Why is it that when North American women pass sixty they seem to give up on looking stylish? It's like they wake up on the first day of their sixtieth year and decide - 'What I need is the haircut of a twelve year old boy, an oversized t-shirt with a kitty on it and dungarees that a coal miner would wear.'

They also choose to call jeans dungarees after the age of sixty.

I think the average French woman would rather choose the life of a shut-in if she couldn't go outside with gloves that didn't match her coat and I dare you to try to give her the haircut of a twelve year old boy.

I've missed the stylishness of French people in general as well as  my Port runs, the Marche Buffa, Gambetta street, the Promenade and our apartment. This place feels like home and I don't want to get on another airplane for some time.

Day Trip to the Prefecture

First thing I had to do when I got back was register with the Prefecture. Both French citizens and ex-pats had filled my head with stories about what a headache the Prefecture was and how difficult (if not impossible) the whole process of getting a Carte de Sejour would be.

As an aside - I find that when you're prepared to do anything in life that requires a little effort there's no shortage of people ready to line up to tell you that what you want to do can't be done. If I listened to just one of them I'd still be in High School wondering what it'd be like to take the train into the big city of Toronto while I play Intellivision Football with Jim Senecal. I now hear white noise when people steer a course of discouragement for me but take notes when offered helpful hints.

Compared to the immigration process I went through in the US - the Prefecture was fine. The place could definitely due with some sprucing up. I think they'd be surprised at what a few well placed ferns can do for the ambience of a civil service building. Even with ferns, I wouldn't call the Prefecture a Forum of Fun but it was nowhere near the butt-pain that folks had prepared me for.

When I applied for my Green Card, I thought it would be a relatively easy process since I had all my documents in order and had been living legally in the States for years. The doors to the massive Immigration building in downtown Los Angeles open at 9AM and I thought I'd be first in line if I got there by 6AM. But when I showed up at 6AM there already was a line about 300 meters long. The entry to that office is only open from 9-11AM. If I didn't make it in after standing in line for three hours I'd have to come back again. Once inside I was given a number and waited for another couple of hours. When I finally spoke to an Immigration official she looked so miserable and beaten by the frustration of her job that I quite honestly felt bad for her and wanted to get her candies or flowers to cheer her up. Once I was given the proper papers, it took a year to get the Green Card.

Getting my US citizenship didn't require the same initial line but it did take a year and several different trips to the Immigration monolith each of which would take up the better part of a day. I also spent thousands of dollars on the way to getting my US citizenship. The most expensive stage was the initial one which cost me about $2,000 US to a slow moving American Immigration attorney in order to get my first work visa. After dealing with him I figured it'd be quicker to ask the Statue of Liberty to take care of my Immigration matters so I filed future applications on my own. From that point on, filing fees weren't too expensive. I think the biggest single cost after that was the filing fee for my US citizenship which was around $500 US. So far, total I've spent 90 Euros for the long stay work visa I obtained in Miami.

I arrived an hour and a half before the doors to the Prefecture opened but the line was only ten feet from the door. True, when the doors opened there was a mad rush and the gentleman behind me pressed on me forcefully enough and long enough that if I don't receive a Valentine's Card from him next year I'll be heartbroken but it really wasn't that bad.

When I approached the Information Officer with questions she responded in English. Back in the States, I noticed a few Immigration officials speaking Spanish but most would only communicate in English and tell the confused person with paper in hand that they'd have to come back with a translator.

I was feeling cocky about my French before getting to the Prefecture. I almost didn't go with my fluent French speaking fiance figuring I could handle it. Thank God she came. When we sat down in front of an Immigration official we were separated by six inches of plexiglass and only a small hole for sound to pass between the two of us. Given that,  plus the fact that it seemed to be 'Bring a Screaming Baby to the Prefecture Day' that day, I could barely hear or understand what was happening to my Carte de Sejour process.

Our Lady of Perpetual Bureaucracy

Had my fiance not been there, I would have stumbled out of the Prefecture glassy eyed and clueless. When asked by my fiance how it had gone I would only be able to tell her, "I think he said something about cheese and then I left before he called in the Black Haired Lady to yell at me."

The Black Haired Lady - she was one of the gate keepers to the room we had to go into. She scared me. She reminded me of the old nuns that used to teach me in Elementary School. I kept waiting for her to whip out a ruler and smack it over the knuckles of people that were bugging her.

Now it would be easy to say that her tone, temper and frustration stemmed from prejudice or racism. But come on...if you had to deal all day with people who were equally as rude, belligerent, clued out and couldn't speak your language wouldn't you get a little frustrated?  Racism's everywhere but it's too easy to throw that term around when good old fashioned job dissatisfaction may be the real root of a French Immigration Official's attitude. For some of us, our general intolerance with people has no racial distinction - everybody's a pain.

I was told that the Visa that I got at the Miami consulate was in order but that I'd need just a few more documents in order to get my Carte de Sejour. The official I met with gave me a time and date to come back with the remaining documents in three weeks time at which point I'd be issued my Carte de Sejour. He was extremely pleasant and helpful and at no point did I fear that my knuckles would be rapped by a ruler.

A Year in Chomage?

So now that I'm here, and if I'm to believe the writings of Peter Mayle, I will be met with a number of colourful French characters and the rest of my days will be filled with wine fueled lunches and truffle hunts in ancient glens.  There's a snag in the plan though. While Mayle was a successful semi-retired ad exec who was stressed over the renovations of his villa in the French countryside, I'm on limited funds and need to find a job as quickly as possible in a country where I have few contacts and can speak the language at the level of a French toddler.  

I'm far from doing this all on my own though. Already I've had many folks helping me out and my fiance has been incredibly supportive and helpful. She's gone through what I'm going through ten years ago but she did it all on her own. Given the challenges of the language, bureaucracy and just the loneliness of being in a foreign country all by yourself; I know I wouldn't have lasted more than a week before I took a plane home and stepped off immediately and demanded my Mommy to get my Blanky.