The Bureaucracy, part deux
Late yesterday afternoon, I developed an intestinal bug. I didn’t feel badly, I just couldn’t stray too far away from a toilet.
Craig and I were invited to dinner at our new British neighbors at 7:30. As the appointed dinner hour approached, I rallied myself to attend. I reasoned that after all the matter that had coursed out of my system, there couldn’t be anything left to expel.
However, upon arrival at the Brits, I found that I needed to visit the restroom every half hour. But what was worse than that was that my body started to ache, and I developed a horrible headache as I sat at the dinner table.
When the Brit wife had called to invite us for dinner she had left a message saying that she found us “intriguing, entertaining, and enriching.” Unfortunately, due to my unruly intestinal tract, I wasn’t able to follow up my earlier entertaining performance. The Brit wife would probably now describe me as sullen, dull, and vacant.
I spent the night in fitful sleep. At first I was wracked with chills then as the night matured, I became slightly feverish.
Around 10:30 am, I still hadn’t gotten out of bed. I heard Craig outside our open bedroom window telling our neighbor Francine that I was sick and still sleeping. After she left, Craig called up to the window to tell me that Francine’s visit reminded him that I needed to get to the mayor’s office today with my long-stay visa documentation. From my arrival in France, I have eight days to file the necessary paperwork with the mayor. His office is only open on Mondays and Thursdays. I missed Monday because it was a national holiday. I had to go today.
I roused myself from my sickbed; took a shower; and dressed myself presentably for a visit to the mayor. I needed three passport photos, so Craig drove me into the village to the grocery store that has the photo machine. The machine was being repaired. When I asked the man how many minutes it would be, he replied, “Une heure.” Well, I’d have to go without the photos since the mayor’s office closed in one hour.
Craig drove me to the mayor’s office. There were no cars parked outside. I got out to read the sign posted on the door. The mayor’s office was closed all this week and would also be closed next Monday for the anniversary of the end of World War II.
I have to hope that the Mayor isn’t a stickler for the letter of the law. By the time I can see him in his office; it will have been fifteen days since my arrival in France . . . not eight.
posted by Libby @ 2:56 PM
2 Comments:
Maybe your French Mayor will be as good natured as one that my husband and I encountered in a small village, near a small farm, in the Languedoc where our extended families (both sides)were vacationing. Generously, my mother, offered to babysit our one year old so my husband and I could go out to dinner alone. We drove 10 minutes into the tiny
village only to discover that the only restaurant for miles around was closed. We knocked on the door anyway, either because we were obnoxious Americans, or we thought it was too early for civilized people to dine or both. The Mayor spotted us from his house across the street, came downstairs and explained in perfect English, (after tolerating my mangled French), that the restaurant was closed because it was the first day of school which is a holiday. He then invited us up to his house to meet his wife and have an apperitif. We were surprised and delighted, and of course accepted. It turns out, his daughter, expecting his first grandchild (boy) any day, had married an American and was living 7 miles from my house in California. I called her when we got back to the U.S. She was just a lovely as her parents. Unfortunately I couldn't pursue a friendship because we moved across the Country the following week. We either had bad timing or were very lucky in our little adventure depending on how you look at it. We ended up eating leftovers that night.
Anonymous, What a lovely story . . . and very typical of the French. Our mayor's wife is a man! Quelle scandale! Funny thing, I left tolerant San Francisco, for a tolerant French village on a hill!
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