Friday I spent the day at the préfecture in order to renew my carte de séjour (green card). For those of you that have never had the joy of going to the préfecture, it’s like choosing between herpes or hemorrhoids: either way, you’re inflamed and irritated.
The day started with me arriving at 4 a.m. to stand in line with the hopes of receiving one of the 150+ tickets handed out at 9 a.m. The ticket allows one to enter the building that day. When I arrived, there were already about 70 people in front of me (the earliest showed up at 2:30 a.m.). The line can best be described as scene from a post-apocalyptic video game, peppered with carnival folk and salted with extras from an Indiana Jones film. Surprisingly, few arguments occurred during the five hours we waited for a bureaucratic Willie Wonka to hand out the Golden Tickets. Time was passed either by reading, listening to music or bitching about French administration (the latter only applying if one could, indeed, communicate with one’s neighbor).
As 9 a.m. approached, the line compacted between the barriers as the 350+ people pressed forward. Arguments broke out from who was before whom (a rather heated one between a Frenchman and a Tunisian woman was the highlight. My swearing ability increased in both languages), but the police kept things orderly as the tickets were finally distributed. After sweating and pushing a bit, I received ticket N° 190. The feeling was a cross between winning the lottery and scoring tickets to see Jimi Hendrix open for Elvis.
I showed my ID, entered the building and waited. Anne-Laure joined me once the doors opened around 9:30 a.m. (the 200+ people that didn’t receive a ticket had cleared out). According to the Préfecture du Rhône website, Anne-Laure had attend to show that it was a legitimate marriage – as if two kids and owning real estate wasn’t enough. We read, took in the unique smells and waited from N° 190 to be called. At 1:30 p.m., a board flashed my number. We went to the proper window and I pulled out the necessary documents (ID, marriage certificate, left finger…). The exchange went something like this:
Administrator: “Why are you giving me all of this?”
Scott: “Because it’s on the list taken from your website”
Administrator: “Oh, that’s out of date. You don’t need this or your wife.”
Scott & Anne-Laure together: “You got to be #@!!% kidding me!”
The administrator shook his head at the bureaucratic dysfunction as he processed my card. After a few minutes, we were finished. The time was 2 p.m. We stumbled into the sunshine with the relief that it was over and that we could take a shower. As we crossed the Rhône, I squeeze her and she gives me a smile. Somehow the trials of the past 10 hours didn’t seem to matter anymore. Les choses qu’on fait pour l’amour.
Duncan Soup - A Dish of Duncan Discourse 