Big Bureaucracy; Big City

The French suck at bureaucracy. Here’s how I spent my first morning in Paris:

I woke up early to go to the Préfacture, the infamous bureau where I need to register as a foreigner to get my carted de sejour so I can get bank account so I can get the internet, cell phones, etc. It’s been a three month process to painful to recount now.

I walked in and already the wait was hours long. Quietly, I marched up to the information desk and asked, “I have all the documents required except my health certificate. Is that ok?”

The stern woman behind the desk looked down past her half glasses and over her pointed nose. She gave me the address to ANAEM.

I swallowed slowly. ‘At least,’ I told myself, ‘I don’t have to wait in this ridiculous long line.’

To no surprise, I walked into ANAEM across town to discover an equally long line. But I learned from past success. I found the information desk.

The woman was younger, fresher than the at the Préfacture. Of course, this means some want-to-be-immigrant was relentlessly hitting on her. Only after clearing my throat a couple times did they bother to look at me.

“Yes, hi,” I said in the best French I could possibly muster, “I’m going to be a student. I need my carte de sejour; today’s the last day that I can get it because I’ve been here two months. I tried to get it earlier, but I was in the south, and the Préfacture of Toulon wouldn’t give it to me because I’ll be living in Paris. In order to get it, I need the health certificate.”

“You’re a student?”

“Yes, I’ll start in September.”

“Go upstairs and ask the woman at the desk. Make sure you tell her you’re a student.”

I followed her instructions and told my story again. The woman behind the second desk gave me another address.

It was on this walk, from the ANAEM to the Préfacture for students, that I realized something. I love this place. Even if the bureaucracy sucks.


See, I hate New York. It grew on me, slightly, eventually, but I really hated it. I was constantly overwhelmed; I felt totally vulnerable; I couldn’t comprehend how it worked or why people loved it.

Paris isn’t really any more manageable than New York. With the language barrier, one would think it’s actually more difficult. But I feel perfectly at home here. Walking down these streets, I feel safer and happier than I ever did in New York. Maybe more so than Boston.


Anyways, the Préfacture for students couldn’t help me either. They need an original copy of my lease, which I don’t have because I signed it via fax. I called the real estate agency, who said “Stop by and pick it up.” Then they gave me an address, too.


Walking up to the real estate agency I thought my legs were going to fall off. That’s when Francis called.

“Are you safe and happy in Paris?” he asked.

“Yes and yes.” I found a small park with a bench and pressed the phone closer to my ear. “But I’m not sure if I’m legal or not.”

He laughed. “Of course your not!” I could picture him rolling his eyes on the other side of the phone as I recounted my morning. “Well, let me know if you need a good lawyer.”

Hah.


I walked into the real estate agency and immediately felt at ease. The walls were covered in pictures of the Voiles de St. Tropez. Of course, that doesn’t mean they could help me.

“Oh, you need an original lease with signatures?” Duh. A blank copy doesn’t do much for me. “Oh, well, then you’ll have to ask your landlord.”

My landlord’s on vacation until the end of September.

I’m turning this over to the school. They can fight the big bureaucracy; I just want to enjoy the big city.