The Ryndex

I took a day off work to recover from a serious party I was giving Sunday, and I decided to take advantage of my free afternoon to launch the beginning of the naturalization process.

The main prefecture in Paris (Ile de la Cité) directed me to a cute little prefecture just off of Notre Dame. The security guard made me quack like a duck before letting me in. I’m not making this up.

Mme. Welcome gave me a number (84) and I sat for an hour… As my number approached, I heard Madame arguing with some poor non-French who had the misfortune to have brought in a document that was translated by his consulate, instead of by an avowed French translating service. She brushed him off, and determinedly rang my number.

There’s a certain look perfected by the French fonctionnaire. And since I’m feeling a bit sexist — which I need to practice anyway if I’m going to be French — this look is always mastered by the middle-aged French woman at the “welcome” desk. With carefully neutral eyes and an ultracompetent set of the mouth, she’s letting you know that whatever it is you want (and it’s all the same to her), you can’t have it and you won’t get it.

Glancing at my carte de séjour for a fraction of a second, she informs me that I’ve only been in France for two years and ineligible. At this time, the man whose translated documents were insufficiently sanctified interrupts with a flurry of new papers from his stockpile. “Non monsieur,” she tartly informs him, “I will NOT look at any more of your documentation. It is insufficient and that is the end of it.” She looks back at me.

“But, I distinctly remember living in France, at the same address and the same job for nearly six years…” I weakly protest. My cheeks are already flushed, and I know know that all is lost…

There are two techniques to efficiently deal with a French civil servant: (1) Reach for all the charm you can muster and ask them (buttering your voice with admiration and respect) how they would handle this problem, or (2) find a way to be passed to someone else and try again. The third option is to give up.

In this case, before I could give up, Madame sighed and did something most gracious: she typed my name in the computer and helped me. Apparently the date on my resident card is confusing because my status was changed in 2005.

Now I have the form, a list of documents to collect and mail off to the prefecture. I could be French as soon as 2009!

Tin Foiled BlahBlahBlah