II remember getting my visa in the mail. I remember driving home from work, sipping my iced grande chai, smelling like coffee beans and mocha powder, tired, exhausted, even. I remember that sunny dusty day, stopping at the top of the driveway and getting a package from the French consulate. I knew it was from them because it had this fancy curly handwriting on the outside and it looked quite official. I imagined a man named Maxime in a fine pinstriped suit with a silk scarf pinned around his neck dipping a quill pen in ink and garnishing my package with stamps and stickers and signatures and every unnecessary little piece of flair he could muster. He might as well have perfumed the thing while he was at it. My heart offered a little flutter, then, and I rushed into the house, tossing yet another iced grande cup into the trash on the way. I remember sliding my passport out of the envelope, opening it up, and running my fingers over the visa inside. It filled a whole page, with raised up printing and loopy loops all over. A hologram in the corner flashed rainbow colors at me as I tilted it back and forth, knowing it was my escape to something inside me I had left across an ocean.

So distracted was I by the memories I was piecing together in my head of Lyon in all of its Frenchy splendor that, passing the border guards in Charles De Gaulle airport I neglected to demand a stamp. A discovery I have recently made is that the French love stamps as much as they love wine, duck, cigarettes, going on strike, sex, discussing for hours at a time the multiple possibilities to solve a tiny dispute, and chocolate. They stamp everything. And then they sign the stamp. If you don’t have a stamp, you’re as good as the dog poopie on the sidewalk. So there I was, wandering wide-eyed and stamp free into the country I was timidly waiting to rediscover when I was warmly welcomed by the people here, one after another. I unraveled a bit, I unpacked my things, I aired out. I moved in. I met my fellow American wayward traveler and we had coffee. We went shopping, we went to the school, we soaked it all in and sighed and smiled. Then we decided it was time to go to the préfecture to get our Carte de Séjour (permit to stay).

Ahhh the préfecture. This is the best French equivalent to the DMV. An old grey government building surrounded by iron fences and guards, this is one of the few places in town where the French flag flies for all to see. By looking at it I could tell right away that there would be many stamps inside.

Visit number 1: In the true DMV fashion, we entered, we took a number, and we waited for at least half an hour with the other tired foreigners, different languages washing over our fatigued brains. By the time I was about ready to croak in my plastic chair, our number came up and in we went where a lady with many large moles awaited us, her lips pressed tightly into a straight line. On this particular morning my French was especially broken and, taking out the papers I thought I might need, I told her we were there for our Carte de Séjour. She raised an eyebrow and shot rapid questions at us as she leafed through my passport looking for my stamp. She threw it back at me. No stamp! Where was my stamp? Did I have my plane ticket, because if not, well, there’s just no stamp. I rifled through my things to find my ticket stubs while she gave us a list of things we needed, stamping it with the date.
“And where’s your letter from the OMI?” she demanded. Our whaa? I looked at Kristen, she looked at me, we looked at the woman.
“Le… quoi?”
“Didn’t you send a letter to the OMI? You must do that now, today, even. Go do it now,” she said, shoving our things back at us with the list, “and come back with all of these things.”
We left, a little let down, and felt it settle in. The process had begun, and it would be long and grueling. We decided we needed to have a coffee and then maybe buy some shoes or something. We managed to find the address to the OMI and send off our letter and then we promptly ignored the whole thing until we got an envelope from the government. The paper inside indicated the date of our upcoming obligatory medical visit. It was, of course, signed and stamped.

“Oh crap.” I was reading over our little official appointment and noticed a tiny line at the bottom. We needed to bring with us a piece of paper stating that we had gone to the prefecture to ask for our Carte de Séjour. The lady never gave us one of those.

Visit number 2: Took a number, took a seat in a plastic chair, waited. Sitting behind the desk was the same mole-faced lady with the same sunny disposition as before. I showed her the letter which she took from me to stamp, saying, “No, for that you have to see my colleague,” motioning to the woman beside her who I had no possible way of knowing that I was supposed to see instead. Turns out I was missing some photocopies, photographs, and a self-addressed stamped envelope. Turns out I had no change and the photocopy machine costs 20 centimes a friggin copy anyway. Turns out I would be making another trip to the préfecture.

I walked out with a mission. I marched right up to the post office where I made some change. The copy machine there was 10 centimes less, but accepted only 10 centime pieces. La vache! I made some more change. I made some copies. “This will be done!” I told myself. Back to the Préfecture.

Visit number 3: Took number, waited. Saw Texan language assistant. Warned him to be afraid. Told him the moly lady would yell at him. I wonder how he did…
Feeling the precious irretrievable minutes of my youth seep out into the lazy lobby, I watched my number approach. Same lady. Same moles. I proudly displayed the fruits of my photocopying labors to her in a fanning array of papers with stamps. She went to work, then, nodding and stapling, cutting and signing. She stamped like I have never seen anyone stamp before. Half of the papers she simply gave back to me, which made me laugh to avoid crying. I decided that rocking in the fetal position was best reserved for the privacy of my own room. Then she asked where my plane ticket was. I handed her the stubs. She nodded and sniffed. “And where is the copy?” (It’s always something with you bureaucratic paper pushers, isn’t it??) I just so happened to have 20 centimes in my pocket, which saved my life that day, and a mad dash to the photocopy machine provided me with my last missing piece. At the end I left with a very official piece of thick paper, a light powder blue, with my photo stapled onto it, a very fine and official stamp on the bottom, many signatures, dates, and even – this means it’s really the crème de la crème – a watermark.

I had my paper. I slept well that night. Went to school the next day, saw Hélène, chatted about vacation plans, and received a little note from Madame Lajus who works in the office. Yeah that little doctor’s visit? The one scheduled for that day? The one that I have to go to in order to stay in this country? The one at the other official stamp-filled flag flying building in town? That one? It was canceled. Doctor’s mother died.

Well the process is simple from this point on, really, we just have to wait for another letter with another appointment. We then go get our chests X-rayed at official building B which will then send the results to official building A (the préfecture) who will then send us another letter (stamped, of course, and signed at the bottom) telling us we can go look for our Carte de Séjour. We will take a number, age in the waiting room, drop off our passports, let the moly lady take out her frustrations of a wasted life on our weary foreign faces, wait a few more days or weeks or however long, and then receive another letter telling us it’s time. Kristin and I realized that by the time we will officially be allowed to stay in this country, it will almost be time to go home.

Kristin and I stopped to take a breath. We had a coffee. And it was good.