Pay No Attention To The Woman Behind The Glass

By Cass
23 February 2010

After 6 weeks of living in Paris, it was a somewhat rocky re-entry this weekend.

Before leaving my new home, I spent a busy Saturday running errands preparing for the family's arrival March 3.  A colleague took me on a car tour of my new neighborhood, where he'd lived some 25 years before. After we shared a cold biere, he dropped me off to settle in for the night. There wasn't much left to do, but schedule a cab to get to the airport on Sunday.  There wasn't much to pack, just a change of clothes for the night in D.C. and two other pieces of luggage for the family's return trip next week. 

I arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport in plenty of time to purchase the French-to-American electrical adapters for my laptop and PDA.  It was strange to think I needed to "adapt" to the U.S.  The flight to Dulles was unremarkable -- my favorite kind.  I landed on schedule around 7:15, and my checked-through bag came around the carousel within about 5 minutes. That's when the adapting really began.

First, I tried to use the GPS on my French-language PDA to get to the hotel in Georgetown where Sid was waiting for me.  Non.  Luckily, the Toyota Sienna has Hertz's great NeverLost system.  Whew.

Pulling out of the Hertz lot, the attendant asked to see my driver's license.  Uh-oh.  "Dude, I just returned from out of the country and my license is packed in my suitcase. Will my passport do?"  He shouldn't have, but he did, and I slipped out.  Good thing I'm a pretty good liar, er, marketing professional.

Then came the toll plaza.  Oh merde.  "Sir, I'm really sorry, but I just flew in from France and I have no American currency at all. Would you take euros?"

"You have a yodel?"  Thinking he'd misheard me, I enunciated that I could give him some euros, which are actually worth more than a dollar.

"You'll give me a yodel?"  Laughing, I gave him two euros, and he sent me on my way.

The same ploy did not work at the SECOND toll plaza.  He wasn't interested in my euros or yodeling, and handed me a slip of paper instead with directions to go online or mail my 75 cents in.  Um, yeah.  I'll get right on that.

Finally, I pull into the Georgetown Hotel & Conference Center. After parking and unloading the van, Sid and I headed to dinner at a place our friends the Wards recommended, called J. Paul's.  We were enjoying our drinks when our very pleasant server brought our dinner, and I realized that I'd forgotten HOW LOUD AMERICANS ARE. The table of five jumbo voices next to us was loud enough, when they raucously announced the arrival of more friends who'd just pulled up outside the window. After six weeks of French restaurants or quiet evenings in my apartment, every decibel-denting syllable was very jarring.  I'd not realized how much more reserved French people are in public places -- with the notable exception of Roland Garros tennis, World Cup soccer or transportation strikes. It was a relief to head back to the hotel.

We needed a good night's sleep before heading to the French Consulate Monday morning, where we made quite a discovery.  The Great Oz is alive and well and LIVING IN GEORGETOWN.  Yes, we had steeled ourselves for the height of bureaucracy when we scheduled our appointment at the Visa office.  Yes, the American bacon-egg-and-grits breakfast had lulled me into a kind of food nirvana, rendering me quite placid.  However, I was not prepared for the pinched woman who held our lives in her pale, bony hands from 11 a.m. until 3:15 that afternoon.  There were many "issues" with our application that I won't go into here, but the kicker was, when realizing we didn't have a copy of our passports -- and don't you see the signs that say we don't make photocopies in this office -- Miss Pinch conferred with the man behind the two-way glass and told us that luckily, the boss was feeling generous that day and would LET us return at 2:30 with the said photocopies to complete our application that day. (insert Stephen Bennett singing "If I Only Had a Brain")  If that wasn't satisfactory, we could always reschedule for another time.  Of course, we would be happy to come back that afternoon. Thank you so much, I said through clinched teeth. 

After going back to the hotel for copies, Sid wisely took me someplace for lunch that served alcohol.  A house cab does wonders for easing bureaucratic tension.  We returned to the little visa office at 2:15 and, after a few more questions about our marriage, our sons, my job, the meaning of life, etc., we were finally presented with an impressive sticker in each of our passports.  We're now set for three months when, with a medical exam and legal support, we will get our French residency permits.  As we walked in the rain back down the driveway to our parking place on Reservoir Road, it occurred to me how moving to another country is more like adoption than adapting.  Anyone can be born in a country; but an adopted country is special because one chooses to do whatever it takes to make it happen.  And, as for anything worth having, il faut avoir de la patience -- one must have patience.