19
I have been summoned.
When you are going through the morass of paperwork to apply for your French carte de séjour (residence permit), you can think of no happier state than being a legal long-stay visa holder. I imagined it like a ‘before and after’ — ‘before’ you are nothing but Brexit McBrexit Face, a sad loser who must keep her eye on the calendar for fear of overstaying. ‘After’, you are a daughter of the Republic, embraced and kissed on both cheeks by the French state, free to frolic unhindered to the 90-day point and beyond. But in fact … not so fast. There are a number of post-visa formalities to comply with. First and most important, the requirement that you validate your visa soon after returning to France, otherwise it doesn’t count. That’s easily enough done online. But then you have to attend a series of ‘induction days’ — I suppose to show you take it all seriously, that you are as committed to égalité, fraternité and liberté as the next chap. These are compulsory; if you don’t attend you jeopardise your chance of extending the visa.
While I was in New Zealand for that four-month holiday, I received a letter requesting my presence for the first of these steps: a medical followed by a morning of language assessments and an introduction to French life. Of course I had to reschedule.
That’s how one Wednesday, three weeks after my return and a full nine months after getting my visa, I have a date at the nearest hospital for the pre-medical lung X-ray. The X-ray is to screen for tuberculosis, which strikes me as a tad ‘the horse has bolted’. If I do have TB, my lungs will have been innards non grata for quite some time.
In all honesty, I doubt that I am carrying this or any other undesirable stowaways in the lung department. What I am nervous about, however, is the language tests. How embarrassing, if the woman with an Honours degree in French falls at this hurdle. Alistair kindly tracks down some sample exams online, and after 40 minutes of having a crack at these writing and comprehension tests, my confidence is restored. Even if I fail on the day, I now know for certain that I can pen 60 words about my best friend, and chat knowledgeably about the shamefully low supply of early childcare in suburban Paris. If I ever get stuck for something to talk about at a social gathering, I will steer the conversation around to bosom pals or the problems facing young families in the capital.
The X-ray and the tests are to take place on two consecutive days. So rather than make the two-hour round trip twice, we opt to stay overnight at an Airbnb in the town centre. A music festival is on at the same time, with live bands and performers in the squares and many of the bars, so it seems like ideal timing.
On the day of the X-ray, Alistair and I are both flustered. We are running late, and being late and flustered translates into a modicum of tetchiness. ‘So what’s the address?’ asks Alistair as we get into the Berlingo, in a tone that says, ‘You haven’t bothered to look up the address, have you?’ As I fumble around with maps on my phone, he starts to get snappy and I start to feel unbalanced. It’s the usual chain reaction: Disorganised Maria + Combustible Alistair = Upset Maria and 20 Minutes of Discord. It’s marvellous really, how reliable this formula is. I wish I’d been taught this in O Level Chemistry.
The argument is futile, because we do make it to the hospital on time. Once the X-ray is completed, we head into town for lunch then spend a pleasant afternoon just strolling through the pretty historic streets.
That night is warm and sultry, and we choose a restaurant for its outside tables and live performance by a talented guitarist. He is nothing if not versatile, belting out everything from The Beatles to popular French ballads. But the real crowd-pleasers are his Disney songs, astonishing given that the audience is made up entirely of inebriated adults. The rousing reception to ‘Let it Go’ is indicative; we have indeed let it go, all our inhibitions drowned in a vat of Aperol spritzes and prosecco. We linger for several hours and totter back gingerly along some very narrow footpaths.
It’s stifling inside our accommodation, so we open the Velux skylight to feel the air on our faces. There is none; instead it’s like someone has thrown a warm towel over our heads. Thanks to too much Aperol and wine, the stultifying heat and a tremendous storm, I toss and turn and am awake most of the night. In the morning, we discover the rain has poured in through the skylight, all over the carpet and into our overnight bags. Every single item of clothing is sodden. After several frantic minutes of hairdryer treatment, the clothes have progressed from properly drenched to mildly wet.
When Alistair drops me off at the offices for ‘immigration and integration’ for a morning of French assessments I am so damp, hungover and sleep-deprived I doubt I would pass a test in my own language.
For the first hour, my fellow immigrants and I are left to complete a multiple-choice questionnaire and a writing assessment. My brain cells stretch and yawn, but once they begin to wake up, the whole thing is surprisingly pain-free. Enjoyable even. One by one we are called into a side room for a ‘chat’, i.e. an oral language test. While we wait, a video plays on the big screen in front of us, explaining France’s values, what is expected of us, and what our rights are. The video is short, and plays repeatedly on a loop. In one section, we are told ‘In France you can do whatever you like and be whoever you want, as long as it is within the law’ and the irony is not lost on me that dispensing with the law — i.e. revolution — is what modern France is built on.
When it’s my turn for the assessment, I sit opposite a cheery young woman whose first question is ‘So what brought you here?’ When I tell her I came for love and that I live in a romantic mill by a river, she becomes quite animated. After a few minutes, it’s hard to tell whether she is still asking questions to gauge my use of prepositions and pronouns or whether this has now slipped into genuine curiosity. Reflecting sadly that many of the immigrants who come through here are fleeing war or political persecution, I suppose that my frivolous story is a welcome spot of light relief.
At the end of the chat, my interlocutor smiles brightly and says ‘Your French is VERY good!’ then explains that because of this, it’s entirely optional whether I take their free, month-long advanced language course. As this would require me driving an hour every day, I decline. But I’m impressed that the reason for the tests is not to weed people out, simply to help in your French learning journey by assessing your level and offering further study if needed.
Finally, the medical. It’s not an actual medical, just a revision of my lung X-ray. Knowing this is the last step in the process, I breathe easy. In a cramped office, an elderly doctor in a white coat sits behind a desk. The white coat is a nice touch, if a bit excessive given that he is merely assessing bits of paper. The doctor chats non-stop, barely looking at me. He mentions orange juice several times, I am not sure why. Partly because I am not listening. I have become distracted by the way he is frowning at my X-ray. He looks up. ‘Do you smoke?’ he asks. ‘Oh no,’ I tell him. ‘I used to, but I stopped just before I had children.’ He nods in approval.
‘Well,’ he goes on. ‘You have a mark, just here, on your X-ray. Have you seen this before?’
I lean over and see a small blob of white on one rib, which looks like not much to me. Tiredness has taken over again, and I feel almost giggly. I want to suggest it might be a baguette crumb.
‘It could be nothing,’ he says. ‘It could have been there for years. But since you don’t know that for sure, and we don’t know whether it’s on your actual lung or on the bone, you will need to follow this up.’
He shouldn’t really approve my medical, he says, but he will. As long as I promise to get the mark investigated as soon as I can.
On the bright side, I don’t have TB.
‘Bonjour messieurs/dames.’
Another patient takes their seat in the waiting room. The French are incredibly civil like this. Always when you enter a small enough venue — be it a boulangerie, a GP’s clinic like this one, a café — you greet those already there. On the street, too, when you pass total strangers, the custom is to say ‘Bonjour!’ It’s a lovely way of being acknowledged. You’re not just a bunch of randoms forced to share a space but individuals who deserve a greeting.
As I wait for Danielle the doctor to look at my X-ray and refer me for an MRI, I study a poster on the wall about safe drinking. No more than two small glasses of wine a day, it cautions. And at least two days alcohol-free a week. This makes me smile. Maybe it’s the rustic life, but I know few people here who would stick to that. It should really say, ‘No more than two glasses of wine before lunch.’ Alcohol is everywhere. It’s partly that art de vivre, where every occasion is one to embrace. Pop round to a neighbour at any hour of the day and they will offer you un petit café, a beer, wine or an apéro. The latter always sounds innocent enough but often involves an extremely strong Ricard or two along with an array of snacks.
Drinks are frequent, and often unexpected. As part of the village fête, there is always a randonnée (trek) of around five kilometres on the Sunday morning. It’s not an arduous walk, just a social affair really. Alistair and I went last year, and it was a beautiful stroll along dappled paths and beside the river. After walking for about half an hour, we turned a corner to see our neighbour Antoine with his little beach buggy, parked at the side of the track. In the back was a hot coffee dispenser, trays of pastries, some fruit and of course wine. ‘It’s 10.30 a.m.,’ I said to Alistair. ‘And we have walked two and a half kilometres.’ When I express the same surprise to Antoine, he looks at me baffled. He just glances at his watch, as if worried he might have been late with the wine, and nods.
So back to the doctor’s. I’m snapped out of my musings about alcohol by Danielle calling me into her clinic. During our consultation, she peers at the X-ray and says rather matter-of-factly, ‘It’s not necessarily cancer.’ That makes me jump. Partly because I hadn’t thought it was necessarily anything of the kind, and partly at her directness. As she hands me my hospital referral, she looks up and smiles. ‘Your French is very good!’ she says brightly. Lovely of her to comment. Though honestly? I’d far rather people were praising the glowing health of my organs rather than my linguistic skills.