I ♥ ...

Today, the American Women's Group in Paris held its annual picnic in the Bois de Boulougne, and the CEO of my company came to my office to announce a much-anticipated new corporate strategy. But Ashley couldn't join in any egg-toss, and I wasn't there to hear the speech, because we had to be at our neighborhood Office Français de l'Immigration et de I'Integration. There, over the course of the afternoon, we watched a short film about living in France; underwent brief medical examinations; were adjudged to have a decent enough grasp of French that we didn't require free lessons from the government; received various certificates in a range of colors; set up another appointment in September for another integration session; and got our incorrectly issued visas approved. But first we had go to a nearby tabac and purchase several hundred euros worth of stamps, bring them back to l'OFII, affix them to a photocopied letter and hand the letter back across the counter so that it could be filed away somewhere. Oh, and my visa actually was not approved, so now I need to go to some other office of some other government agency to get it sorted.

Confused? Nous aussi. It seems each step in the immigration process brings us not that much closer to finally being (or, even more critically, feeling) settled, but instead exposes some new deficiency in our original application or paperwork hole to plug. Frustrated with our moaning about the various administrative hurdles we keep tripping over? Again, us too, in addition to being frustrated with the hurdles themselves. "It's a marathon, not a sprint," is an expression I use often (I'm a slow starter). Tonight, still smarting from this latest trip, moving to France feels like a marathon, sprint, steeplechase and juggling act all wrapped into one.

In addition to various certificates in a range of colors, we also walked out of l'OFII with x-rays of our chests. These were made during the medical examination, presumably to confirm that we don't suffer from tuberculosis or weren't lying when we said we don't smoke. "C'est parfait," the doctor said as she scanned my x-ray one more time before handing it to me. I was very proud. But why did l'OFII let us take these home instead of filing them away along with the photocopied letter with all the stamps? My best guess is that our doctors can now refer to them if they need to, rather than go to the time and expense of taking new ones. I will presume logic and efficiency in the vaunted French health-care system, even as I struggle to find those virtues in immigration.

The timing of this look at my innards is ironic, for reasons I shall presently explain. Saturday night, we went to the second annual Lady Gaga party hosted by our American friends Chris and Lisa. The idea is to (1) show up in an outrageous, over-the-top costume that would make Mademoiselle Gaga proud, and (2) try to avoid as best as possible the many creative but treacherous drinks floating around la soirée. I succeeded in doing neither. In a lame attempt at a conceptual costume, I wore an "I ♥ Paris" t-shirt. This was intended as an ironic statement about our Gaga-esque "bad romance" with Paris: we love it, but we're starting to hate all the hoops we're having to jump through (yet another metaphor) to settle in. Alas, my wry inside joke was easily overlooked that night amid all the fishnet stockings, gold shoes and feather boas -- and that was just the guys. And either because I didn't want to seem a bad sport or because I'm a fool, I downed lemon drop after margarita Jell-O shot after lemon drop, with little regard for the consequences. Suffice it to say, the t-shirt needs laundering before I can wear it again. Whether it will be worn ironically or in earnest remains to be seen.

-- MBB