It’s a smart idea to study abroad while you’re in school. I did it. But what do you do when you’re no longer a student?! And so began my search to find ANY and EVERY possible way to remain in France (legally, that is)! After much relentless determination and motivation, I made it happen! Here, I’ll share with you my personal take (and useful links) on the two French Visas I’ve been the recipient of, which will hopefully help you if you’re trying to find a way to return to France!

My CM1/CM2 class during my assistantship.

1) Teaching Assistantship Visa

I stumbled upon this opportunity during my senior year and decided to apply for it since I didn’t really know what I wanted to do after graduation. The French Ministry of Education and the Cultural Services Department at the French Embassy in Washington DC offers contracts from 7 to 9 months, teaching English at primary or secondary schools. The deadline for the application is always mid-January, you’re notified around July, and you start at the beginning of October. You have to be 20-29 years old, possess at least 2 years of higher education, and have a proficiency in French. How selective they are, I can’t be sure, though they have a certain number of posts for each school year.

I’ve never really had much experience teaching nor being around kids, but this was a great, unique opportunity to improve my language skills, get acquainted with the classroom and be a positive role model to French students. Some other perks: paid vacation, social security/health insurance, and the possibility of getting some CAF (Caisse d’allocation Familiale), which is basically financial aid. You’ll need it since your 780 euro monthly paycheck just barely gets you by! I guess the only downside is that they choose where to place you according to your regional preferences. So you could either end up in a metropolitan area… or a village. Though I guess the experience also really depends on what you make of it and how you use your time aside from your 12-hour work week. Ironically, my post ended up being in the same little Normandie town my best friend grew up in! I guess I was always meant to be there… c’est le destin!

• Assistants in France Forum Board

"Expats" actress Ludivine Désrousseaux giving my script the thumbs-up!

2) Carte de compétences et talents

In English, it’s known as the “Talents & Skills residence permit.” This is one of the newer Visas the French Consulates across the US have been offering to professionals (i.e. investors, high-level executives, artists, athletes or writers) who have the potential of making “a significant or lasting contribution to France’s economic development or to its intellectual, scientific, cultural, humanitarian or athletic prestige” through a project/activity that they can exercise or develop in France… Whew! That was a mouthful!

Out of all the Visas I’ve applied for, this was surprisingly the quickest and easiest process… (I got a response a month after sending in my application) though their decision to grant the Visa might be a little more strict considering all the specific criteria (plus, I haven’t seen much online about anyone having been granted this specific permit). For my dossier, I wrote (in French) a 2-page statement and a detailed, in-depth 4-page project proposal for the Expats TV series and how this project would benefit and interest France as well as my own country (which, by the way, is another attribute they look for with applicant projects since this card is also meant to build ties between France and other countries). I think the main things they focus on when considering are: 1) your previous experience, 2) your project, and 3) whether or not you can make it happen. Recommendation letters from professionals backing you and your project up doesn’t hurt either! Downside: this card does not give you the legal right to work in France (unless you already have an employment contract). Upside: this is a three-year, renewable permit! (Not much else is known about what the other benefits this card entitles you to, so if you happen to have been granted this card, make a comment below and tell us how you got it and what you’re doing with it!)

• “Attracting talent, one of France’s key priorities” (.pdf)

RACHID TAHA, an Algerian-born, Lyon-raised ‘French’ singer songwriter has written (and rewritten) some of the most vital songs of the last 30 years.
As the leader of the band Carte de Séjour in the 1980s he helped pave the way for a new conception of French music, breaking down the barriers between rock music and those of the immigrant French and traditional music of France. The band’s name referenced the residency card most immigrants were required to have in France.
The band, which eventually split in 1989/1990, was best known for its ironic reworking of the Charles Trenet chanson/ song Douce France a version which raised questions about the status of the North African immigrant French and their status in a France that was witnessing the rise of the Le Pen-led Front Nationale.
But it was after the split with Carte de Séjour that Taha would go on to become the great star of what is rather patronisingly called ‘world’ music. He comes out of the tradition of Rai singing and his fusing of the North African and arabic world with everything from punk to dance, to rock to techno has seen him become a hero in his adoptive home and throughout the Arabic disapora.
Through the 1990’s his relationship with British producer Steve Hillage saw him produce some excellent music, the albums Olé Olé, Barbès, Rachid Taha, Made in Medina and the single Voilà, Voilà which appears on the brilliant 1997 album Carte Blanche on the cover of which he looks uncannily like Joe Strummer cira-London Calling.
The Clash link is important to the understanding of Taha because much of his music treads the punky esoteric line of the British band’s Sandinista album. Taha met the Clash before a 1981 show in the Paris theatre, the Mogador which has become legendary in the country – French music’s equivalent of the Pistols at the Free Trade Hall.
Taha is an awkward, radical punk at heart, a champion of the underdog and a natural heir to his great hero Strummer. This Socialist Worker interview sums it up.
Taha and Strummer never met again, but there were plans afoot for them to get together at the time of Strummer’s untimely death nearly seven years ago. Taha’s real overground breakthrough would be his Arabic cover Rock El Casbah (from Tékitoi) which appeared in the Strummer documentary The Future is Unwritten.
Taha’s real breakthrough album in the English speaking world came with 1998’s ‘Diwan’ which featured a trio of his calling card songs, Ya Rayah, Habina and Menfi.

He has gone on to make great albums in the 2000s, Tékitoi, Diwan 2 which is perhaps the greatest example of Rai music committed to vinyl/ CD/ digital format. He also released the tremendous best of Rachid Taha: The Definitive Collection which contains a bonus disc beautiful 30 minute documentary following Taha back to Algeria produced and presented by Andy Kershaw – his strongest advocate in the British music media.
His new album Bonjour was reviewed today in the posh papers, we’ll reserve judgement before we review it at GM.
FOLLOW FRIDAY 10 on Spotify

Le nouvel album de Rachid Taha sera dans les bacs (bon, c’est une image puisqu’il sera aussi dispo en téléchargement) le 26 octobre. Son nom ? Bonjour, tout simplement. Comme ce premier extrait interprété avec Gaetan Roussel.

J’ai découvert cet Oranais de Lyon (mais aussi Alsacien et Vosgien) il y a un sacré bail. C’était en écoutant Rhoromanie, un titre du premier LP éponyme de Carte de Séjour, le groupe de ses débuts. Du rock post-punk en arabe avec des teintes orientalistes sur lequel je me suis pas mal agité sur les pistes du Pick up et du Bul (si t’es pas Stéphanois ça te diras rien ). Puis il y eut aussi cette reprise bien sentie du Douce France de Charles Trenet en 1986.

Ce drôle d’enfant du rock poursuivit ensuite sa vie en solo allant piocher des influences aussi bien dans le chaâbi que dans les classiques de la rockitude et de la popitude, ou se servant dans les nappes de l’electro. Sans être un assidu, il retrouvait toujours le chemin de mes oreilles, comme avec sa reprise du Rock the Casbah des Clash en 2004 (déjà ?). Et si je n’ai pas adhéré toujours à tout, il a constamment su surprendre par l’originalité de sa musique, la voie à part qu’il s’est taillé… Une sorte de world sous influence rock. Cette nouvelle galette sera-t-elle toujours sur cette ligne? J’aurais tendance à lui faire confiance en la matière…

Curieusement, je ne l’ai jamais vu en live que ce soit avec Carte de Séjour ou après. Etr justement, le 23 octobre il passe à côté (ou quasi) de chez moi. La bonne occasion alors qu’une large tournée est prévue (clic pour les dates).

I even made a playlist for it.

I only have one class today and it is from 19-20hr (7-8pm), soooo that means I can attack all the other things I’ve been needing to do but have been too preoccupied with life to accomplish.

1. Starting the process of getting a Carte de Séjour (fml, this one isn’t going to be fun).

2. Going to the CROUS office downtown and requesting a room change, Doctor’s note and all (even less fun than #1).

3. Purchasing the “under 25″ card (or is it under 26? I can never remember lol) to get discounts on travel.

4. Shoppingggg.  It sounds frivolous, but it is well needed.  I’m hoping to get a blanket that doesn’t look like dog bedding from 1973.

Wish me luck!

xxo

Since I have been really terrible about updating this blog already, here’s a recap of what I’ve been up to in the past week:

Last Tuesday I went to see a show called “Love is My Sin” at the Theatre des Bouffes du Nord. A friend of mine had won tickets from W.H. Smith but didn’t want to go, so I went with a different friend. I must say it was a pretty lackluster performance. Two actors read (yes, read – not recited) some of Shakespeare’s sonnets in what was supposed to be some sort of story line. I’m still not sure what that story line was. There was no connection between the two “characters.” Thankfully it only lasted an hour.

The next morning I attempted to apply for my carte de séjour (residency permit) at the international student center. The previous Friday I’d been there and didn’t even make it past the door, because apparently you can only apply in the morning. I was given a piece of paper with a list of the required documents and the opening hours – 8:00 to 11:30.

When I showed up at 8:00 on Wednesday, there were already four kids waiting in line. The doors actually opened at 8:15. By the time they actually started seeing people at 8:30 there were probably 20 people waiting. And how many people were there to deal with this? One. Of course.

After another 15 minutes or so, it was finally my turn. I lasted about 30 seconds. The guy took one look at the copy of my landlord’s utility bill and said, “Sorry, too old. Get a new one and come back some other time.” So that’s something to look forward to this week.

On Friday evening I managed to find another cultural activity (kind of) – I went to a wine tasting. There’s a wine tasting group on Meetup.com run by O’Vineyards. They have an event every month; so far I’ve been to two. This one did not disappoint. There was plenty of wine to be had, plus snacks and lots of people. Plus at the end you get a bottle of wine to take home. Can’t complain about that.

(…) la vie était belle : j’allais au collège, j’avais des amis, nous étions heureux.

Jusqu’à ce mois de septembre 2008 où nous avons reçu une Obligation de Quitter le Territoire Français. Le monde s’est alors écroulé pour toute la famille, nos rêves se sont brisés, les policiers allaient venir nous chercher. Depuis ce jour, nous vivons dans cette peur, cette terreur : pas une minute dans les rues sans se dire : «je suis suivi» ; «je vais me faire prendre». Depuis, on n’a pas arrêté de se cacher : chez des amis, dans les rues, dans des foyers, dans des hôtels. Sans jamais pouvoir poser ses affaires, sans pouvoir se dire «ici je suis tranquille», sans savoir de quoi le lendemain allait être fait ; voir son père se ronger les sangs et essayer de nous rassurer pour nous apaiser, voir sa mère pleurer à longueur de journée; parfois ne pas avoir à manger, souvent ne pas savoir où dormir, et toujours se dire que demain sera peut-être le dernier à Lyon. (…)

le suite “à l’école des sans-papiers”.

voilà un garçon bien courageux.

que fera-t-il de notre soutien?

peut-être pas grand chose, mais c’est déjà ça.

mais quel est ce monde qui sélectionne les gens au hasard de leur lieu de naissance?

et quel est ce pays qui se targue d’être des “Droits de l’Homme” et qui prétend qu’on ne peut rien changer à cela?

“on a du te dire que les Droits de l’Homme c’était sûrement un homme de droite”,  chante Ridan.

“what else” nous vendrait répondrait George Clooney?

c’est la honte.

nicogé

Carte de Sejour

This blog post is a little late in coming, but this story is so  bizarre, I believe it’s worth writing about anyway.

D. and I both had to apply for our “cartes de sejour,” in order to stay in France for an entire year. Basically, this is sort of like the U.S. Green Card, except  it’s a) a lot easier and cheaper to get and b) it doesn’t give us permission to work. It does, however, let D.  travel anywhere in the EU, whereas otherwise he, as an Indian citizen, would have to get visas for each country! As an American, I can pretty much go anywhere around here without a visa anyway, so the benefits aren’t really so impressive.

Anyhow, after lots of paperwork… and more paperwork… and more paperwork… we finally were ready to tackle the last step of getting our cartes: The Medical Exam.

I realize this isn’t that unusual, although I do wonder about the logic of  examining us after we’re already in the country. I mean, if we brought T.B. over here, we’d have been transmitting it for three months by the time they finally called us in to the doctor.

We’re sort of used to these exams because D. had to take one for his US Green Card. But here’s the thing: in the US, they check for actual health risks – things like HIV.

In France, they check your height, weight and eyesight. So, basically, you can be  assured that no farsighted midgets will be invading their country anytime soon.

Two weeks ago, we had to drive for over an hour to a working-class suburb of Paris where the region’s official clinic is located. We joined the clump of immigrants gathered at the door, and waited quite a while. Once inside, a doctor called us in groups of six, to come into another office. There we started this bizarre assembly line of medical tests. The first woman called us in and barked at us in French to put our coats by the door – on the coat rack, not on the chair!

She then weighed us, and measured our height. Then she wrote it down on a sheet of paper, and sent us out to wait in the chairs outside her office. She was very upset when she saw there was a backlog in the next room, and that there were too many immigrants, and not enough chairs. Very upset. I think she wanted us all sitting down, lest we start a riot or jump out at her or something.

In the next room, a different woman asked us each to cover our right eye and read a line on an eyechart. Then the other eye. None of us were blind, so we passed with flying colors. 

Then, we were given little hospital gowns and asked to wait for an open changing room. While inside the rooms, we waited for a woman to knock, letting us know if was time to come out on the other side of the changing room, so we could take an X-ray for a tuberculosis check.

Finally, we waited to be called in to a doctor’s office. My doctor did this part so fast I barely had time to figure out what was going on before I was out of his office. He took my blood pressure and checked my heart. The, he picked some random questions to ask me.

Apparently they all pick different questions to ask, because some of my friends were asked if they were HIV positive (who would answer that one if they were?), if their parents have high cholesterol, etc. Mine asked me if I worked out. I said yes.

“What sport do you do?” he asked me.

Figuring he probably didn’t know what a “bhangra workout class,” was, I decided to just say that I ran.

“Ha ha, after the bus?” he said, cracking up at his own joke.

Jerk.

Anyhow, D. and I checked out OK, so we drove all the way home, went back to INSEAD and gave them papers that showed we weren’t too short or too fat to enter France. Then,we got our cartes.

Everyone seems to agree here that these exams are pretty pointless. The only thing we can assume is that this program employs hundreds of people throughout France (I mean, come on, they had one person withthe sole job of weighing us!) and, therefore , it’s not going away or being streamlined anytime soon.

Oh well, at least we can both travel to Spain now.

Mariah é de Austin e está nos primeiros anos de teologia católica em Angers.
Mariana é de Buenos Aires e está nos últimos anos de teologia católica em Paris.
Conheceram-se quando, ambas de férias, Mariana entregava numa mediateca francesa as Œuvres 1 de Benjamin, que Mariah pegou em seguida. Mariah não perguntou sobre o livro nem sobre o autor. Mas falam de um jeito parecido e trocaram MSN. Nenhuma das duas leu o livro, porém gostam de sua presença próxima. Talvez leiam.
Mariah está há mais tempo na França e, quando perguntada por Mariana como foi a visita médica que ela faria (apesar de não ser médica) para sua primeira carte de séjour, Mariah se lembrava apenas do tédio. De repente:
— Qual a diferença entre meu corpo e uma folha corrida? — Em inglês com sotaque francês quando disse a expressão.
Mariana achou ótimo.

Antes do horário da visita se espera do lado de fora.
Depois, em fila, tira-se espontaneamente ou não a convocação do envelope, que é mostrada com o passaporte. E se espera numa sala separada em cadeiras ou bancos que podem formar um “u”, alguns com comprovante de vacinação e/ou com imposto pago.
Alguns médicos se atrasam.
Outros se atrasam como os médicos.
Os imigrantes são chamados pela ordem de chegada e respondem a um questionário.
Na primeira sala, todos vestidos, um é medido e repreendido se encostar no medidor, enquanto um segundo é pesado e um terceiro deve repetir as letras que vê. Os médicos anotam tudo, alguns não conseguem repetir as letras. Não há pausas.
— Vestida e sem jejum serei mais gorda.
Ri só. Nem sorriem.
Uns 2 kg mais gorda. “Não teria comido tanto Nutella no café.”
Espera-se em cadeiras ou bancos que podem estar lado a lado.
Na segunda sala, que podem ser três, deve-se tirar toda a roupa da parte superior do corpo. Mariana está na sala do meio, mas não sabe de onde vêm as vozes masculina e feminina que não seguem os pedidos. A segunda sala é aberta por uma médica, que também está nela.
— Vista o colete.
— Vou tocar a senhora. Assim não será surpreendida com uma mão fria. — Sorrindo nesta frase.
Mariana é empurrada para o raio X.
— Inspire. Expire.
Espera-se nas mesmas cadeiras ou bancos que podem estar lado a lado. Recebe-se um envelope com o raio-x e se espera em cadeiras ou bancos que podem formar um “u” e estar lado a lado com um corredor no meio das outras cadeiras ou bancos que podem formar um “u”.
Na terceira sala, que podem ser duas, uma com um médico e a outra com uma médica, perguntam sobre doenças, família, gravidez, vacinas e remédios. Mariana e outros imigrantes terão que tomar algumas vacinas. Saem com a lista de onde as tomar gratuitamente. Talvez as tomem.
O homem a quem Mariana deu a convocação lhe dá o comprovante que terá que guardar e aquele que deverá mostrar para receber sua carte de séjour.

Na primeira à direita de volta ao metrô viu que era outono. Fotografou.

“Nunca se deve pesar uma mulher vestida e sem jejum.”
Mariah achou ótimo.

“Quase nunca se deve pesar uma mulher vestida e sem jejum.”

Mais tarde, Mariana tinha se esquecido. Entrou na Le genre urbain. Gosta de ver os lançamentos. Entre 2666,  De l’imposture en littérature/De la impostura en literatura e Courir, Jerusalém. Folheou todos e de repente no capítulo XV (Europa 02), nas partes IV, V, VI e VIII:

“Exame médico
Os exames médicos são feitos em sítios públicos.
Estás sentado. De repente, tocam-te no ombro, e dizem: Exame médico. De imediato levantas-te, encostas-te à parede, e despes-te por completo.

A cada exame médico marcam uma cruz nas costas da mão. Há pessoas que já fizeram dezenas. E todas as pessoas sabem que as doenças surgem com os exames médicos.

Como são marcados nas costas das mãos alguns procuram rodar os braços para manterem as palmas viradas para cima. Mas com esse gesto denunciam-se. Provocam maior repulsa. Os outros afastam-se.

Instrumentos
Nunca te tocam. O contágio vem da extremidade dos aparelhos. Com os olhos nada distingues, mas os instrumentos parecem ter a extremidade coberta de um pó granuloso. Até sentires os aparelhos não tens medo. Depois sim.

Exame médico
Por vezes só assustam. Abrem uma fenda na pele e depois fecham-na. Arrumam os aparelhos. Dizem: nenhuma doença; e sorriem. Afastam-se, e tu começas a vestir-te.
Outras vezes é diferente. Fazem pequenos cortes. Tocam-te com os aparelhos. Tiram pequenas coisas do teu corpo, não interessa o quê; não magoam.

Doenças
Perseguem as doenças estranhas. Perseguem os doentes estranhos. Quem tem uma doença estranha deixa de ser doente, entra na categoria do criminoso.
Ter uma doença normal significa que se obedeceu e se foi exacto nas funções. Uma doença estranha revela uma falha: faltou-se à higiene ou à verdade.”

It’s 12:01 am so it’s officially my birthday!

I figure it’s a good time to make resolutions, another year older, another year (hopefully) wiser. So here they are, in no particular order:

1. Yoga and meditation every day
2. Learn a sport like martial arts
3. Be more loving, kind and compassionate (esp. to Dman!)
4. Get my carte de sejour
5. Finish at least one of my books
6. Travel to Africa
7. Sing and play music every day
8. Laugh more and have more fun
9. Master stick shift
10. Master French
11. Be more green

I like to believe that change (beyond just getting older) is possible, even though the cynics out there don’t. I guess the main point of all my resolutions is to just be more open to life and the every day possibilities, excitements and joys. I feel like people get older and the majority of them get more rigid and settled and fearful, which seems to be the opposite of growing. It’s simply aging.

So here’s to not getting old, even though you’re (er, I’m) a year older! Happy Birthday to all the Libras out there!

Tudo ia bem, sem acidentes de percurso, sem encheções de saco, sem perguntas intrusivas, sem taxas para pagar. Mas como diz o velho e bom ditado, “esmola demais o santo desconfia”. Tanto que na última quinta-feira, um dia depois de passar pela entrevista na Polícia Federal daqui, recebi uma carta me convocando para uma visita médica, junto de um papel intitulado “Contrato de recepção e integração” e um boleto bancário com o valor de 275 euros a ser pago em nome do Estado da França.

Para explicar melhor, retorno ao Brasil, mês de julho. Na preparação para o casamento, fomos ao Consulado da França em São Paulo e passamos por duas entrevistas com a responsável pela união civil de franceses e brasileiros. Fomos armados até os dentes de papéis, provas, cartas de amor, fotos, mas nada foi preciso. Por incrível que pareça, a moça não só nos acolheu com sorrisos, como agiu de forma competente e rápida.

Mesmo com as idas e vindas dos papéis para a França, conseguimos acertar tudo em tempo recorde, tirei meu visto de conjoint de français e parti tranqüilo para Paris. Na primeira ida à polícia – novamente preparados para a guerra -, fomos surpreendidos com nova boa recepção, mais sorrisos e uma carte de séjour temporária, que me dava o direito inclusive de trabalhar e viver normalmente.

Veio, finalmente, a entrevista que cito no primeiro parágrafo. A mais importante, a definitiva. Mais uma vez quase nada a declarar – com exceção das duas horas de espera – e apenas a indicação : ”Você deverá passar pela visita médica e aí sim pegará tua carte de séjour definitiva”. Simples assim ? E mais : “Sua carte de séjour deverá ser renovada a cada ano e, após três renovações, ela valerá por 10 anos”. Mas vocês são muito bonzinhos !

No fatídico dia seguinte, abro o envelope com meu nome e me deparo com os formulários e o boleto bancário. Obviamente o valor abusivo me choca (são 275 euros apenas na primeira vez ; depois, cai para simbólicos 70 euros. Ufa !), mas o tal “contrat d’accueil et d’intégration“, imposto pelo então Ministro do Interior, Nicolas Sarkozy, é de um teor ofensivo. Vamos, então, a ele e na íntegra.

Na capa, abaixo do título e da imagem da Liberté (a mesma da estátua de Manhattan, o que explica muita coisa), temos o texto : “Você está autorizado a morar na França. Para facilitar sua integração, o Estado propõe que você assine o contrato de recepção e integração.“

No verso, seguimos com os esclarecimentos : Você irá se beneficiar de – uma reunião de recepção coletiva (oba, festa !! Eu levo os brigadeiros) ; de uma visita médica, que permitirá a entrega de sua carte de séjour ; de uma entrevista individual permitindo neste caso particular de conhecer seu nível de conhecimento da língua francesa ; de uma reunião de formação cívica, que apresentará os direitos fundamentais, os princípios e valores da República Francesa ; de uma sessão de informações sobre a vida na França ; eventualmente, de uma entrevista com um assistente social e de informações sobre o acesso ao emprego e à formação profissional (reparem que em um dos itens mais importantes, o acesso ao trabalho, há anteriormente o termo “eventualmente”).

Você se responsabilizará por : participar da reunião de formação cívica e da sessão de informações sobre a vida na França ; por seguir a formação linguística que convier a seu caso específico e a se apresentar ao exame para a obtenção do diploma inicial de língua francesa (DILF).

Ao cumprir estes pontos, voce receberá um atestado de presença.

Em caso de não respeitar estas obrigações, o responsável poderá anular o contrato, recusar a renovação de sua carte de séjour ou a entrega da carta de residente.

O respeito ao contrato e às obrigações é de extrema importância para que você encontre seu lugar dentro da sociedade francesa.

Ao ler tudo isso, me lembrei daquela cena do Tropa de Elite em que o Capitão Nascimento diz aos berros aos candidatos a entrar no Bope: “NUNCA SERÁ!!!”. Mas no fundo, no fundo, só posso me sentir honrado de fazer parte de um país tão íntegro e acolhedor. Obrigado, França ! Obrigado Monsieur Le Présidente de la Republique ! Vocês salvaram mais um ser humano da miséria e da ignorância.

The residence permit: This gets a little fuzzy.

The Sorbonne site says you MUST have a residence permit for the duration of your studies in France (to be obtained from your local prefecture upon arrival in Paris).
However, the French Consulate says: from 0-6 months, as long as you have obtained the appropriate visa, you do NOT have to go to the prefecture and obtain a residence permit (carte-de-sejour) in France. If you are studying for longer than 6 months, the residence permit must be obtained upon arrival in France.
I’d go with what the consulate says, but either way, you have the appropriate documentation if needed (visa and proof of registration in a French public or private university).

I’m exhausted. It’s surreal to think that I’m still living here. Sorry folks, I’m not over it yet. Deal with it.

After packing up my hotel, I lugged all of my 156 pounds of baggage down those flights of stairs and hopped in a cab to get to the FIAP where the students (freshman, transfer, visiting, and graduate) are housed during orientation. We were thrown about 50 pages of information for us to read about how to be in France legally. Everyone seems really cool and we’ve just been going to events non stop.

Last night we all (literally everyone at orientation) went to this American bar in the 4th, in which I wished oh so bad that we had already moved into our apartment. The hostel also has a 2 am lockout…scary. Luckily, MoRo had booked the hotel an extra night, though tonight she’s staying with us at the FIAP. It’s so funny for her to walk around. Everyone keeps asking her what classes she’s in, but now they’re aware she’s not in fact apart of AUP and is actually going to be studying in Spain. Nonetheless, she’s been in every picture here and people have made plans with her to go out. We all think it’s hysterical.

I have a lot I could write about, but I’m honestly exhausted. The abridged version goes a little like so:

Last night we went to the American bar and I directed everyone on how to get here as no one else knows Paris yet and I know it like the back of my hand. Getting to the bar, it was so American and we really weren’t in the mood for it. We had a Stella, and were so aggrivated that MoRo and I just started to order shots of Patron to take. The bartender had sick sleeves. We brought some girls to the Pont des Arts, and were harassed by Germans. I wanted to go home, so I did. By the grace of God I found a cab (impossible to do here) and was fluent by that point of the night which was clutch as he spoke no english. We talked about politics and he asked me to marry him so we could move to NYC together. I told the 46 year old, politely, that I’m taken. He liked me so much though that my 30 euro cab ride went down to 10 euros. I made it back at 1:57 on the dot, and called Marshall Cat before going to sleep.

Today I tried to digest all the information that I need to make smart decisions tomorrow. By smart decisions I mean juggle my life. I need to move into my apartment at 11h00, Roomie needs to go the french embassy, I need to apply for my Carte de Sejour at a specific hour, attend more orientation events, open up a french banque account, attempt to FINALLY get a cell phone, withdraw more money, get to the poste office for my Carte de Sejour stuff, take pictures for my Carte de Sejour, get pictures for my monthly metro pass at a different place…oh yeah, and unpack the apartment, go for a run, go grocery shopping, etc.

Bonne Chance!

[french]

Aujourd’hui, un des dernier jours de liberté du mois d’Août, Christina et moi avons dû nous lever comme on peut aux alentours de 4 heures du matin pour nous rendre à la préfecture de Bobigny. Eh oui, vous l’aurez deviné : nous voici arrivés à cette période de l’année où il faut penser à renouveler la carte de séjour de Mme Maillioux ! Mais cette fois-ci, après la sacrosainte attente dès 6 heures du matin pour une ouverture 2 heures et demie plus tard…

Premier choc : la personne qui nous reçoit est souriante est très sympathique. Un sacré trauma quand on se souvient que, la première fois que nous sommes arrivés à la fameuse “porte 1″, il nous a fallu batailler pour que Christina ne se fasse pas renvoyer aus USA vite fait, bien fait.

Deuxième choc : L’année dernière, il nous avait fallu pas moins de 4 allers-retours pour déposer tous les papiers nécessaires et enfin récupérer la carte de séjour tant attendue. Cette année, comme nous nous y prenons très tôt pour renouveler cette carte, nous devons…Remplir un dossier, joindre les pièces nécessaires dans une enveloppe pré-adressée, et renvoyer le tout à la préfecture qui nous enverra une date pour venir récupérer la carte. Hallucinant de simplicité, et à des années-lumières de ce à quoi nous étions habitués jusqu’ici.

Troisième choc : Après encore deux ans de ce traitement, Christina se verra automatiquement attribuer une carte de séjour de 10 ans. Elle est pas belle la vie ? Et dire que nous pensions que ça prendrait 5 ans avant de pouvoir seulement prétendre à une telle carte, et qu’il faudrait entreprendre des démarches en plus…

Sacrée journée. Du coup, on a fêté ça (et la fin de l’été) avec un petit restaurant, une chouette petite bédé et comme je cherchais des vêtements un peu plus agréables à regarder que mes éternels vêtements trop sombres, on a profité des soldes sur Threadless (grâce à un tuyau de miss Jo Carter) !

Pas fâché de finir ce mois d’Août sur une bonne note, j’en avais bien besoin. Surtout que la rentrée approche dangereusement…

[english]

English version coming soon !

Monday was our first full day in Paris. We decided that we should try to get our “carte de sejours,” an official identification card that gives us permission to stay in France past 3 months. This involves checking in with the local police and brining a variety of documentation. It was difficult to figure out exactly which station to go to, but we finally settled on the one located on the Ile de la Cité. In one of those “only in an absurdist comedy” moments, it turns out that this was the correct place to be. But we didn’t discover that until 4 hours later…

We went to the information desk and the woman there told us to go to room 1708 on the second floor (premiere etage) in building F. In the lobby of that building there was a “take a number machine” that had something to do with visitor identification cards so, on the advice of a friendly man standing there waiting, we took one and then walked upstairs. Room 1708 was only open from 9-12 and we arrived at about 12:20.  Too bad. But we went back downstairs and our number had come up so we went into the adjoining room (not 1708!). The woman at the counter said “Oh no, you don’t go to room 1708, you go to the police station in the 17th arrondissement.”

So, off on the Metro to the 17th where we waited in line with about 20 or 30 other very patient foreigners. For around 2 hours. The system was very irritating, because for the first 45 minutes we literally didn’t move. We we about to give up when, suddenly, we surged forward. This is because they let 10 people at a time into the building. Inside, you take a number and wait some more. At least you’re sitting down and there is a bathroom and water cooler.

So our number comes up (finally) and we talk to the very nice woman behind the desk who tells us that, in fact, we need to go to room 1708 in building F. This is because Shannon is getting an academic carte de sejour. Furthermore, we need to be accompanied by the official representative of the university whose name, in fact, was stamped on our invitation letter. I wish someone would have told us when Shannon got the invitation. Oh well.

So, today we will call the representative who, undoubtedly, will be on vacation for at least the rest of this week. Just as well, though, because we don’t want to drag the kids through this again. We’ll schedule our meeting there for after school starts and hope we can do everything else we need (e.g. get a bank account) without a carte de sejours.

Of course we have no assurance this will work. But the fact that the name the police gave us as the official university contact matches the name stamped on the invitation letter is a very good sign. And the official university representative certainly knows the procedure, doesn’t she? More to come…

Back again we came, to set up Nez’s medical check-up appointment and to get our visas de retour. The first task was easy enough; a short line and a courteous clerk. I think we have been conditioned to think the worst of the French bureaucracy such that we take any semblance of normal human interaction with wonderment. The second task was similarly straightforward.

There were more people waiting for various visas and so we had sometime to ourselves to fill out the visa requests (and even write a few postcards to Riot’s nephews). For reason, we put “marriage des amis.” We had already missed one wedding earlier this month in Hawaii so we didn’t want to miss another one. When our numbers were called we came to the designated guichet and was greeted by another polite clerk. We handed over more photos as the two young children behind us were racing their little die-cast toy cars along the whole length of the room as if it were a day care center. There were no reprimands from anyone save for a weak warning from the parents and still the children played on.

All that was missing was going to another hall to pay for these visas. The payment came in the form of stamps and we speculated that the job of the stamp seller was created to decrease the unemployment rate and we were glad to be doing our part with the 12€ we forked over. Back to the first hall to get the stamps pasted into our passport and we were ready to fly home. Outside, in the courtyard, Nez performed a requested jumping heel-click to celebrate another milestone in our relationship with French immigration. We wondered whether the process was created to front load the hassles to keep out the fainthearted and reward those who persevered, or that the latter part of the process appeared easy because any problems would have caused one to not reach this next stage.

We decided to celebrate with a wonderful meal at what is becoming our favorite joint in the Marais, Les Philosophes. And over a great lunch of these dishes we thought of our simple accomplishment of the day.

Foie gras mi-cuit maison

Cuisse de canard maigre confite comme autrefois au miel épicé

Visa de retour

[As always, be sure to check out the rest of our Parisdise afterward for much, much more!]

Today was Nez’s appointment at the main headquarters of the Préfecture de Police, situated in a huge building complex covering almost a city block on the Île de la Cité and whose illustrious neighbors included the Notre Dame Cathedral. We came with all the required documents, checked and double-checked, and even spent some time practicing answers to questions we thought might be asked. (Why do you want to live in France for a year? How are you plan on supporting yourself? Etc. Just like we did the night before the consulate appointments in San Francisco in early January. And, just like that time, no such questions were asked this time.)

Nez filling out a form in the requested black ink

At the appointed time, we came to the designated place: Salle Europe, Proche-Orient, Amérique. It was a nice, clean, and quiet air-conditioned room and it was virtually empty. Seeing other halls named for other regions of the world and seeing two for Afrique – Le Maghreb (specifically, Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia) we deduced that seekers of visas were divided by countries of origin at this point in the process. We whispered that when it came to a long-stay visa and all the attendant hassles, there seemed to be few takers from other countries in Europe, the Near East, or the Americas. We were among the few hardy fools and was happy for the under subscription.

Unlike the disorder of the last two visits to the Centre de Reception des Ressortissants Étrangers on rue Truffaut, this one was a model of efficiency. Nez presented her appointment paper, got a number, and was instantly called to one of the guichets. We were served by a young and friendly woman who asked for various documents and received them duly. She put them into a new dossier for Nez and received the requisite three photos. The French bureaucracy loves photos. She then explained, in English, that there was only one more step in the process, a medical check-up, and then Nez would finally get her Carte de Séjour. We would have been disappointed at this news had this whole appointment not gone as easily and smoothly as it did. Instead, we were simply happy that Nez was near the end of the adventure to get her residency card. Even when we went across the courtyard, to yet another hall, to obtain an appointment for the medical check-up and were told that the computer system was down and that we needed to return tomorrow, we were undaunted. Tomorrow it was.

And, we would need to come back tomorrow anyway, for something else. Something called a visa de retour that would allow people with no final papers like us to re-enter the country. Now, we hadn’t heard anything about this requirement but luckily we took advantage of the friendly English-speaking official to ask her whether it was OK for us to leave France with just what we currently had, something equivalent to a temporary Carte de Séjour. “No,” she told us, “you need a visa de retour.” To which part of town do we need to go to get that, we asked, without any hint of exasperation. The answer could not have been sweeter: “Right outside, in the opposite hall. You can get it on the spot.” Super (pronounced sewpehr), we thought and thought with relief about the potential disaster averted at the immigration control point at the airport coming back to Paris.

In this process, we have made peace with the fact that we don’t really know anything and that people who tell you something sometimes don’t know everything either. But such is life and as such we will live.

[As always, be sure to check out the rest of our Parisdise afterward for much, much more!]

Thursday I had a rendez-vous at the prefecture for my carte de sejour, or residence card. I’ve been looking forward to this appointment since February.

I wasn’t really sure how it would go. I knew that I was supposed to show up at the prefecture at 4 pm, or possibly earlier because sometimes there is a long line outside the building. I was to bring many, many proofs that I was myself and that I should live in France and indeed that I did live in France, plus strictly regulated pictures of myself. And photocopies. I was also to bring Allen, in the flesh, as well as proof that he is himself, that he is my husband, and that our marriage is not a sham (harder to find proof of this than you might suspect). I might or might not need a doctor’s visit, I might or might not get my actual carte de sejour pasted in my passport that day, or maybe I was really applying for the first time since the woman at the February appointment hadn’t taken any paperwork from me. What’s more, I might have to pay up to 275 euros, possibly in cash. Big on paperwork and red tape, not so big on actual information sharing.

I suppose all that is to say, I had no idea what to expect. And I was scared. (I like to refer to this as “an appropriate fear of French bureaucracy” as I think the French actual foster this sense of uncertainty on purpose.)

Allen and I set a meeting time of 3:15 and promptly cemented two very different meeting spots into our mental calendars. At 3:40, Allen called me from the house, breathless from having run back there. “Where are you?” Then he ran back again, we met, gave each other a look, and got on with it. There was no line, so we breezed through the metal detectors. In the Europe-America-Middle East room (really?), we presented ourselves at the desk and got a number. (The woman at the desk said they were going to cut people off for the day because it was getting late, and there were a lot of people waiting. It was only 3:50.) Then we sat. (Sitting for a long time increases the appropriate fear of French bureaucracy, you see.)

When our number was called, only a few other couples remained in the waiting area. We presented my dossier to the desk agent, who flipped through it. She determined immediately that this would be a ten year application, meaning my residence card would be good for ten years without renewal. Happy third anniversary to us!

(Easiest immigration story ever. Ever. Okay, here’s what you do. Be American. Marry a French citizen. Be married three years. Then move to France and apply for residence. The end.)

But it wasn’t quite that simple. We didn’t have enough proof that our marriage wasn’t a sham. In fact, we had hardly any. It’s all home in the States. We don’t have a proper lease here, we don’t get utilities in our names, we don’t have any official French correspondence, we didn’t apply for health coverage, and we don’t have a bank account. We don’t exist (and neither does our marriage – nevermind that we weren’t officially married in the eyes of the French until December). So friendly French bureaucrat says we need to come back with more proof, in a few months.

Uh oh. We explained the part where we return to the States at the end of the month and don’t know when we’re coming back.

“Wait,” she says. “Are you living here or there?”

“We’ve been living here for a year, so I did what I’m legally supposed to do and applied for residence. But at the end of the month, we’re going back to the United States, and we’ll be living there.” I kept repeating something like, “I just did what I was supposed to, legally.”

“Applying for residence when you’re leaving in a month is absurd!” Our bureaucrat furrowed her brows. I agreed. (So very Parisian, the righteous indignation. So very French. Except usually it’s not on my side!)

“The Americans, they just come and go as they please!” The bureaucrat in the next booth chimed in, seeming surprised that I had bothered to follow the legal route. (Can I cite that as a legal French policy next time I move here?)

The two bureaucrats put their heads together and came up with a solution. I’d get a new recipisse, good for three more months. Along with that would be a document asking me to request an appointment with the prefecture to continue my application. I could request that appointment whenever I returned to the country – or not.

“Moins de boulot pour moi,” our bureaucrat muttered, “Less work for me.”

That worked just fine for Allen and me too. We didn’t really want to pay for the carte de sejour (275 euros, over $400, remember?) with just 25 more days to go in the country. And if we do move back to France, we can prepare a ream of documentation (plus photocopies!) to prove our marriage isn’t a sham – in advance.

We left the prefecture in high spirits and went straight for a Berthillon ice cream. Ah, to be an American in Paris.

Americans (among other non-EU nationalities) staying longer than the three months permitted to tourists in France must apply for a carte de sejour (CDS). Luckily, Roquebrun has its own town hall and mayor or mairie, so all I had to do is walk down the street to get the application process in motion.

In various forums I’ve read that Americans have had mixed results with obtaining their CDS, i.e. it turned out to be more complicated than they thought. There’s another American woman living in the village, so at my first opportunity to meet her — which turned out to be my second day here – I did my best to get the skinny on the carte de sejour process from her. In some towns the mayor’s staff – apparently, in some cases – don’t have much patience for English speaking foreigners who aren’t fluent in French. She implied this had something to do with her difficulties.

As I was kvetching to Tim about the injustice of having to subject myself to abuse by bureaucrats, he basically told me to simmer down. But I had already wound myself up. So, when I put on my best (i.e. least wrinkled) ensemble, gathered my documentation, and went to the town hall on Thursday morning, I was expecting the worst, ready to toss my cookies, a total Nervous Nelly.

Madame LaCroix, the administrator for the mairie, was nice as pie. No joke. I’m talking fresh-baked rhubarb pie with full fat vanilla ice cream dotted with flecks of real vanilla. I felt like a complete ass for getting so worked up…but I was also relieved, very relieved.

Now, as others have experienced, once at the mairie I was told I needed to provide additional documentation not mentioned by the consulate, namely a set of passport photos. Days later we received a call from Madame LaCroix saying that she also needed a copy of my contract with the EDF (Electricity Department) as proof that I’m residing where I say I’m residing. Pas de problème except that I don’t have a contract with the EDF because we reimburse our propriéteurs for the utilities.

However, in France an EDF contract is an important form of ID. I don’t get it. I can’t fathom why a rental contract itself isn’t enough, but it’s not. Suffice it to say that you’re not legit unless you’re on the grid. A contract with French Telecom (for a non-mobile #) can be substituted for those who don’t have an EDF contract, but that’s a second best.

However, in my carte de sejour folio I had a piece of paper that for a foreigner totally trumps the EDF: a letter from the consulate in Atlanta – official seal and all – verifying my Roquebrun address. (We needed it for when our household goods shipment reaches customs.) When I presented the letter to Madame LaCroix her eyes lit up. “Très jolie!” she said.

Score for that day: Melissa 1, EDF 0.

The letter in question from the consulate cost all of $24. At the time I thought that was highway robbery. ($24 for a piece of paper!) As can be imagined, I’ve since 360′d that tune tout de suite.