Tomorrow is The Big Day. The one where somebody I don't know (who is almost always sort of ugly and with bad fashion sense) decides my fate. That's right! It's time to renew: I'm going to the pr�fecture.
Technically, this is supposed to be a yearly affair. I get the sticker in my passport and am gone. As Stephen Colbert says, "Three minutes, in out, that's how I like it!" But NO, I have yet to go without being told I am missing a required document (that is mysteriously not on the required documents list), signature (from the person who is on vacation for a month) or secret stamp. I'm just waiting for them to tell me I need to learn to hula hoop to live in France. They'll just shrug and say, "That's the way we do things here," as if that served as an explanation. And then they send me away with an unnerving piece of paper telling me to come back again in three months.
A few years back, I went through the process four times. You do the math. By the time I got my carte de s�jour officially renewed, I didn't need it anymore. It was time for the following year's.
A good friend of mine said it best when she went to renew hers a few months back: sitting in that stifling room with a bunch of other uncomfortable foreigners pointedly reminds you just how unwelcome you are in this country. They don't want you here, and are willing to make it damn difficult for you to stay.
So I think I've gotten down the routine. I've put together all of the requested documents in two files - one of originals and one of photocopies. That way they can't get me on that point. The photocopies are picture-perfect and are in a logical order. My grades are good, my residence hasn't changed, and my pay stubs are all collected. My "proof of resources" documentation for this year is a bit rickety - partially due to all of the job manoeuvering of late - and I'm just hoping that whoever looks over my file tomorrow has some degree of mercy. Oh, who am I kidding? They never do.
I've learned by now that it's best to take the first appointment in the morning, and to get there half an hour early to beat out the other 55 people who signed up for your appointment time. The later in the day your appointment, the longer you're going to spend in the waiting room.
Bring a book, knitting, or puzzle. Something to distract you. Above all, for Pete's sake, find yourself a chair.
And pray.
That's the most important thing.
Just pray to the God of French Immigration that they don't give you shit for something in your file.
Again.
I have a list of exactly what bits of paper you should take for this gruelling experience.
Free on demand.
One of the best ways to do it is deliberately to stick a document in your back pocket, watch the triumph spread over the dragon bitch's face as she sorts through your papers, then say: "Oh yes, and there's this."
Since she was on the point of telling you to come back and start all over, this is extremely satisfying and puts her in a worse mood for the next poor sod.
one thing i will say for la france profounde is that this whole prefacture shit is a moot point. when i lived in the southwest, my papers took 5 seconds with kindness. compared to a year of hostility in paris. they may lack restaurants, stores and facilities, but rural france has THAT at least