When France Feels Like a Third-World Country

First of all, my apologies to anyone who is French and happens to be reading this…

If there is one thing that I despise about France, it is dealing with anything bureaucratic. To put it lightly, they are slow and inefficient with any sort of paperwork. And that is putting it lightly.

One of the requirements of my stay in France is that I obtain a carte de séjour, a long-term visa that allows me to stay in the country for a period longer than six months (which kinda stinks for me because I’m only staying 7 months, but oh well). I must go to the Prefecture to get this done, and it is usually a long and grueling process.

The initial problem comes because there are only 30 tickets granted per day for “foreigners” (read: anyone outside of the EU) and the office is only open Monday to Thursday, from 9-12. Since there are a surprising amount of non-European citizens living in Perpignan (most of which come from Morocco, Algeria, or Tunisia), there are always many people who need to go to the Prefecture each day. The lines are long and filled with people from every corner of the world: the Americas, Asia, Africa, and “Arabia” as the French call it.

I have now been to the Prefecture five times – only once with success. Every other time, I have waited and waited and waited, only to find out that the 30 tickets have already been used up, and that I’ll have to come back another day.

The problem comes on days like today, when the air is so biting cold that even a few minutes outside is hazardous. I bundled up and arrived early, around 7:50 (remember that it opens at 9 am), only to find an already long, long line of people. I saw elderly women in winter coats and felt hats sniffling and coughing in the cold wind. I saw shivering young mothers taking their scarves off to wrap yet another layer around their babies. A woman in front of me told me in French that she was worried about being outside for so long. We were all cold and waiting for the doors to open. Outrageous.

The woman in front of me said that there were people waiting in line who had been there since 6 am. They had already been waiting for two hours in the cold, and had another hour to go! “They can’t do this to us,” she told me, and pulled out a Kleenex. “It isn’t right. We’re all going to get sick or worse.”

I knew that I was already too late to get one of the 30 tickets, but I decided to wait anyway – just in case I got a chance. I hung around and talked to a man next to me who said he was Persian. He told me an incredible story about being in the Air Force in his home country and being kicked out for “dissenting” from the state religion (“more of a philosophy than a religion,” he told me). He then asked if I was a political refugee, and I said no, that I am a language assistant from the States. “Then what are you doing here?” He asked me. “You’re American; the world belongs to you.”

He then continued his story: how he was an interior decorator – an artist, really – and fluent in Persian, French, English, Greek, and Turkish so he could communicate with international vendors in his trade. He was in France because of he was no longer allowed in his home country. “And if I go back, I’m dead,” he said. “The government doesn’t allow dissenters.”

Everyone waiting in that line had a story. Some were from former French colonies, applying for French citizenship. Some were renewing a visa to allow them to stay in France. Some were begging the government to be allowed to stay. And some, like me, are blessed beyond words.

I waited until 8:30, till I could no longer feel my toes and my ears, and I had money in my wallet that wanted to be spent on a hot cup of coffee in a warm café nearby. I had only waited for thirty or forty minutes – certainly not three hours like some of the others. I’ll get up early another day and put on a second pair of socks and another sweater. After all, I have till January to get my visa, so I can wait. And even then, I’m sure I could get by better than the others waiting in line.

Because I’m American, and the world belongs to me. Or something.