Consular Adventures: A Novella

In both my city of birth and my adopted city, it is generally frowned upon to publicly display any emotion aside from rage (in the case of my city of birth) or ennui (in the case of my adopted city). Nevertheless, I made an exception today, and any and all who may have been walking up the west side of Madison avenue between 74th and 84th streets around 11 o’clock this morning may have witnessed skipping. Skipping in New York City is excusable if all of the following conditions are true:

a) You are under the age of seven.
b) You are female.
c) It is the first day of the season of any sort of good weather, be it snow or sun.

Seeing as the only one of these conditions to be true was b), you witnesses may have been confused or appalled, and for this, I apologize. I couldn’t help it. The visa gods smiled upon me today.

One would think that after three ordeals with the French consulate, I would be well-versed in any and all procedures that take place going into such an appointment. And I am, really, I swear. I made my visa appointment before I had even decided to go to the Sorbonne; I had an inkling, in Paziols, that I would need to find a reason to move back to France, and so without so much as an idea of what I would be doing in France or even what city I would be living in, I made my appointment. I know, because in my download history, there is proof that a document from the French visa office was downloaded to my desktop on August 5th. Where the document disappeared to, I’ll never know, which is why those of you who have had the misfortune of being around me for the past month may have heard one, two, or several high-pitched whines: “My visaaaaaaaa…”

No, I didn’t whine any further than that. I had nothing more to say.

For those of you who:

a) May need to go through such procedures yourselves and would like to benefit from my expertise,
b) Enjoy giggling at the misfortunes of others, or
c) Have been there and would like to empathize, please continue reading. Otherwise, skip down to the happy ending to this story.

For those of you who are sticking around, here’s what went down:

I made the appointment online on August 5th and downloaded the certificate that would allow me entry to the consulate at the precise date and time of said appointment. I would later learn that I had downloaded the certificate to “open” instead of “save,” which I will attribute to my first grey hair, when it should choose to appear.

In the meantime, I collected all sorts of documents, including but not limited to: proof that I exist, proof that my parents have money, proof that my parents are willing to give me said money, proof that I have somewhere to live, proof that I have somewhere to learn, proof that I have already learned somewhere else and proof that I plan on actually going to France, which seems strange considering the fact that I’m the one banging my head repeatedly against walls in order to get into France. I found all of these documents, printed them out and photocopied them in triplicate. Then I collated them, paperclipped them together and carried them around in a binder that I hugged at night for fear that it would up and leave me and I would be left with nothing.

Slowly, the projected date for the appointment approached. I had tried to call the French consulate, explaining, first in English, then to a different person in French, that I had misplaced the document that told me when my appointment was. I was told that they couldn’t tell me whether or not the appointment had been made, but that if I had any doubts, I should make a new one. Considering the fact that by this time it was the end of August and the next appointments that could be made weren’t until the end of September, I decided to ride on the fact that God might not be just, but he might be on my side this time.

I had some strange idea that I had made the appointment for either today or yesterday, but I was also fairly convinced that it was today. Still, I planned to get up early yesterday and stand around outside the visa office to see if my name would be called. Naturally, I didn’t have an alarm clock, so I asked my mother to ask my sister who was getting up early anyway to call me and wake me up. Which she didn’t do.

At 8:49, I busted out of bed, quickly changed my clothes and ran out the door, only to arrive in front of a dark consulate: I should have known, after all my time in France, that they would take any opportunity–even if it was an American holiday–for vacation. I went home and watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer all day and ate an entire box of sour candies that burned off all my tastebuds and waited for today.

This morning, I woke up at 7:30, had breakfast and coffee, and walked over to the consulate. I had a book to read, but I didn’t like it very much and, at any rate, I was too nervous to take in very much. Instead, I people-watched as the rest of my peers–some my age, some much older–waited around the outside of the consulate to be let in at 9:00 am.

Eventually, a woman came to the front door and opened it, calling anyone who had a 9 am appointment. I knew for sure that this wasn’t me–I remembered being annoyed that I couldn’t get into the first time slot when I reserved my appointment. The rest of the group filed in slowly, with only me and one other girl left outside. The other girl approached and asked a question I didn’t hear, and then she left. Just before the woman was going to close the door, I walked up, my passport opened and held before me like a shield, and I spoke too quickly so that she wouldn’t have the chance to cut me off.

“ExcusemeImadeanappointmentbutIdon’tknowwhenitis.”

Even I had a hard time understanding myself, so I don’t know what the woman understood, but she just asked me for my name.

“Monaco,” I said. “I think my appointment’s at eleven, but I’m not sure…”

I trailed off and watched as she scanned the names. Mine wasn’t there.

“I’m not sure of the time,” I squeaked. “It could be earlier…”

She flipped back to the first page and looked, and I scanned the page as well. She started to shake her head, but then I saw it.

“There!” I said, just a little too loudly, pointing at her page. A choir of angels broke out of the skies and sang, but the woman obviously hadn’t had her coffee yet that morning, because she didn’t see them.

“9:30,” she told me. “Wait here.”

She shut the door and went inside, and I looked over to a woman who had arrived during this ordeal and grinned an insane-person grin. She stepped back a little bit. I don’t blame her.

After a surprisingly short time, a guard appeared and asked for those of us who had appointments at 9:30. Still giddy at the realization that I had an appointment at all, I very nearly jumped up and down, waving my arms and screeching, “That’s me!”

Instead, I calmly walked to the window, gave the guard my bag and briefly regretted carrying a whole box of tampons around instead of leaving them in the bathroom like a normal person, and walked up to a room absolutely filled to the brim with people.

If there’s one thing that can unite a group of strangers, it’s dealing with French bureaucracy. The particularly angry woman behind one of the windows nearly screeched at a girl who only had the original of her plane ticket and not a photocopy.

“But… can’t I go downstairs and photocopy it?” the girl whined. I made eye-contact with a woman I had briefly spoken to in the line and shook my head. She shook hers back and sent me a pitying smile. The sort of smile that says, “Poor girl. At least we know better.”

I overheard another guy tell the woman at the window that he was meant to be flying out today. I hugged my folder to my chest even tighter and simultaneously thanked my lucky stars that my reservation wasn’t for another two weeks and prayed that somehow I would avoid the wrath of the angry woman, who was now snipping at a girl who wasn’t using the fingerprinting mechanism correctly.

“Madame,” she said, in the extremely polite and yet perfectly undermining and judgmental way that only French people can master. “Are you even listening to me?”

I started to worry about whether I should speak English or French when my turn would come. “Play the dumb American…” my mother’s voice chanted in my head.

Another girl didn’t have insurance. Even my thoughts were high-pitched and whiny as I rehearsed: “I was told I can apply for insurance upon my arrival. Oh my God… that’s not English… that’s Frenglish. Even my thoughts don’t know what language to speak.”

I started to sweat.

“Monaco, Emily, window four.” It was a man’s voice. I approached, not sure whether to be relieved.

“Hello,” a small, round man with a cheery voice and a pinky ring said.

“Hello,” I answered, flashing my best, “I’m a friendly American girl” smile.

He glanced at my application. “Mais vous parlez francais.”

Busted, I thought. “Oui,” I answered. He looked down at a Post-it next to my application file, and I looked as well, scanning the list, wondering if I had forgotten something.

He asked for each paper, and I passed them to him.

Photocopy of passport: check.

Admissions form: check.

Proof of housing: check.

Financial guarantee: check.

“Bank statement?” he asked. My heart dropped to my stomach. I had July’s, June’s and May’s, photocopied and collated, but I was missing August, which the woman with the telling smile had been sent home for. I passed him July, my hand shaking slightly.

“Excusez-moi, mais c’est le plus récent. On est en plein déménagement.”

He glanced at it and added it to the file.

“Vous n’avez pas un compte bancaire sous votre nom ?” You don’t have your own bank account.

“Si,” I assured him. “But there’s not very much in it.” Stupid American smile.

He started stamping things. Stamping things is good. He glanced at my application form again.

“The address of your school in America?”

“I’m not a student in America,” I answered, rummaging through my extra slew of papers: birth certificate, photocopies of old cartes de séjour. “But I have this.”

I passed him the form that proved that I had graduated from university. For those of you who don’t know, forms are treated as valuable currency in France. He inspected it with all of the precision of a jeweler inspecting a diamond.

The happy ending:

“Bon.” He stamped again and glanced at a calendar. “Vous pouvez venir récupérer votre visa à partir du 14.”

I blinked. Had I misunderstood? Was that it? Every other time I had been to this office, I had been sent home in search of something: a copy of my last high school class schedule, a copy of my driver’s license, proof that my parents would bail me out of jail, should I do something illegal overseas.

“A partir du 14 ?” I asked.

“Oui. Or you can send someone else for you…” He passed me my passport and a tiny slip of paper, which I gathered and stuffed into my envelope, gathering my things.

“Merci. Merci beaucoup. Bonne journée.”

“A vous de même,” he said, already ready to move on to the next file.

I passed a girl on my way out, the same one who had been yelled at for fingerprinting. “The trick,” I muttered under my breath, “Is to answer all the questions they ask you and none that they don’t.”

“Thanks,” she replied, her eyes filled with worry as she rummaged through her own giant pile of papers. I knew that feeling, but for me, for today, it was over.

As I left the building, I considered skipping down the street. The song “Oh happy day,” ran through my head, and I considered bursting into song, à la Godspell. It wouldn’t even matter if no one sang with me,

But the French wouldn’t approve, and neither, for that matter, do New Yorkers. Instead, I headed home, my joy contained inside the smile I allowed myself. I’m moving back to France… and sorry, North Americans, but I think this time it’s for good.

Quiche Lorraine(reposted)

5 eggs
25 cl. crème fraîche
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. black pepper
1 pinch fresh nutmeg
400 g. lardons
2 onions, diced
1 refrigerated pâte brisée
1/2 cup grated emmental cheese

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.

Combine the eggs, crème fraîche, salt, pepper and nutmeg in a bowl until well combined and smooth. Set aside.

Heat the lardons in a skillet over medium heat. When they begin to release some grease, add the onions. Cook until the onions and lardons are golden brown.

Roll the pâte brisée out in a tart pan. Spread the lardons and onions over the bottom, and pour in the egg mixture. Sprinkle the emmental cheese over the top.

Bake for 15-20 minutes, until the top of the quiche is golden. It will puff up slightly, but don’t worry: as soon as you remove it from the oven, it will fall back into place. Serve with green salad simply dressed with homemade vinaigrette.