An insiders guide to the Ten Year Carte de Sejour Interview

Blue, no, green, no maybe I replaced them last week, I think it’s orange now. I was trying to remember the color of my husband’s toothbrush, sure that they would ask personal questions like that to stump me. In the end, she didn’t ask anything like that. It was obvious that ours was not a “mariage blanch” (fake wedding to get residency), because I had brought along my daughter who is an exact blue print copy of my husband who sat in the lobby during my half hour interview  memorizing his answers to what are my parents names, what side of the bed I sleep on, etc. He tends to get flustered and would probably say the wrong answer with a look of guilt on his face.  

I received in the snail mail a mysterious convocation to go to the Prefecture at an appointed time and day with only the summons in hand. No mention that I should and would have to have my husband there (I saw another woman with her trump card baby turned away for lack of French husband in attendance). No mention on the letter what exactly I was being commanded to the departmental head offices for, in fact, my interviewer seemed to not know either and had to ask successive officials. But I had a suspicion: my “carte de sejour” (green card in France).  Each year at this time we faithfully apply for our yearly renewal only to have more and more sticky paperwork asked of us (signed attestations by witnesses that we live together was asked last time.) Thus leading to a subsequent delay in my right to work and live in (or leave) France for months on end while the Paris offices bury it in endless paperwork. With our new Commander in Chief, tougher laws have been passed, and they are becoming very strict with us “étrangers.” 

In my mind, my drastic and quite dramatic underdog said, “what if they deport you?” But I remembered a friend who was “asked to leave France.” And it was in the form of a Dear John letter. How polite of the Republic. Dear So and So, Beh, oui, it looks like you have overstayed your time in France by 9 years, alors, perhaps you should vacate the country in the next 25 days. Sincerely, La Belle France.  He didn’t leave, in fact, somehow he was able to convince them that he should stay. It’s the old adage in France. If at first a Fonctionnaire (government employee, civil servant, bureaucrat) tells you NO, then try, try again. Tell them yes, yes, yes repeatedly until they huff and puff and acquiesce or until it’s time for their cigarette break.  

The only question that I didn’t get right was: “Who is the Prime Minister of France?” I could only remember the last three. The new guy eluded me, I only thought about toothbrushes and wedding dates. “Fillon,” she said verbally handing me the answer with a sigh, and then added, “but he doesn’t do anything, so no one knows him.” (Which is exactly what my husband said when I told him that I missed that question) And I saw her mark OUI, as if I got the question correct.  

I should add, by then she loved me. We had already spoken about how the French Canadian language is not the same as French spoken here, because question number 2 was “did you study French before arriving in France.” I told a joke about calling children “gosses” would get me strange looks in Quebec where it literary means “testicles” instead of kids. Nothing like blurting out the word “balls” at the beginning of a formal interview to set the tone.  We then amicably talked about the American Government and how it compares to France (many similarities: Three branches of government, we both had revolutions to gain freedom, getting green cards is like jumping through rings of fire, etc) about the “bout de chou” and how she looks just like my husband, whether I can read and write in French, do I write my articles in French (hell, no!) was I educated and where, I had heard of Sarkozy (boy, have I) and what is my husband’s middle name. It was probably getting close to her break time so at the end of 20 minutes, she said enthusiastically that she was giving me the Ten Year Visa. Mentally adding “balls” to my repertoire of getting fonctionnaires to say yes, I signed off on my papers with a big shit-eating grin on my face.  Oh, La Belle France, J’ t’aime!