Getting the Runaround

An annoying but seemingly imperative part of moving to a new country is becoming embroiled in its bureaucracy. As a newcomer you catch bureaucrats off-guard with all the new rules and exceptions that were uniquely developed for you. Big cities like Tokyo or Paris are probably better equipped to deal with my kind, but since I've always moved to small towns, I'm starting to get used to the immigrant run-around.

I must admit that I was a little surprised at the ease with which I entered the country in the first place. Customs consisted of a line of guys in uniform smiling and saying "Bienvenue" to all the people getting off the plane. When I showed them my passport with my working-holiday visa in it, one of them said, "Oh, I guess you want a stamp!" and made a little red mark on the adjacent page. I guess with so many tourists landing at Charles de Gaulle they figure there's no point in grilling us all on what we're doing here (answer: ummm....I came to see the Eiffel Tower and eat some pâté...) and what we have in our bags (answer: nothing, it's empty so I can stock up on the latest from Louis Vuitton).

So getting in was easy. Actually functioning after infiltrating the border? Not so easy! My first foray was to the Prefecture. Juju was convinced I needed some officiation of my passport to begin looking for a part-time job to entertain me while everyone else is at work or school. This didn't sound like a bad idea so off we went to check if I was actually living here legally or not. Their answer was that they didn't know, but it was awfully suspicious that I was traveling with 2 Canadian passports (warning to frequent travelers: Canada no longer adds pages to your passport when you run out - you have to apply for a new passport and travel around with both if you've got any visas stuck into your first one or ask for the "frequent traveler" passport which contains double the pages of a normal one). Finally after about 20 stressful minutes of debating whether my visa was valid, they admitted that I didn't actually need to be there and they couldn't help me. On a separate trip they and the driving school next door said the same thing about my driver's license, even though the Canadian Embassy clearly states that I need to get a French license to drive here.

The most recent episode in my bureaucratic saga was a trip to the post office. Mom finally sent my camera (thanks Mom!) and since I can't drive without a French license I had to ride my bike to the post office. Strangely, the package had been taken to a postal outlet in the middle of an industrial zone. I was determined to be independent and pick the package up myself so I rode over, stopping at the main post office on the way to ask for directions. They sent me up a long hill and around several corners to find this obscure postal warehouse where, of course, I was told that my package had been sent back down to the town post office the day before. The woman at the warehouse looked surprised when I smiled at the news. She must have expected me to be angry, but I actually didn't mind doing the return trip - especially since it was downhill. Burning a few extra calories and getting my goodie-filled package made the trip worthwhile, as did discovering a new part of my surroundings and having another story to tell about the trivialities of life abroad.