A Document from La Republique Francaise

Another day, another afternoon at the Prefecture de Police in the 14th Arrondissement.  We arrived at 1:45 p.m., took a number (184 with 158 being served when we arrived) and waited in the crowded room.  More than a little ripe, the room was, being warm and humid and packed with lots of people whose situations in life seemed not to lend themselves to purchasing deodorant.  Why no one opened the windows was a mystery (I told Suzie it would interfere with the air conditioning).  So we sat down next to an African woman with a cute, happy, chubby baby and waited.  Slowly, one by one, the numbers counted up from 158.  Several times a number came up but no one responded.  Sometimes the business was transacted quickly, sometimes it took a long, long time.  Suzie remarked that whole procedure seemed much more civilized than a trip to the DMV would be, notwithstanding the importance of what the government was handing out there.  Only one time did one person become even slightly agitated; the remainder of the time people were calm and polite, despite the heat.

Eventually our number came up, and were were directed to window "B", where a woman asked us why we were there.  We (Suzie) explained, and she then told us to sit down again and wait until our number came up for one of the stations having a desk and places for the clients to sit.  So we sat down again and waited some more.  Finally number 184 came up again, and we were directed to window 3.

At window 3 was a young woman who was obviously new at her job.  Probably, because of that fact, she was very accommodating, kind, and sweet to us.  She proceeded to ask for all of our documentation -- our birth certificates, the kids' birth certificates, our marriage certificates, our certificate of financial ability, our passports, the lease for our apartment in Paris, the letter from our landlord ... all certified and translated into French, of course ... and, last but certainly not least, the critical gas bill (apparently people who wish to sneak into France illegally do not have gas service).  After examining the documents very, very, very carefully, asking a few questions of her supervisor, and ascertaining that all the documents were, in fact, before her, she commenced inputting all of our information into her computer.  This included the names of our fathers, the maiden names of our mothers, the names of children, our places of birth, and various and sundry numbers, which I'd assumed they would already have since we had given the same documents to the Consulate in San Francisco.  This took longer than it otherwise might have because our young representative was a hunt-and-peck typist.  But we sensed we were reaching the end....

But alas, it was not to be.  We assumed after this visit we would get our carte de sejour -- our residence card -- but the young lady proceeded to ask us which date ... in September ... we would like to travel to the main Prefecture of Paris building at the Ile de la Cite to have an appointment with another representative, to review our papers yet again.  Worse, the computer system wouldn't let her schedule an appointment for me and Suzie at the same time, so we had two different meeting times.  After this meeting, she said, we would have to come back yet again to actually receive our carte de sejour.  I told Suzie that the only reason I could see for this system was to employ more people in the Department of Interior than would otherwise be employed, and that the good news was even if there was some problem, by the time they finally told us "no card" we'd already be back in the States.

We did not come away completely empty-handed, however; they took one of the pictures of each of us that I'd made yesterday and gave us each a very official-looking, properly sealed (with a real old-fashioned  seal that the young lady really put some effort into) document called a "Recepisse de Demande de Carte de Sejour" -- officially showing that we had applied for our carte de sejour and were thus legit in the eyes of the Republique Francaise until futher notice.  We were told to keep this document in our possession.  If we are asked for "our papers," we will whip this puppy out and tell the police to back off (politely and with great deference, of course).

We also asked about the cards the kids were supposed to have to obtain.  Eventually it came out that we only needed cards for them if they planned to travel outside of France other than with me and Suzie.  Why that situation would require the French government to give them a card, when they already have passports, is puzzling, but we didn't really care about that because we bottom line is that we didn't need to get these cards for the kids.

So, with our new official-looking receipt in hand, we decided to celebrate.  It was about 4 by now, and we went to a small cafe on the street abutting our apartment, a cafe that we can see from our apartment.  We sat outside and enjoyed our small advance.  Shortly after we arrived, an elderly man arrived with an immensely fat dog, which we later learned was named "Bulot."  Bulot seemed to be the informal mascot of the cafe and greatly beloved by the cadre of funny, older men who were already at the cafe, who intermittently gave him bread with pate and other goodies from the cafe.  One of the men engaged us in conversation, and we learned that the cafe had a program where every 15 days the proprietor would have an event for which he would prepare food from a different region in France, but not expensive, the man said.  We also learned that the man loved San Francisco, and that Bulot weighed 80 kilos, which converts to 176 pounds, I think, and which we had trouble believing even though he was enormous and constantly being fed.  At one point a car from a driving school pulled up and stopped, and the student was instructed to back up.  The poor student killed the car while trying to put the manual transmission into reverse, resulting in a hugely loud sound, followed by hoots and hollers and "Ayyyeeee, yahhhyeee, yahhhyeee"s from the group of old men at the cafe.  It seemed like this group knew almost everyone who walked by.

We like our little neighborhood and are definitely feeling more settled.  We find it hard to believe we've only been her for 7 days, as it seems much, much longer than that.  My French is getting better quickly; I can actually understand a lot what it on the TV.  C'est bon, la vie....