French bureaucracy is the stuff of nightmares. Let’s face it: paperwork and waiting in line is never fun, but I maintain that French administration is a special kind of Hell. Having lived in Poitiers for a year as a student, in Paris for a year as an intern, and now in the Poitou countryside as “in process” for the last seven months (my latest visa application was “misplaced” so it will take another three months at least), I have a lot of stories about French administration. You probably wouldn’t believe most of them. Half the time, I don’t believe my own ears.
For example, two months ago, I went to the prefecture in Poitiers to see about exchanging my American driver’s license for a French one. I had already researched the process online and given my experiences with French bureaucrats, I always do. On this particular occasion, I had learned that there are two kinds of driver’s license exchange applications: one if you have a European driver’s license and one if you have a non-European driver’s license. They did not, however, list the application materials on the website, so I went to the prefecture in person to inquire. When it was my turn, I dutifully walked up to the desk and told the young woman, “Hello, I’m here to find out how to exchange my driver’s license for a French one. I’m American.”
She nodded and walked a few steps to a big shelf with a plethora of different labels and forms on it. She gazed at them for a moment and then looked back at me.
“Now, I’m not sure. You’re American, so is that European or not?”
I stared at her. Had I misunderstood? Surely she hadn’t just said that. To my growing horror, however, she continued looking at me inquisitively.
“Well,” I struggled to find words that didn’t include insults, “I’m from the United States… of America,” I added hurriedly. She blinked. “So, that would be non-European,” I finally spat out.
She nodded and pulled out a form. As she slid the form under the glass to me, she added, “You see, you were in the Olympics, so I just wasn’t sure.”
Again, I contained my desire to bash her over the head with the nearest blunt object and said, in the calmest voice I could manage, “Yes, well, lots of countries participate in the Olympics: the United States, China, it’s a pretty long list actually, and not all of those countries are in Europe.” She just nodded distractedly and waved me on.
My application for the driver’s license exchange is now supposedly complete. They have copies of multiple pages of my passport, visa, driver’s license, and several other documents. They also took my driver’s license for about a week to “verify its authenticity.” Don’t ask me how a prefecture in France is supposed to tell if my Washington license is a fake or not, but the good news is that they decreed it to be real. Now I wait with bated breath, checking the mail every day for a letter summoning me for the license exchange. It’s been two weeks and I haven’t heard anything yet. Given the geographical notions of the woman at the front desk, I hope that they know which continent to send the letter to.
