me for some minor offense that I'd forgotten about, but for which Sheriff Joe Arpaio, the FBI, CIA and AARP had been hoping to catch me for years but just couldn't find me (across the street from them).
Even though you're allowed to pack a pistol in Arizona public buildings, no guns were drawn when I arrived at the police station/town hall and the nice receptionist just handed me the letter and the cops were nowhere to be found. I had 21 glasses of wine to celebrate.
When I finally had a 4-inch-thick dossier compiled, I confidently contacted the American representative of the French consulate in Arizona, to ask for my interview. He was quite impatient over the phone and couldn't possibly understand how I could have ever imagined that I could get a French visa:
Him: Are you marrying a French man?
Me: No.
Him: Did a French or American company offer you a job?
Me: No.
Him: Well, what are you going to do, then?
Me: Write and publish books and collaborate with a French university developing video online courses.
Him: Well, I just don't think this is going to fly. Send me the cover letter of your dossier and I'll email the consulate in Los Angeles and see if they will even consider your case.
I guess the idea that an unmarried woman in business for herself was outside the realm of possibilities for him. I looked him up online and he's an older gentleman and a Mormon, so I began to see why he might think this way, even as I became overwhelmed with fear that I was heading for one more religious persecution in my life. For some damn reason, I attract Christian zealots like fly paper.
The very next day, the Arizona honorary consul forwarded me an email from the Los Angeles consulate. The LA consul said that, not only will he receive my case, but that I qualify for a much better visa, the three-year Compétences et Talents visa. It's a good thing I do qualify for it, because getting this visa has taken me 9 months and if it was a normal one-year visa, I would have to start the visa renewal process NOW. I don't think there's enough Valium in France to get me through it again.
Needless to say, I was tempted to say NAH NAH NAH NAH NAAAH NAAAAAAAH! to the Arizona honorary consul, but I avoided the temptation since I was scheduled to interview with him the following Monday. Instead, I had 42 glasses of wine to celebrate.
For my appointment, I dressed like a Mormon. I looked like I hadn't been laid in 20 years (unfortunately not too far from the truth): pleated knee-length skirt, puffy-sleeved blouse buttoned to my chin, don't-come-fuck-me pumps. He didn't notice. He was impressed, instead, by the thickness of my dossier, and the two professionally-bound copies obligatoires. He said, "Wow, you're serious about this." Uh. No. I'm just a fluffy girl without a brain in her head who thought she might want to live in France so she can drink wine and eat cheese. Jayzuz. (OK, the wine and cheese part is true but I'm definitely not fluffy.)
He asked me about 6 questions and then told me to send my dossier and my passport to Los Angeles and wait for their review and approval. So, there I was, without a passport, hoping they would send it back to me with my visa in time to catch my flight to Paris in less than 6 weeks.
I had 842 glasses of wine (and a few shots of tequila) while waiting.
I was in Las Vegas visiting my friend when I received a voicemail from the French consul in Los Angeles. I wish I had kept the voicemail. It was soooooo French (i.e. cheerfully threatening): "Hello Madame Wines! This is the French consulate calling! It is obligatory that you send us three copies - not two! - of your dossier. This is clearly stated on our website! If you do not send the third copy to me by Friday, you will have to start the visa application process all over again. Tank you!"
I overnighted the third copy and then I can't actually remember how many glasses of wine I drank, trying to drown my terror that he'd find one more thing I had forgotten to send him. But when my brother called me a week later and said I'd received a package from the consulate with a new shiny visa inside my passport, I had 685 glasses of wine to celebrate.
Back in Paris, I had exactly three months to go through the rest of the steps to get my carte de sejours (work permit) before my visa expired. That was July. Days and weeks crept by, and I never heard anything from anybody. Nada. Finally, two weeks before the visa was to expire, I asked a French friend to call the immigration office for me. After multiple tries and many hours on hold, she finally got through. They had never heard of me. She persisted. They finaly found me in the computer and said that they were waiting to receive my dossier from Los Angeles. My friend asked them what I should do if I needed to go in and out of France (i.e. to England with my brother and his girlfriend when they visited me in November). The immigration official said, "She'll have to apply for a new visa." So, I was stuck in France.
I emailed my friendly Los Angeles consul and used my best indirect, polite corporate-speak and said, "The Paris immigration office informed me that they can't process my visa until you send them my dossier. Since my visa expires in two weeks, if I can do anything to facilitate the mailing of my dossier to the Paris office, just let me know." I received a very brief reply in all caps: I SENT THE DOSSIER TWO MONTHS AGO. Oops! So sorry! Gulp.
I bought 8 bottles of cheap wine (they don't have any good tequila here) at Franprix and drank them all in one go, sitting in my apartment, in the dark.
A couple of weeks later, I received a letter, telling me I had to go to the prefecture (police station) to start the work permit process. I went to my neighborhood police station and the line was all the way out the building and around the corner. I turned around and went back home. A few days later, after fortifying myself with...coffee, I went again. No line! I breezed right through the front door, up the steps to the immigration room, and as I fumbled with the ticket machine, I looked at the 85 people waiting in chairs in front of one tiny reception desk. Good thing I had nothing to read.
Since my French is bad and all of this is new to me, I just watched what everyone else was doing while I waited for my number to be called. All of a sudden, a guy at the reception desk started yelling. And slamming his fists on the counter. And yelling. All 85 of us stared. The lady behind the desk was nonplussed. She kept repeating herself - something about the fact that he had the audacity to show up ONE DAY after his visa had expired. He was yelling that it wasn't his fault, that he had been sick. She remained obstinate. He screamed and pounded. People came out of offices behind the desk and just stared at him. We were in the freaking police station and this guy was flipping out. After what seemed like hours, two big cops sauntered in and casually placed themselves on either side of the guy and listened to him yell. They quietly asked him a couple of questions. He yelled again. They quietly answered him. Finally, he calmed down. He and the two cops casually sauntered out of the room. And the receptionist started calling numbers again. And my visa was way more than one day expired.
Finally, it was my turn. I really only had to wait about 15 or 20 minutes....to find out I was in the wrong place. I had to go to the MAIN prefecture, downtown. The receptionist kindly wrote down the address, and the room number, where I needed to go. I didn't yell at her. Or pound my fists on the counter. I was excited about having the chance to stand in another line.
By some miracle, when I arrived at the downtown prefecture, there was NO LINE. There has always been a line outside of this place. They even constructed an awning along the side of the building so people don't die from sun stroke or frostbite or malaria, depending on the season. But nobody was there! I ran inside, found a place where 85 people were waiting, and figured that was the place for me. I took a number. Then I looked at my little piece of paper that the other prefecture had given me. I was in the right building, but the wrong room.
When I found my designated room, there was NO LINE! Just 3-4 people sitting in front of desks. I was called to the desk in less than 10 minutes. This, I thought, was where the rubber met the road. This is where I had to supply 900 more copies of my entire life (and all the same damn documents I had given to Los Angeles, in triplicate) so that they could give me my work permit. Of course, I had 899 correct copies but didn't have a copy of document number 900, which I didn't think they needed. I gave them the original. They said, "Don't call us. We'll call you."
I think something was lost in translation. I think they actually said. "Don't call us. We won't call you."
Keep in mind that I was already working, without a work permit. My school was actively paying me and paying the French government's social taxes for me. But I didn't have a work permit. Awkward!
November, and my brother's visit, was looming. I'd booked three tickets for us on the Chunnel for a day trip to London. I had visions of being stopped at the border and not allowed back into France. I drank more wine. And shot some heroin.
Three days before my brother and his girlfriend arrived, I got a phone call (!!) from the downtown prefecture asking me to come in and get my work permit. I actually answered that call and actually understood her French and actually spoke French back to her. Woohoo! I went downtown the next day and went to the little office and waited for 5 minutes and when I met with the guy, he gave me an official-looking paper with my adorable mug shot affixed to it, but it wasn't that laminated carte de sejours that everyone else has. I thought I was finished. And alas, I was not. It was just my temporary work permit. "You go here," he said in English, as he pointed to the address of the OFII. "You bring these things." There was a nice and easy bulleted list that I was sure I would be able to figure out. I nodded and told him how happy I was! He grunted.
The temporary work permit was fine for my London trip and my bro and his girlfriend and I had a blast. After they left Paris, my pal Kelsie arrived mid-November, so she and I got ourselves and her little daughter all bundled up and we made the trek by bus all the way to the OFII office at Bastille. We stood in line outside and froze to death, me with my lovely documents, including one timbre (stamp) worth 15 Euros and one worth 55 Euros. I don't know why they make you go to a Tabac (tobacco store) and buy stamps instead of accepting other forms of payment, but mine is not to reason why, mine is but to do or die (of alcohol poisoning).
Finally, inside at the reception desk, I did my best "Bonjour Madame!" and handed in my papers. She stared at them and got angry with me in French. I didn't have a clue what she was saying, but she kept pointing to the one thing I didn't have - the medical certificate. Well, I was standing in line that day to GET the medical certificate. How could I bring it with me when I was there to get it from them? I was so confused. She finally said in English, "You work?" Yes. "You got a boss?" Yes. "Tell your boss he must do this." and Then she shoved my papers back at me and went on to the next person in line. I showed her my timbres. She ignored me. That hurt. I was proud of my timbres.
I was very depressed on the way home. I decided to have 1,276 glasses of wine. And some Xanax.
The next day, I took all my documents to the admin guy at work. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. We made some wild guesses. "Maybe they want you to send me to your official doctor for my medical exam and he'll give me a certificate to take back there?" "But we don't have an official school doctor." "Well, can you make me an appointment anyway?" "Well, OK." And...he never did. He's a busy guy and he forgot about it.
So, I called the director of the school and sent her all my docs and she spent an entire day trying to call the OFII office. They never answered the phone until late in the day. They told her that when I got my papers from the prefecture downtown, a letter was supposed to be sent to me automatiquement that gave me the date and time for my medical exam. I had never received that letter. She told me that I had to call them and remind them to send me the letter.
Oh sure. I'm capable of that. 7,832 glasses of wine might give me the courage to try it.
Finally, I begged for the assistance of my neighbor and partner in dinner-party crime, G. She spent one week trying to get through to the OFII office. They never answered the phone. She called nine other government agencies and they all told her to call OFII. Then, in my documents, she saw a filled-out form and asked me if I had sent it in. I said, well, no. She looked on OFII's website and found out that I was supposed to have sent this form in order to get that freaking "automatic" letter sent.
So, since I was waaaaaaaaaay expired on alllllll my deadlines and, according to the threats written in my official documents, would be hanged at noon from the Arc de Triomph for this crime, G suggested that we put a yellow sticky note on the document that said, "deuxieme envoie." Yes, my friends, it said that this was the second time I had mailed the document to them. Technically, this is a bald-faced lie. Since nobody told me to send the damn thing and only told me to go to the place. But I figured that one day in line and getting yelled at by the OFII receptionist was the same thing as sending the form in.
Two days later, I received the appointment letter. G's my hero. We took a bath in wine. Now, it isn't only our teeth that are stained red.
Oh, and by the way, I received the appointment letter last Thursday. I worked on Friday. My appointment was for Tuesday at 9AM. The letter told me all kinds of new things that I had to bring to the appointment. All of them were different than the original list that was given to me by the prefecture. You know those 15E and 55E timbres? Well, I didn't need ONE of each. I needed NINE 15E stamps and THREE 55E stamps. That would be 300 Euros in stamps. Oh and I also needed a chest X-Ray and records of all my vaccinations and hospitalizations. I had Monday to make all of this happen.
I stopped in at my local, L'Insolent, for a feeling-sorry-for-myself drink. I told Afsanet, my friendly barmaid, of my problems. She handed me a card and said, "The X-Ray place is down the street." Just go there. And it was. And I did. And they took me right away, without an appointment. And it only cost me 35 Euros ($50). And I found my vaccination record from when I was a baby. I know. Incredible. But I haven't been in the hospital lately - not since I had a boob job and nose job 30 years ago and my uterus boiled 4 years ago. I don't have those documents. I figured I'd just show the doctor how I can make my boobs dance and that would be enough.
By this time in the process, I didn't have great expectations. In fact, Tuesday morning, I was nauseous and only remembered to breathe when I noticed I was turning blue. During my sleepless Monday night, I imagined the following things:
- The Metro would be late and I'd miss my appointment
- I'd arrive and the line would be wrapped around the building and it would be pouring rain
- I would need TEN 15E stamps and FOUR 55E stamps (instead of 9 and 3, respectively) - the two from the original letter and the 12 from the second letter
- They would throw me out because I didn't have any record of hospitalization or because I'd never had a vaccination since 1957
- I hadn't made enough copies or I didn't make copies of the right things
- They'd finally notice that I was way past all the deadline dates for this process and my temporary work permit was expired
- I actually do have the bubonic plague
And we arrived a half hour early. And there were 50 people in line. NAH NAH NAH NAH NAAAAAAAH NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! OK, I didn't say it. But, I wanted to.
The line moved like The Roadrunner with Wile E. Coyote on his ass. We were inside that building in a flash. I wooden-smiled my way up to the reception desk. She looked at my letter and told me to go RIGHT UPSTAIRS TO THE DOCTOR. Everyone else had to wait. Holy shit!
I had my finger pricked and was told my blood sugar was awesome. I was weighed - with my boots, heavy coat, hoodie, shirt, jeans - and didn't even try to take it all off. That's because happily, I don't know Metric measurement. As far as I can tell, what I saw on the scale made me think I should start looking for modeling jobs. As I stood on the two blue-painted footsteps and tried to read the eye chart, I couldn't explain in French that I had laser surgery, with my right eye adjusted for distance and my left eye adjusted for reading. That's why I couldn't see anything when they asked me to cover my right eye. They didn't let me explain. This was a factory and I was just one more widget to shove along the line. They noted on my chart that I was blind.
Then they sent me to get undressed for the...chest X-Ray. Now, why in the fuck, if they were going to do it there, FOR FREE, did they put in the letter that I had to bring one with me? I waved my X-Ray envelope at them and they let me move along down the assembly line.
Next was the lady doctor. She was very cool. She smiled at me! I wasn't just another cog in the wheel! She even spoke English. And I didn't have to show her my boob trick. She examined me and asked me a couple of normal questions and told me I had to get a few vaccinations. My heart sank. "So, do I have to go to a government doctor to get them?" "No. If you have your own doctor, you can go there." "And then, afterwards, how many millions of copies do I have to make of my vaccination receipt and where do I send them or do I have to come back here and stand in line to hand it in...and then after I do that, THEN can I have my carte de sejours? Or do I have to do 43 more things?"
I didn't say it exactly like that. But, close. She laughed. "No. Just take these documents from me and wait in front of that desk over there and she'll call you and tell you what to do next." I shuffled my black lungs out of the room and frumped my model-like body on a seat next to my ex. My name was called. I approached the desk. She mumbled something that I didn't understand. Then she pointed down the hall and said, "Third door on the left." Off we went.
Now, this is when it gets interesting. (That is, if you are still reading this epic.)
The sign on the 3rd door on the left said "prefecture." Thankfully, I didn't have time to process the fact that there's a police office in the OFII building (and that they probably were sending me there to get arrested). There was an L-shaped counter. Two chubby, gigantic-breasted, older women sat at desks behind the counter, facing each other. They were deep into a discussion of the pros and cons of buying clothes with elastic. They greeted me with chubby and friendly Bonjours! And one of them, still discussing spandex, stood up. She kept talking while she opened up a Tupperware container. Her friend laughed. Then she offered her a chocolate and then she turned to me and offered me one. Holy shit! I said no thanks, but in retrospect, I should have taken such a lovely gift.
She kept on talking to her friend as she made her way to the counter and took my documents. She continued to talk to her co-worker, standing there waving my documents to make another joke. She then went to a bookcase and found my file, still talking. Her friend laughed again. She came back to the desk and asked me for my stamps. I held my breath as she pasted every single one of them all over my pristine documents. Then she handed me my laminated carte de sejours. Holy shit again!
I was not expecting that. I really thought that I would have to wait for another three months and come back and stand in line and be told I didn't have the right documents and to come back with all the right stuff and then maybe, if I could recite the French alphabet backwards, I could get my card. But there it was, all nice and shiny and pink.
She went back to her desk. "C'est tous?" (That's all?) I said. "C'est tous!" she said.
I left the room in a happy daze. My ex looked up from his book, sitting with 25 people who were waiting outside the office. I put a depressed look on my face. His face fell, but then he quickly settled into a keep-your-chin-up mode. Then I flashed my card at him, with a big smile. His eyes lit up. I said, "Let's get out of here before they change their minds."
It's been sunny for the last three days. Even though it's still cold, Spring is in the air. Parisians are sitting outside at cafes, or lying in the brown grass in parks, soaking up the sun. And I have my carte de sejours. For three years.
My ex called me this morning, to play me a song about being in the darkness and going out into the light. He knows, better than anyone, how difficult and scary this process has been for me and how much I have been paralyzed by it and hiding in my apartment. He said, "You know, if you think about it, you and I are in the Winter of our lives, but we are in the Spring of this moment." It's pretty amazing that he and I started this journey together and despite our huge differences and a very difficult breakup, he happened to be with me on the day that the journey was completed. I'm very happy that I could share it with him...and that there is plenty of good cheap wine in France.
Pardon moi, while I celebrate.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)