January 18, 2010

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day! I imagine that you are anxiously awaiting the conclusion to the riveting story of How I Got My Resident Permit. Here we go.

Upon arriving in France last August, I traveled to the office for residence permits. There, I waited for two hours and was finally seen by a young woman who informed me that, while all my documents were in order they were, unfortunately, not in French.

"Ah," I said helpfully, "that's because I'm American."

She was not amused. She told me that every document, including birth certificate, marriage certificate, proof of health insurance, etc., must be translated into French. No problem, I said, I can do that. No, no, she told me, now getting a little annoyed, the translation must be provided by an official French translator.

To spare you boredom, frustration and time I will fast forward over the next five months, during which time I visited the residence permit office three times and was turned away each time because:

1. My financial document translation was now out of date;

2. There was a puddle of water on the fourth floor of the building (I saw it; it was about a foot in circumference and there were four people standing around staring at it) and the entire office was shut down;

3. I was told for the first time that I need a medical exam in order to receive the permit. At this appointment, I was permitted to make the medical appointment for early January.

The morning of my appointment, the girls were very nervous. As I saw them off to school, they wanted to know what would happen to them if I got delayed and wasn't home in time to meet them after school ( 8 hours later). You see, they have acclimated very well to life here.

I got to the building where medical exams are conducted at 8:20 am for an 8:30 appointment. There was already a long line of people waiting outside the building, which had not yet opened. Recall that the French don't really want us to live here. So, they take perfectly healthy applicants for residence permits and make them stand outside in subzero temperatures for approximately 45 minutes while they inspect the building for puddles. The hope is, of course, that we will all develop bronchitis and fail the medical exam. When that doesn't work, and those of us that have survived this little test are finally admitted to the building, we wait another few hours, just to give us time to show some symptoms of pneumonia, bronchitis, or some other itis that will warrant our immediate deportation. This is actually a great system, since only about 60 percent of us are now left, cutting the workload significantly.

Finally, we are called one by one for our medical exam, which consists of a diabetes test, an eye exam, and a chest X-ray. After the blood and eye test, I was shoved in a closet and told to undress down to the waist. No gown. Then I was summoned into a large room that was filled with French technicians (male and female) and was the temperature of a meat locker. They took the X-Ray and I was sent out to wait for another hour.

Just as I was beginning to lose hope, I was summoned into an office by a tiny woman approximately 80 years old with a nasty cough. She turned out to be the doctor. She put my X-Ray up on her screen and stared at it, searching for a spot, or a clot, or a paper clip, something, anything.

"Well," she sighed "everything appears to be in order."

Then she stared at me. "Are you a gymnast?" she asked accusingly.

I was sure I had misunderstood the question, but no, that's what she wanted to know. I can only surmise that she thought all short Americans are gymnasts. Either that or only a gymnast would have the stamina and biological fortitude to withstand six months of harassment in order to get a residence permit.

Anyway, she got out her little stamp and angrily pounded it on to several forms which she then shoved at me and told me to go upstairs.

I went upstairs where a very nice woman took my form and, about two minutes later, presented me with my residence permit.

I looked around. Where was the ceremony? The band playing La Marseillaise? Where was Sarkozy? Where was my sash? My parade through the Arc de Triomphe? Almost a year and two continents of bureaucratic hell and all I had to show for it was a teeny little laminated card with a particularly unattractive picture of myself.

And here's the best part. No one has ever asked me to show my residence permit.

Lest you think that we don't love living in Paris, let me share a few positives with you.

Claire has blossomed into a mathematician, thanks to a wonderful math teacher at her school. At our latest conference, he told me how much fun she is having and pronounced her "thoroughly chuffed" at her accomplishments. Of course, I had no idea what that meant and had to look it up in my British-American dictionary. Translation: "pleased."

Erin continues to adore the 6-year old boy who lives across the hall. They play together every day (he speaks no English) and last weekend she went with his family to the park. They run back and forth between our apartments in their PJs, playing hide and seek and watching Tom and Jerry cartoons.

Megan has made some really nice friends, including one girl from South Africa and another from India. Very international. She and Claire can actually manage most of their French homework without Mom, now. Since most of you know how I feel about homework, this has greatly reduced family tension and wine consumption.

More next week!!