OFII, The Office of Immigration, is an experience that all long sejour visa holders must go through. Luckily, my time had come. In order to stay (legally) in France, one must obtain a special sticker from OFII that allows you in and out of the country. Also, you cannot miss this appointment because they do not reschedule, so if you are out on the country on break, tough luck. Of course my appointment was in the outskirts of Paris in a town called Montrouge, aka, bumfuck nowhere (pardon my language).
I wake up that morning with a terrible sore throat and slight fever, which makes running through the overcrowded Place d'Italie metro a real joy.
I get off the metro, take in the dreariness, and start my search for the OFII office. Luckily there are huge signs directing you from the metro to the office. I imagine that this office is the only reason people come to Montrouge. Located across the street from the Jardin d'Asie is one of the most depressing places you will ever go.
I enter, hand the receptionist my passport and appointment paper and am then directed to a small room filled with screaming children and other depressed looking people. Ten minutes later a group of us are called and walked into a more depressing room where we wait some more. Finally my name is called. I am asked by a nurse my name, passport, telephone number, and if I am pregnant. Thus begins my medical examination.
We are herded, assembly line style, through a series of minor examinations. First, height and weight. Then you return to your position in the assembly line, where you shuffle from seat to seat until you reach your next destination: eye examination. MDV. I explain that I have a problem with my left eye and cannot see well out of it. I am asked if I can read with it.
"Of course," I reply.
"Read this line up close."
"Good, you can read. You are done."
And back to my little seat I go. The third exam is a chest x ray. Each individual is then lead to a little room where they are instructed to strip from the waist up. There is a lovely picture of a women happily holding her breasts as an instructional guide. Ok, great--stripped and standing I await the next step. 10 minutes later. Still standing, topless, in my little room holding my chest. I am tempted to grab the newspaper I brought to read, but I fear that as soon as I move the door will open and some man will appear and I will be standing there, topless, trying to read my newspaper. So I wait. Finally the door opens and I am asked for my paper. I awkwardly attempt to grab the paper from my belongings while holding my chest with the other hand. Success. Door closes. Two minutes later I am led to the x-ray room. The kind doctor presses me against the x-ray board, arranges my elbows outwards and tells me to breathe deeply. Done. I am allowed to get dressed and return to my little spot along the chairs.
(Mind you the room is like a loop and we are scooting along these chairs in loop fashion, hitting every little room along the way).
Final examination is a regular check up with a sweet old doctor who I again have to get undressed in front of, luckily I can keep my bra on. I am perfectly healthy. What a surprise.
I go and hand my papers to the receptionist and she then directs me to the Visa section. Shortly thereafter my name is called and I walk into another room with my arm full of papers. I give her everything, but of course, since I have changed addresses, I need a photocopy of a paper I don't have.
"You need this paper. You have to come back at 2 pm."
Of course I do. It's 12:15 and it takes about 30 minutes back and forth. I sprint out of OFII, to the metro and then home. I pass an Internet cafe close to our place and ask if they have a photocopier.
"Yes, yes. Very good price."
Great, I'll be right back. I sprint home, jump into the shower, stuff a rice cake into my face (I have been gone for hours and didn't have a chance to eat breakfast) find said paper, pack my over night bag ( I sleep at my family's Tuesday nights) and run back out the door to the Internet cafe. It's closed. I look at the sign and see that he closes at 1:30 until 3:00. My watch says 1:10. So French. I start knocking on the door and he comes out from the "Food House" next door.
"Oh I will open for you, hang on."
"Oh Thank you so much! It's urgent," I say to him as he disappears inside.
Five minutes later and nothing. Silently cursing this country I knock again. A young man approaches and also knocks on the door.
"It's closed," he tells me.
"No, he said he would open it. It's not 1:30 yet."
"He will open it after he eats, probably in an hour. There is another Internet cafe down the street." He points in the opposite direction of the metro, so off I sprint down the street with my computer in my overnight bag ramming against my knee. I get the copies done and sprint back up the street to the metro a few minutes later. Of course the other Internet cafe is now open.
Feeling pretty great about myself I realize I have enough time to get to St. Lazare and grab a Starbucks to treat myself for successfully enduring this awful experience.
After watching a heavy-set woman obsessively sniff a thin piece of paper and a homeless woman shout curse words at fellow metro passengers I arrive at St. Lazare with 30 minutes to spare.
I order my drink at Starbucks, and of course my French bank card (which just worked yesterday) will not work. I do not have enough euros to pay for my 4 euro little coffee, so I embarrassingly tell the barista I will go and find my bank and see what is wrong and then come back for my coffee. Do you think there were any LCL banks in the vicinity of that Starbucks? Of course not. So I ended up taking a twenty minute walk and then catching my train to work.
And that was my Tuesday morning and Afternoon.
