(To read the first installment of the Story Of My Life, click here.)
The story of How My Passport Came To Be began this summer, in the préfecture of a quaint little town in France. It went something like this:
"Hi, we would like to renew my daughter's passport."
"Of course. May I see your ID card, please? Oh, this address is in Paris. You'll have to go there to renew your passport, as it is your city of residence."
"Actually, we live in the United States and we're in France for the summer."
"Then why don't you get an American passport?"
"Because we are not American."
"Well, I can't make you a passport here because you do not live in this town. You'll have to go to the préfecture of your city of residence."
"Our city of residence is American and does not deliver French passports because they have all of ten French people there, and five of them are us."
"Then you will have to go to the American Consulate in Paris."
"But we are not American!"
"But you live in the United States, yes?"
"Yes, but the Americans cannot give us a French passport!"
"Then you will have to go to the French Consulate in the United States."
[Exeunt us, Dad fumes and grumbles something not very polite]
Six months later, my passport has expired.
Dad drives me to [city] this morning. We arrive at the sixth floor of a rather nondescript building and passed two locked doors to finally find the French Consulate General.
The nice French lady asks for my ID papers, takes them, and asks for a photo. Which we immediately realize we forgot to bring along. She directs us to the nearest Walgreens, where a friendly employee takes my picture and then takes forever to print it.
We make it back to the Consulate, hand over the pictures and the papers, and ten minutes of utter absence later, the lady comes back with a paper version of my passport info to check for accuracy and sign at the bottom, if you please Mademoiselle, in black pen.
Everything seems in order, and I am about to sign, when I notice that the address does look weird...
[name]
[street][city]
[another city][zip code]
I know the whole college thing might confuse people, but one of these cities isn't even remotely related with me. Maybe it is the default city for people who don't have cities? It didn't even match my zip code...
I point it out to her, she goes to fix it, and comes back with the following:
[name]
[street][city]
[same city][zip code]
I guess they really wanted to make sure I lived in one place? Well, she fixed it again. Then she said it cost $75.95.
Then she came back with an envelope that I needed to write my address on so that she could send me a notification when my finished passport arrived from overseas (they have to make them in France. In France! What's with the convoluted shipping back and forth?). Father dear, being the type A personality he is, made a weird face when she said we would have to come back in person to pick it up, and told her to ship the passport directly to us (you could clearly see he really wanted to tell her she should ship it, um, where the sun don't shine, but he refrained himself, which is good, because the last thing we need is a diplomatic incident and Interpol on our trail for assaulting a government worker) so we didn't have to make the drive back in the seven weeks or so it would take, at which point she mentioned it would cost an additional $16.50 to ship, and they didn't take credit cards, and that there was an ATM downstairs. He ran out the door grumbling (as always), and the lady took the opportunity of his abscence to tell me that I really should have a driver's license, why, her daughter could drive when she was fifteen, my parents must be so terrible, to not let their daughter drive! At which I thought, lady, you have no idea. I have only been arguing the point for, what, three years now?
Dad came back with the money, got impatient some more, the envelope got addressed and stamped and for some reason stapled so it wouldn't be lost. Meanwhile, a young woman and her infant came in with a request for a passport for the baby, and were denied because his eyes were closed in the picture (Well, he's a baby and he sleeps. It's what babies do. A lot.) Also, French passport pictures are ridiculously complicated and guidelined.
And then office lady started talking to this elderly couple who apparently came here often, and in the fashion of French elderly couples, knew everyone's business and inquired after everyone's family's health and talked nonsensically for an hour about the papers they had to turn in and the lady they were legally responsible for, and how to look up someone's phone number on Yahoo! (at this point I wanted to tell them that White pages was a lot better, but, like most elderly French couples, technology is past them.) Eventually, they had a fifteen-minute discussion about how they wished 'Happy New Year' in their home region(s) (Good year, good health, and Heaven at the end of your life), and left, wishing us a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year as per their aforementioned regional affiliations, and inquiring in the process whether we were going to France for the holidays.
After finishing her conversation with them, the lady asked us why we weren't gone yet, so we had to tell her that she had my birth certificate and it was the only copy I had of it and could we have it back please? At which she grumbled but complied (after spending ten minutes at the copier).
I then asked to register to vote, because the deadline is December 31st. After fumbling on her computer for a bit, she said that I was registered and should be receiver my voter's card in the mail at some unspecified point in the future.
I very politely thanked her, grabbed Dad by the arm, and left. Steam was starting to come out of his ears.
(Fast-forward to this afternoon, DPS office at home [guess that little lecture had some effect on Dad. He wants me to have my license by the time I go back to school in January]. As with usual offices of any kind in the US, there are about a million people in line.)
"Hi, I want to get a driver's license."
"Do you know how to drive?"
"No."
"Here is a booklet. Come back when you know it and take the test, then you will get a learner's permit and a week later you can pass your driver's license. It will cost $5 for the permit and $24 for the license. Are you American?"
"No."
"Then you will need your Green Card and Social Security card."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. See you soon!"
Clearly, it takes about the same amount of time to get stuff done in the US and in France. The only difference is, you don't have to wait in France but it takes forever to get it done, and you wait hours in the US but it is over with in five minutes.
(Except doctors' offices. I don't understand doctors in the US. I'll have to say French ones are much more efficient. You don't have to wait, there are no nurses to deal with or papers to fill out, AND it is over very fast. You call the doctor to make an appointment, show up five minutes before, he takes you to his office, asks you how you are, my, how you've grown, pokes you with a stick, tells you what's wrong, gives you a prescription, swipes your health card for the records, asks how your family is doing, tells you to get well soon, and shows you out the door. Quick, fast, and painless. Usually. Plus, Sécurité Sociale pays for it, so it's pretty much free.)
The story of How My Passport Came To Be began this summer, in the préfecture of a quaint little town in France. It went something like this:
"Hi, we would like to renew my daughter's passport."
"Of course. May I see your ID card, please? Oh, this address is in Paris. You'll have to go there to renew your passport, as it is your city of residence."
"Actually, we live in the United States and we're in France for the summer."
"Then why don't you get an American passport?"
"Because we are not American."
"Well, I can't make you a passport here because you do not live in this town. You'll have to go to the préfecture of your city of residence."
"Our city of residence is American and does not deliver French passports because they have all of ten French people there, and five of them are us."
"Then you will have to go to the American Consulate in Paris."
"But we are not American!"
"But you live in the United States, yes?"
"Yes, but the Americans cannot give us a French passport!"
"Then you will have to go to the French Consulate in the United States."
[Exeunt us, Dad fumes and grumbles something not very polite]
Six months later, my passport has expired.
Dad drives me to [city] this morning. We arrive at the sixth floor of a rather nondescript building and passed two locked doors to finally find the French Consulate General.
The nice French lady asks for my ID papers, takes them, and asks for a photo. Which we immediately realize we forgot to bring along. She directs us to the nearest Walgreens, where a friendly employee takes my picture and then takes forever to print it.
We make it back to the Consulate, hand over the pictures and the papers, and ten minutes of utter absence later, the lady comes back with a paper version of my passport info to check for accuracy and sign at the bottom, if you please Mademoiselle, in black pen.
Everything seems in order, and I am about to sign, when I notice that the address does look weird...
[name]
[street][city]
[another city][zip code]
I know the whole college thing might confuse people, but one of these cities isn't even remotely related with me. Maybe it is the default city for people who don't have cities? It didn't even match my zip code...
I point it out to her, she goes to fix it, and comes back with the following:
[name]
[street][city]
[same city][zip code]
I guess they really wanted to make sure I lived in one place? Well, she fixed it again. Then she said it cost $75.95.
Then she came back with an envelope that I needed to write my address on so that she could send me a notification when my finished passport arrived from overseas (they have to make them in France. In France! What's with the convoluted shipping back and forth?). Father dear, being the type A personality he is, made a weird face when she said we would have to come back in person to pick it up, and told her to ship the passport directly to us (you could clearly see he really wanted to tell her she should ship it, um, where the sun don't shine, but he refrained himself, which is good, because the last thing we need is a diplomatic incident and Interpol on our trail for assaulting a government worker) so we didn't have to make the drive back in the seven weeks or so it would take, at which point she mentioned it would cost an additional $16.50 to ship, and they didn't take credit cards, and that there was an ATM downstairs. He ran out the door grumbling (as always), and the lady took the opportunity of his abscence to tell me that I really should have a driver's license, why, her daughter could drive when she was fifteen, my parents must be so terrible, to not let their daughter drive! At which I thought, lady, you have no idea. I have only been arguing the point for, what, three years now?
Dad came back with the money, got impatient some more, the envelope got addressed and stamped and for some reason stapled so it wouldn't be lost. Meanwhile, a young woman and her infant came in with a request for a passport for the baby, and were denied because his eyes were closed in the picture (Well, he's a baby and he sleeps. It's what babies do. A lot.) Also, French passport pictures are ridiculously complicated and guidelined.
And then office lady started talking to this elderly couple who apparently came here often, and in the fashion of French elderly couples, knew everyone's business and inquired after everyone's family's health and talked nonsensically for an hour about the papers they had to turn in and the lady they were legally responsible for, and how to look up someone's phone number on Yahoo! (at this point I wanted to tell them that White pages was a lot better, but, like most elderly French couples, technology is past them.) Eventually, they had a fifteen-minute discussion about how they wished 'Happy New Year' in their home region(s) (Good year, good health, and Heaven at the end of your life), and left, wishing us a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year as per their aforementioned regional affiliations, and inquiring in the process whether we were going to France for the holidays.
After finishing her conversation with them, the lady asked us why we weren't gone yet, so we had to tell her that she had my birth certificate and it was the only copy I had of it and could we have it back please? At which she grumbled but complied (after spending ten minutes at the copier).
I then asked to register to vote, because the deadline is December 31st. After fumbling on her computer for a bit, she said that I was registered and should be receiver my voter's card in the mail at some unspecified point in the future.
I very politely thanked her, grabbed Dad by the arm, and left. Steam was starting to come out of his ears.
(Fast-forward to this afternoon, DPS office at home [guess that little lecture had some effect on Dad. He wants me to have my license by the time I go back to school in January]. As with usual offices of any kind in the US, there are about a million people in line.)
"Hi, I want to get a driver's license."
"Do you know how to drive?"
"No."
"Here is a booklet. Come back when you know it and take the test, then you will get a learner's permit and a week later you can pass your driver's license. It will cost $5 for the permit and $24 for the license. Are you American?"
"No."
"Then you will need your Green Card and Social Security card."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. See you soon!"
Clearly, it takes about the same amount of time to get stuff done in the US and in France. The only difference is, you don't have to wait in France but it takes forever to get it done, and you wait hours in the US but it is over with in five minutes.
(Except doctors' offices. I don't understand doctors in the US. I'll have to say French ones are much more efficient. You don't have to wait, there are no nurses to deal with or papers to fill out, AND it is over very fast. You call the doctor to make an appointment, show up five minutes before, he takes you to his office, asks you how you are, my, how you've grown, pokes you with a stick, tells you what's wrong, gives you a prescription, swipes your health card for the records, asks how your family is doing, tells you to get well soon, and shows you out the door. Quick, fast, and painless. Usually. Plus, Sécurité Sociale pays for it, so it's pretty much free.)
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