What could possibly be so difficult about getting married these days? Besides getting to the altar in one piece, why not throw in a few curves to make it exciting such as getting married in France in some cute, quaint little town tucked away in one of the lesser known departments. It’s a cake walk, you waltz in to the nearest City Hall, throw a few Euros, bow and scrape, sign something and swear to whatever or whomever and before you know it voila, you will be waltzing out the door or perhaps waltzing across the Pont des Arts, arm-in-arm. The Franco-American dream.
Well some time ago I went chasing that dream. I was American and born in France and she was quite clearly French so for me it seemed no real big deal. Or so I thought not ever realizing I would be entering a third dimension, the international twilight zone perhaps best described as Kafka-esque, a horror film featuring a series of administrative hurdles, each one more cleverly conceived than the previous and all to make those daring, star-struck non French citizens fall to their knees, weep and surrender, pick up their passport and leave the country never, ever to return. Foolish Americans. A beachhead, yes you can do that avec plaisir, a marriage, t’est nul toi? -are you less than smart? I did not immediately recognize the devious cleverness of the French system and was going to prove that I had the stamina, the guts, and the wherewithal, to beat them at their on game. Now where is my white horse so I can get on with the story.
Let me backup just a bit. Some years ago, I was completely and utterly convinced that regarding matters of the heart, and in this particular case mine, that I had clearly and convincingly fallen head over heels, smitten, pierced in the heart by that little cherub’s arrow. I believed in my heart of hearts that Madame or Chantal, felt very much the same. There were a few details that we needed to iron out one which entailed a brief visit to the Mairie, the City Hall. Off we went arm in arm full of joy and optimism. Could life get any better? At we entered the somber, ornate building we informed the gatekeeper of our mission and we were pointed through the courtyard to the second door on the right. The double doors with the massive, curved wrought-iron door handles. Voila so simple. Inside, I witnessed good old fashioned bureaucratic efficiency. Account clerks – six of them were seated behind glass panel and surrounded by boxes of various… Dossiers;
I was not particularly supprised, horrified perhaps after all I was in the belly of the beast.
Without dossiers, a bureaucracy cannot function; it would be like asking a teenager to live without a cell phone. Never happen, never will. On entering the office there was a clear and convincing message to please take a ticket and be seated until your number is called. The French, ever so polite, insist on using vous êtes priés, a mere polite suggestion that you kindly obey the state. You don’t have to obey of course, but then you would most likely be taking a little journey to the Château d’If where you would have a room with a view of Marseilles and plenty of time to enjoy it. We sat in plastic chairs and patiently waited our turn and like the rest of the Pavlovian dogs, our heads jerked up with each ring of the bell announcing the next victim. For a moment I was reminded of my time in purgatory when, for some unknown sins, I was sent to spend an entire day at the Department of Motor Vehicles to explain to the clerk, over and over again, that it was impossible that I had driven my car uninsured for ninety days and no I was not paying six hundred dollars for their mistake in order to get my license renewed. All this was said to a clerk with a blank stare who kept chanting, “I’m sorry sir but you have to first go to…I’m sorry sir but first you have to go…I’m sorry sir…”
I was jerked awake, numero dix-sept c’est nous cheri! Chantal and I jumped up. I smiled politely at the lady whose large beefy arm had so kindly served as my pillow. Her heavy accented French and colorful headdress could only mean she would be enjoying a few more hours in line and undoubtedly a few more questions as well. I stepped over her four children in various stages of undress all playing on the floor. We approached window number 4. Chantal, dressed to impress, they way she always did so well, insisted on doing the talking and all I could do was raise my shoulders up and down.
The young attendant settled in her chair and awaited our story. We were politely congratulated, how lovely oh I see, Alors Monsieur n’est pas Français? Mais vous dites qu’il est né en France? – so the gentlemen is not French but born in France and speaks French? I nodded. She ignored me, nodding to herself and chewing on the relevancy of that tidbit of information. Clearly this had the making of a veritable conundrum if ever there was one and the applicable section in the Code Napoleon did not immediately jump into her mind.
“Un moment s’il vous plait.” With that she scooted in her chair over to another civil servant who was knee deep in examining number 12’s dossier for possible inconsistencies knowing full well he would triumph in the end. He listened then nodded, then the woman pointed in our direction, he nodded again, they whispered, he opened up a large manual on his desk, thumbing through it and finally pointing to a reference in the Napoleonic code or perhaps the marriage penalty guide book expressly designed for Americans. But it seemed a decision had been reached, next perhaps I would see white smoke?
Mademoiselle and her chair scooted back with a folder, all smiles now and simply charming. She actually looked attractive but I put that thought aside, temporarily. But something had clearly happened then she proceed with her delivery. “Bon alors Madame, voici votre dossier de marriage” – Madame here are the necessary papers to obtain a marriage license.
On hearing dossier I had to steady myself as I felt faint, I didn’t want to be part of any GD dossier – excuse my French. The dossier was a charming thing to behold with outlines of little fat cherubs with bows and arrows. Somehow I had a feeling that the arrow had my name on it and the cherub was probably an impostor from someplace where nobody wants to end up. I smiled at mademoiselle behind the desk and she smiled back at me. I wanted this to be an entente cordiale so to speak and we seemed to be going in the right direction. Maybe a coffee afterwards? No probably a bad move. Chantal and I huddled close to the glass as she carefully opened the cute little dossier de marriage to reveal its most mysterious contents.
“It’s really all quite simple” she said.
“For Madame all your requirements are listed on the right and Monsieur for you everything is listed on the left. Now Monsieur since you are not French we will need to see a certificate of birth translated in French and certified by an official state approved translator. If you were born in France as you say you were, then that won’t be necessary but we will need a copy of your birth certificate as recorded in the Mairie de Neuilly and you must make sure that the time between the certification of your birth records by the Mairie and marriage announcement from the Mairie here, do not exceed three months. Should that happen, Monsieur you will need to start the process over once again.”
I nodded, she was speaking French no doubt but all I heard was Greek and don’t speak Greek. I felt weak, lightheaded.
Taking another deep breadth, she smiled and continued.
“Monsieur will also need a complete translation of any previous marriage documents and since you were not married under French law, you must have the document certified by a state authorized translator; you will also need copies of your recent electrical bill, an affidavit of your marital status or Certificat de Célibat and once again not less than three months old, a medical certificate not less than two months old, sworn evidence of this… an additional attestation of that… and we will need your list of witnesses.” She paused, eyeing me as if I were some school-age child who just didn’t get it. At all.
By this time I was caught between fight and flight or buyer’s remorse so to speak. However neither fight nor my flight were available options at the moment nor was turning something in for a newer model either.
Sadly it appeared I was not going to be given an opportunity to lecture the Mairie’s administrative staff on their processus relative to marriage paperwork and the need for a paperwork reduction act. I am sure my consulting skills would have fallen on death ears and I would have ended up in prison at the newly renovated Château d’If or perhaps Devils Island would have been reopened just for me as a penal colony for wise-ass Americans who think they know too much.
Collecting my thoughts and wringing out my damp shirt, I prepared to leave with Chantal when the mademoiselle clicked her fingernail on the glass partition reminding us that we will need to return when we have the information to make sure everything is in order with the dossier and before the Mairie can publish the wedding announcement in the local papers (zut how many would recognize me? I was a goner for sure.)
The young lady continued, “we will set a date that is convenient with you, the Mairie and of course hinging on the availability of the ceremonial chambers. “
Papers, certificates, sworn testimony, mayors, state-sponsored translators, exalted chambers, background investigations, state police, special dossiers, medical records, tribunals, prisons for wise ass Americans, deadlines deadlines deadlines… What sort of hell had I descended into? What happened, I thought to the Court House (my idea), flash ten dollars, slap down your social security card and sign on the dotted line. Voila et merci and in the Queen’s English! Fifteen minutes the deed is done and it’s time to party and get the wedding keg -I mean cake ready! My analytical side had me wondering if perhaps there really was something in the French process that I was missing. The heat of the moment is tempered by an ever slowly grinding administrative process which guarantees that only the true French Olympians would ever survive. While on our side of the pond, our appreciation for details of administration boil down to if you can’t seal the deal in fifteen minutes buddy, we’re going down the road to the next chapel and find an Elvis Justice of the Peace who’s ready, willing and can sing too!
“Je vous remercie Madame, Monsieur, bonne journée. Number twenty-two please!” Just like that we were dismissed with about as much charm as is reserved for a bottle of corked wine.
I looked at Chantal, “well I thought that went rather well now didn’t you? What about lunch, those little details of administration have given me a mighty big hunger. What do you say sweetie, cherie, food, and drink- wine let’s really live it up shall we?”
With her famous pout, “Mais Monsieur you forget already that we must pay a visit to the préfecture.”
I sighed under the weight of the ever growing bureaucrat demands. This was turning into a mission. The prefecture (headed by a prefect) in France operates something like our state government except with twice the bureaucracy and the reach. They represent the national government at the local level and as such exercise the powers that are constitutionally attributed to the national government. In other words they are the opposite of non-invasive. They are in charge of the delivery of identity cards, driving licenses, passports, residency and work permits for foreigners, shopping carts and vehicle registration. And that’s just for starters. So off we went down yet another cobbled street, past a boulangerie that seemed to call to me, finally reaching our destination a grandiose building with more flags and a rather friendly guard with a shiny new machine gun that gleamed in the sunlight. The prefecture had a nice cobbled courtyard, blooming flower beds and the only thing missing seemed to be a couple of tables and chairs, a waiter carrying a chilled bottle of white wine and perhaps a bowl or two of steamed mussels, a fresh baguette and…
“Mais tu viens cheri?” Are you coming dear?
“Coming dear” I replied.
We were going to the prefecture because I (not realizing the error of my ways) wanted to inquire about a rather simple matter that of obtaining a French driver’s license; if I was going to stay in France for any duration I would be required to trade a State of Maryland license for a French one. It’s a little bit like playing cards, I’m giving up Maryland and OK I’ll throw in Delaware for a French license. We waited in the main hall with our number 14 ticket which we had been kindly requested to please think about taking. Our number lit up on the board with an arrow indicating it was our turn in the barrel at booth number 5. There at the end of the hall was “number 5” and Madame Stern Face sitting comfortably in her chair waiting for us to approach. Chantal, pleasant as always in these circumstances, said hello then turned to me ever smilling and suggested I make my request.
Madame SF listened, nodding her head every so often and making notes (poor fool, not a chance in Hell, eggs, milk, hair appointment…) Bon, alors Monsieur je reviens toute de suite avec vos informations. She scooted across to a massive file cabinet and opened the fourth drawer. Without looking-up at me she inquired “What state do you live in Monsieur”
“I live in Maryland” I replied
“Michigan?” She asked?
“No, Maryland, it has an M but it’s not Michigan. It’s sort of near the White House. I have friends who are from Michigan and they can vouch for me that I lived in their state if that would help.”
She scooted back to her desk then looked at me long and hard. Perhaps she recognized me from my picture in some post office.
In a matter of fact voice, the tone one might use when reading someone’s death sentence “I am afraid your state does not have reciprocal privileges with France therefore you will be required to pass a multiple choice test before you can take the road test.”
“You mean to tell me that neither Maryland nor the District of Columbia have reciprocal privileges with France but Michigan does?” I didn’t recall ever seeing a Notre Dame poster in the prefecture. Maybe the prefect had season tickets.
Ignoring my last comment, she continued “there are driving schools which you should consider if you are not familiar with French driving laws. If you do not pass your French exams the first time, Monsieur, I must warn you that it can mean a 2-6 month wait before you can re-take it. Lastly you will considered as a jeune conducteur – a young driver and you will receive a restricted license even though you have years of driving experience. And you will have to put a red A on the back of your car, meaning that you must drive slower than the speed limit on roads outside of cities.”
She smiled sweetly, politely and irritatingly. “The good news is that your French license never expires…not like in Maryland.” I really wanted to ask her if she had a letter A on her car or maybe on the back of her sweater.
Looking quite pleased with herself as if she had struck me fatally with her sword, she added “I would urge you Monsieur to still apply for a license and request a waiver from the prefecture. However, I will tell you in advance that your request will be denied.”
Evidently I had finally entered the gates of Hell.
In a controlled voice and a charming smile, I asked the Devil “why should I proceed with a request for a special waiver from the prefecture if I know you will already deny it?”
She smiled at me, her eyes bulging out and growing redder by the minute and answered in a strange almost hoarse whisper “because Monsieur that way we will have a record of your request and you will have a record of our denial.”
Oh, I see. That makes sense all right. Can we go home now?