I received my 10-year Carte de Sejour yesterday, a kind of equivalent of the American "Green Card." Up until now I have renewed my visa once a year, on November 1st. The fall I arrived, the laws changed extending the period that foreign residents could receive the 10-year card from 3 years to 5, so each fall I would dutifully head down to the Prefecture in Nice to receive my renewed visa.
The first time I went, to receive that 1st year's visa, it was one more event in the fog of Moving to France. Though I considered myself lucky (still do!): I had a job, and a good one that openly recruited people from around the globe and which had a dedicated person on staff to compile the new arrivals' dossiers and send them to the prefecture for processing. All I had to do was show up and sign something and receive the visa in my passport.
Still. I arrived on a gray and wet October day. The Prefecture lies just outside of Nice in between the airport and the glamorous Promenade des Anglais. It is not a single building but a series of ugly concrete horrors. It's part of the French philosophy of post-war building: Function over Form. Lots of concrete. Now, instead of looking progressive and modern these buildings merely look run-down and depressing. If you've ever seen the city hall in Boston, the Prefecture of Nice is the same, only much worse.
When I arrived, just after lunch, there seemed to be no parking. Cars were piled up on both sides of the road leading into the Prefecture and were even parked on the roundabout median. I found one of these non-spaces and parked. I walked in the rain, obviously lost, and bizarrely really nervous. I didn't speak much french and all of these "official" matters made me anxious. I found something a directional sign that said "Centre Etrangers" and guessed they meant me so I entered. I had directions from the HR woman at work to definitely NOT stand in line (one of the great benefits of my job: skipping the line in the Prefecture) and to meet a certain Mme whose name I now forget.
There was a group milling around a kind of hospital-green linoleum counter which stuck out in the middle of a long hallway (Visas for French on the left, Car Registration and License to the right, Cashier straight ahead). There was no sign on either the counter or the door behind it. There was no one behind the counter. And yet, according to my email, this is where I was supposed to be. But I wasn't sure. I went back to the front door where there was large information desk and (tried) to ask. The guy behind the counter pointed me back from where I came but I wasn't sure: there were a lot of places that could have been where I needed to be. Reluctantly, I went back the group milling around. They were clearly not French, and didn't seem like migrants. They looked like me (corporate get-up) or wives, and students. Must be my group.
The woman arrived and she gave us all a confirming smile and hello. Most looked relieved, and some looked more confident; they've done this before. We went in one by one and there was my dossier full of new stamps -- of approval! I'm in! -- and the visa, the first of 5, for my passport.
Five years later I was an old hand. I could speak for myself without the need of translation (though still perhaps a little bit of extra explanation). Now my file was big and thick with 5 years' worth of applications and history. I was a little surprised to see it and to realize that somewhere in the building they keep everything: each year's application and photos and a duplicate of the visa. I was now applying for the 10-year card which required extra paperwork including our marriage license and Boo's birth announcement, my bank statements and pay slips. All showing what a great citizen I am: Look I pay taxes on my good salary! I have reproduced a new French citizen!
Now that I have the card in my wallet, do I feel more French? Or better integrated? I decided to apply for naturalization this year although it's getting more and more difficult - longer waits, more paperwork. But if I actually become French will I really be French? It's hard to imagine. I think of my son who is French from birth and who will never know anything else than to be American-French and whose first words my very well be french. French history will be his history. For me it's still the "European History" of my freshman year. I guess I will be like immigrants everywhere: I will carry my native land with me while navigating the culture and language of my adopted home and absorbing some of it along the way.
