Long Term Visa

Because I want to stay in France for longer than 90 days, I have to have a long term visa or risk being in the country illegally.  That could mean fines, deportation and/or being branded as an illegal immigrant and not ever again having easy access to the country I so love.   That being said, I would be less than honest if I didn't admit that I considered just going to Carcassonne and taking my chances.   Getting a long term visa is expensive and time consuming for those of us who live far from a French consulate.

 

I even discussed this with my friend Stephane, who lives in Paris, and has spent some time in his life living on the edges.  When he advised me to bite the bullet and get the visa, I knew I had no other options.  Actually upon further research, I discovered some ways to stay longer than 90 days within the 180 day limit, but they mostly involve moving around into non-EU countries and I don't want to do that. I am not a nomad; I want to put down roots.

 

So, I tried to make an appointment with the French consulate. You can do this ONLY on line. http://www.consulfrance-sanfrancisco.org/  And I was too eager--they didn't book as far ahead as I would have liked. Finally, enough time passed and I made an appointment in June for a 12:00 noon appointment on August 8. Then I  immediately booked a flight to San Francisco. The plane would leave at 9:00, I would land in San Francisco at 10:35, and would have plenty of time to get myself downtown for a noon appointment. The website for the consulate was relatively easy to use, the only glitch being that I couldn't print my appointment confirmation. A note on the site indicated that this might happen, so I wrote downt the confirmation number just in case....

 

As the time drew nearer for my appointment, I busied myself getting all of the required information, with the necessary copies together. It took a few phone calls for me to chase down the proof of insurance that they need, and I had to make a visit to a notary to get the proper seals on the letter swearing I would not seek employment.  (Really, it's not an issue.  I don't want to work in France. I have been working for fifty years, and I am ready for a rest.) Finally, I had everything in order, paper clipped together, along with the Express Mail envelope with $20 worth of postage affixed. 

 

I carefully planned what to wear.  So many Americans show up in jeans or, God forbid, pajama bottoms and then wonder why they are treated disdainfully. I donned a skirt, stockings and low heeled pumps.  I am of a certain age, and there's little use pretending I am not.  Nonetheless, I wanted to look my best, and  to make sure that they knew I took this process seriously.  Making an effort is a small mark of respect--for myself as well as for the office I was visiting.

 

The morning of the appointment, I arrived at our local airport only to be told that the plane was two hours late.  The one thing I did not have was the phone number of the French consulate.  That, too, was a moot issue, since they have a labyrinthine voice mail system.  Nobody answers--apparently ever.  I was going to fly in any case, because I was meeting friends who were driving to San Francsico that afternoon.  I called my housemate, who retrieved the phone number for me.  I would try to call once the plane landed in San Francisco and I could assess just how terribly late I was going to be.

 

I mostly managed to keep a lid on my anxiety during the flight. I had allowed nearly two months  between my appointment and my departure from the US. If I had to reschedule, I had to reschedule.  Once the plane landed, as soon as the announcement was made allowing cell phone use, I called the consulate.  As expected, there was no answer.  I did leave a semi-frantic message that the plane had been delayed, but I would be there are fast as humanly possible.  I have a feeling that said message is still orbiting somewhere in cyberspace, never to be heard by human ears.

 

Showing up at the consulate was a gamble, but what did I have to lose?  I could be turned away without having been seen, and be forced to make another 350+ mile trip to San Francisco, which was my present situation.  One thing I have finally learned is how to persevere.  I grabbed a taxi, and $60 later, I was deposited at the consulate of France in downtown San Francsico.  I learned afterward that it would have been faster and most definitely cheaper to take the BART.  But at the time, I didn't know.

 

I walked in to the lobby and approached the man who was the security/concierge for the building.  He was delightfully non-judgmental when I explained my plight, even though he did remark that I was very late.  When I explained that the plane had been delayed two hours, he advised me that nothing was to be done at the moment as all of the consulate staff was out to lunch and their office was locked up tight.  Nobody was there.  He advised me to return at 2:00 and try my luck.

 

So, I took his advice.  I went around the corner, located the BART station I would use to get back  to the airport where I would meet my friends later in the afternoon, and I grabbed a chicken-apple hot dog from a street vendor.  It was delicious, and a quiet lunch outside on a sunny, pleasant San Francsico afternoon did wonders to calm my nerves. 

 

I returned to the lobby a little before 2:00.  I was determined to prove that I was not a chronic latecomer.  I looked like a refugee, I am sure, clutching my valise with white knuckles, scrutinizing the face of every person who entered for some sign of compassion.  2:00 came--and went, as did 2:10 and 2:15.  I began to think that perhaps they were gone for the day.  But finally, the security guard spotted two returning consulate employees.  He motioned to them, one man and one woman, both in their late 20's to early 30's, and he presented me to them.  I told them my tale of woe and delayed flights.  When I got to the part about my appointment having been for 12:00 noon, the arched eyebrow and slight shrug from the French man dismissed me in a way that I have never before been dismissed.  I replied, "But the plane was delayed.  I came straight here, as soon as I could."

 

Only three things have ever made me feel small in my life:  my first glimpse of the Alps, the redwood trees and the shrug of that Frenchman.  However, I swallowed down the sting and persevered.  Apparently the person who could help me was just coming in the door.  They motioned for her to join us and after handing me off to her, they went up to the 6th floor, where the consulate is located.  I went through my story again, explaining that I had done all the things I was supposed to do, but the forces were beyond my control.  It was not anyone's fault that the plane was late, and I understood if she couldn't help me.  But I had come so far and I assured her that my paperwork was in order.  She asked me when I planned to leave San Francisco.  I told her that I was meeting friends later and that we were planning to drive back to Oregon the next morning.  She hesitated and then said, "Come with me."  She had agreed to see me!!

 

We went up to her office and I had a seat while she turned on her computers.  When she was ready for me, our transaction took less than 10 minutes.  I did indeed have all my paperwork tidily collated and was able to give her everything she asked for, in order.  She took my photo, my payment, my passport and told me that it would take two weeks to process.  And that was that.  I thanked her profusely. And I did elicit a tiny smile when I said, "Bonne journee a vous," as I left.

 

I have read accounts of others' horrible experiences in the consulate when applying for visas.  I know that not everyone who applies is granted a visa--I saw a stack labeled "a refuser" while was there. I can speak only to my own experience.  I was treated with courtesy and respect, and the staff at the consulate went out of their way to accommodate me in a bad situation.  They did not have to see me, they did not have to help me, but they did.  I did not go in with an attitude, or guns blazing or demanding that they see me.  After all, it wasn't their fault that the plane was late.  In retrospect, the greater burden was mine, since I should have arranged to go to San Francisco the day before the appointment and spend the night.  That way, a delayed plane would not have mattered.  The truth was that I didn't want to add more cost to an already expensive trip, but the emotional cost, in anxiety, was far greater than what I would have spent on a hotel.  Live and learn.

 

My visa arrived nearly two weeks to the day from the time that the young woman told me to expect it.  The biggest reminder of that day is the visa photo--every ounce and every minute of anxiety I experienced that day is reflected in that photo.  Nobody who does not need to see it will ever lay eyes on it.

But the last major arrangement, the last major hurdle is cleared. My things and affairs will be looked after here in Brookings.  I have my income stream.   I have my ticket, my apartment, my visa and I can now feel the champagne bubbles of excitement starting to flutter in my stomach.