I am standing in line at the Prefecture waiting to present my paperwork to get my Carte de Sejour, that sacred, sought after document which allows me to live and work in France. Until the magic moment I have it in my posession, I have a Recepissé d'un Titre de Sejour, which is French for Card That Entitles Us to Continually Piss You Off by Making You Come Back to the Prefecture Frequently for Nothing.
A provisionary document that I received August 1, my recepissé was originally marked valid until October 31, before which I was to receive something in the mail signalling me to come in for the Real Deal. Come October 29, I still had nothing so I went to the Prefecture to follow up.
A skinny woman in an almost translucent blouse looked up my file on her computer and unapologetically said, "It's not ready yet."
What do I do until it's ready?
She paused, before pulling out a stamp and pen, marking an official statement on the back saying my We're Entitled to Piss You Off card was good until January 22. Clever.
January 22 quickly approached and yet those merry souls of the French administration still hadn't sent me anything in the mail. So a few days before my card's expiration, I went to the Prefecture for another two tons of fun.
Between the first step in the process and my fourth visit here, I was accustomed to the long wait in line and all the serendipitous moments involved. My lower back became pained from standing so long. The old lady in front of me turned so as not to cough in the face of her companion and thus coughed directly at me. The man at the front of the line faced the empty booth where the worker has disappeared for the time it takes to drink a coffe, smoke a cigarette and read the paper. A woman was screaming at her kids in Arabic. The Asian girl behind me was standing so close that I was a centimeter away from getting felt up. My purse strap was starting to sear into one shoulder while the bag with all my official files cut into the other. My shoulders themselves were drooping under the weight. Another visit here and my shoulders will be level with my chest.
After the standing pain extended to my knees and feet, I think maybe I should have become an international celebrity before coming here. No way did Johnny Depp have to go through this crap when he moved to France. Likewise, I wouldn't have had to do all this if I'd married another American. Marrying a strapping young Californian lad wouldn't have involved long lines at French prefectures. Suddenly, images came to mind of Rita Moreno singing at me: "One of your own kind, stick to your own kiiiiind."
But my heart, Anita, but my heart.
After my West Side Daydream, I finally made it to the front of the line. And was told by a short little Frenchman that my card is not ready and that I have to come back. And the little man wasn't even going to do the magic stamp and signature on the back of my paper, extending the expiration date! No, I have to come back on the 22 and do this all over again. With a photo ID and my medical certificate (the one I lost an entire day getting). And another document on which I had to glue 4 stamps from the Treasury on that cost 55€ each.
And so here I am. I've got my required papers and am here on the requested date. Today, it's a 6 foot tall man behind me crowding my personal space. But I don't care. This should be it. After an hour and a half of waiting, I reach the front of the line and eagerly present my paperwork. The woman behind the counter is helping three people at once, but when she sees my Recepissé, she grabs it and looks up something on her computer screen. And smirks - I swear she is smirking- before handing it back to me.
"Your Carte de Sejour is not ready yet," she says, satisifed at my horrified expression. "You must come back in April."
I am so frusterated I can't talk. Do I just grin and bear it or jump on the countertop and go for her jugular? The latter, though tempting, might complicate things if I ask for French citizenship later, so I keep my feet on the ground. She does the little stamp and signature thing on the back of my We're Entitled to Continually Piss You Off card, extending its validity to April 15. Then she slides it back my way and moves on to her next victim. No apologies. No "bon courage." No one here thinks it is at all a shortcoming on their part that a routinely handled document is (hopefully) going to be delivered six months late.
I remember when I was in high school and listened to that Primus song DMV that says "I've been to hell, I spell it... I spell it DMV. Anyone who's been here knows exactly what I mean."
Well, Primus has clearly never been to my local Prefecture. Otherwise, they'd know how hell is really spelled.