Visitors performing year-round ritual, at rear of Notre Dame.
Getting Papered In Paris
Less Fear and Angst Than Usual
By Richard Erickson
Paris Kiosque - December 1999 / January 2000 - Volume 6, Number 12
Copyright (c) 1999 Richard Erickson - used with permission
Nobody ever talks much about getting their papers -
'Green Card' - or the French 'Carte de Séjour,' because
it is more painful than going to the dentist. I
don't know why it is an unspeakable subject. It is
a process full of anxiety; sometimes tragedy or comedy, and
it can be very literary too, because it can make
you think of Kafka's administrators.
The 'Carte de Séjour' is
portable proof that I have passed a paper-test that I
have a permission to live and work in France. French
citizens have them too; they are like internal passports, or
universal ID cards.
Sometimes, officials ask to see them
if you are trying to conduct some official business or
are mistakenly rounded up with 'all the usual suspects.'
Cashiers at hypermarchés will ask to see them if you
pay with a cheque. In both cases, a driver's license
is often a good substitute because these are good for
'life.'
Last summer, my moving guys threw my stuff off
their truck and carted it into my new apartment in
Paris on Monday, 19. July. My
arrondissement city hall is
two blocks away and this is where I went to
officially change the address of my 'Carte de Séjour.'
A
form says this has to be done within eight days.
It can't be done within eight days, because to prove
residence you have to provide copies of new utility bills.
It takes at least a couple of months until the
first ones arrive.
When I finally got around to
it, the local city hall told me they didn't do
it anyway and I had to go to the police
instead. This isn't far away, but when I finally got
around to it there was a little confusion.
The cop
shop had a small hall for everybody 'not French.' This
includes citizens of some 250 countries; but does not include
those of the European Union.
For this, I went
back to the policeman at the door and he showed
me down a hallway into a tiny room full of
big cops.
The cop with the least experience got to
do my change of address. We didn't get far into
this before it occurred to all the other cops in
the tiny room, except me, that I was not changing
addresses within Paris, but from another Department in France, to
Paris.
All went dead stop. They said I'd have to
go the main Préfecture de Police on the Ile de
la Cité in the center of Paris. Gloom settled in.
This is the rumored horror or horrors - maybe
even worse than the huge birdcage of a Préfecture at
Nanterre for the Hauts-de-Seine Department, which I have already experienced.
But - ray of hope - the information sheet the
cops gave me said I could save myself the trip
by doing it by mail. I telephoned to confirm this.
The response was, 'Yes, but you'll have no
passport or Carte
de Séjour and no receipt for your application in the
meantime.' Gloom fully descended.
There are 'stories' about the Paris
Police Préfecture; people have had to go on 'cures' after
the experience of it.
The line forms to the left
of that door over there; with a roof for rainy
days.
When I first moved out to the Yvelines Department,
the Versailles version was in computer turmoil, and their 'in
the meantime' took 18 months. Versailles also assigned my wife
two new nationalities as well: first Canadian and then Iranian.
The whole system was new on account of a
wave of terrorism at the time. She was terrified to
be checked by the ticket controllers on the commuter train
to Paris. Iranians were having a hard time.
When I
took her Carte de Séjour back to the cops the
second time - for the 'Iranian mistake,' our 'personal' cop
went orbital and got on the phone to Versailles right
then and there.
After issuing a card, the paper
dossier would be destroyed - they had computers! - after
only five days. To correct the nationality once the papers
were vaporized - it would be back to square one.
We were saved in the nick of time by our
alert 'personal' cop. Ten years afterwards, the renewal was routine.
Impeccable new cards came back.
Now again, years later, my
'finally getting around to it' has taken some time. I
also have a personal deadline for getting the address officially
changed on the card. I want to register to vote
for the next city elections in Paris, and the deadline
for signing up is only 28 days away.
To
change the address on my Carte de Séjour - still
valid for another eight years - I have to show
my passport. I looked at this and it said, 'expired
in April.' I was under the impression 10-year passports lasted
forever.
Getting a new one is not difficult, but it
took its time on account of the Irish national saying
- 'there's time.' Any old photos are okay, so I
got a set for the passport and the Carte de
Séjour too. My new dentist witnessed my signature.
After
waiting five weeks I called up the passport office and
the lady said she'd been on holiday, but sent the
new passport, good-for-ten-years, two days later.
It is a hand-made
one. If you have never seen one of these, they
look like you made it yourself on your kitchen table.
One time, the police in Palamós thought it looked fake.
They are just as valid as any other though.
I
phoned the Préfecture de Police two days ago, to try
and find out about their situation. They said, 'don't come
on Wednesday.' I should be there at 8:30 at the
latest. The last time I had to go to Nanterre,
there were 500 people already in line at 8:30.
Yesterday,
I put my packet of paper together. The old Carte
de Séjour, the new passport, the electricity bill and the
phone bill, my lease contract, my social security card and
my unemployment card; and photocopied the works. It's best to
be over-papered for these things.
This morning radio France-Info wakes
me at 7:00 by blaring the latest news about the
civil war at Seattle's WTO convention. Sounds as hairy as
Chicago in '68. The protestors outnumber everybody else, but are
claimed to be losing.
When I come out of the
métro at Cité I see that at least 100 people
are in line already, stretched from the entry to the
Rue de la Cité. Not too bad; for this line
includes citizens of 250 countries, citizens of EU countries and
French citizens who have business here.
After a couple
of minutes the line starts to move. Inside, it is
the usual security check and I pass my
camera around the bypass of the X-ray scanner - so
it gets impounded. No photos allowed of the cop shop.
When I find the EU nationals' office in the back
of the interior courtyard, I get ticket number 99. The
reception lady gives me a form to fill out. The
displayed numbers are about 392, so I wonder what the
system is.
When I see '402' appear, I look at
my ticket closely and see there is a three hidden
beneath a paper clip, making my number 399.
I crash
the closest workstation and the lady manning it agrees to
take my case. She is pleased that I have also
brought photocopies of the vital papers. Minor confusion arises when
I give her the photocopy for the electricity bill and
the original of the phone bill.
She says, "Two photos
please."
I know exactly where they are not, and where
they are - at home.
I don't have change for
the photo-automat. At the main entry they tell me to
try entry 'F' in the courtyard because I'm not allowed
go out the entry to the newspaper kiosk and get
change.
It is the cashiers' place, with signs all
over it saying 'no change.' The guy behind the thick
glass changes my 50 franc note while looking at his
dwindling supply of change.
The first photo-automat cabin is out
to lunch. A Chinese-looking guy takes ten minutes before he
gets a pose he likes in the second one.
I don't bother adjusting the chair wheelie, and stretch my
neck to get my head into the mugshot zone. Scratch
the first pose: the second is no better, but shoot
it anyway.
When I get back with the photos, the
lady stiffs another guy with his bundle of papers and
photocopies; and complains that the photos are still wet -
but gives me the receipt, and gives back the new
passport, the old card and the utility bills. The pickup
date on the receipt is Tuesday, 11. January 2000.
At
the entry I pick up the camera from a lady
who says she remembers my name from the phone calls.
The cops let me out by the entry, which is
forbidden; but we are all pals by the time I
finish my usual chit-chat.
In thanks, I shoot the Préfecture
entry from the Place Lépine, which is also probably forbidden.
You can look at it all day or sketch it,
but taking a photo of it might be a serious
crime.
The sun is peeping timidly through the clouds
so I tour the Cité a bit, taking other photos;
especially of the Japanese who are taking photos of each
other behind Notre Dame.
In front, the years' old scaffolding
is almost all down. I think they want it ready
for Christmas. From most angles, the old cathedral looks almost
new.
When the camera's batteries start to show 'low' I
ride the bus up to my place and hit my
city hall for the voter
registration. I still have the utility
bills. These alone are good enough. They care not a
pin for the address-change Carte de Séjour receipt.
Once the
guy finds out the obscure computer-name of the village where
I last lived and was registered to vote, he has
us in business. I sign off the old registration and
sign up as a voter on the new Paris address.
Notre Dame is almost ready to have millions of new photos taken of it.
Last June I voted in the
European elections. It was the first time in 30 years
of taxpaying in Europe that I've been able to vote.
Next time will be for the Paris municipal election, in
the spring of 2001.
Not that I am considering it,
but I believe I am also now eligible to run
as a candidate for the European parliament. Riding up to
Brussels on the TGV may be quick, but Brussels has
lousy weather.
But all - how many? - of
the Irish who live in Paris' 14th arrondissement need representation
at the European level. Even though I am not running,
if elected, and I if need to attend a session
in Brussels, I'll have to run a raffle to pay
the fare.
Getting 'papered' makes one power-mad. Your man in
Paris is street-legal to ignore all the laws in sight
again. Almost like any bona-fide citizen.
Richard Erickson, living in Paris for the last twenty years, has been putting
Paris online as long as anyone. More of his writings can be found in
Metropole Paris
where this article first appeared.
He can be contacted via
erickso@world-net.sct.fr.
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