Entitled

Two weeks short of the anniversary of my arrival in France last year, I finally have my "titre de sejour". Celebrate good times, c'mown!

It took such a long time because we went against the grain. Usually, Fil-French couples marry in the Philippines to get a French long stay visa (1 year) fuss-free. Because of some strange double standard, the Filipina fiancee cannot get a marriage visa (for a wedding in France) for more than 3 months while visa applicants from other countries get a full year even though they present the same required documents expressing their desire to marry. And apparently, not even all of the case workers at the prefecture know this because they were shocked the French embassy in Manila does not provide it. So as you can guess, not a lot of mixed marriages going on in here, they usually happen at the foreigner's home country because of the restrictions. What Manila prescribes for couples who want to marry in France is to get married, go back to the Philippines, then apply again for a long stay visa from the Philippines... because, I dunno, maybe they think airfare is cheap. Otherwise, get married in the Philippines, wait for the livret de famille (a brown book that takes months to arrive), then apply for a long stay visa, come to France then get married again here should you want to.

But we're the road less traveled kind of couple.

So after all the fuss, the papers we gathered, the scores of meetings we took, the French lessons, not to mention the little scare we got when the law was revised last winter and we had two months to secure some revised requirements (grrr), after the long lines in the cold (ok, we did that just twice, and once I was almost run over by a street-sweeping truck), excuses to buy stuff from Amazon and FNAC by delivery to prove my address (hee hee), after some nervous hand wringing, here we are.

Finally, I could get a real job, not the content farm thing I was doing, I mean a real one. I could bus tables like I dreamed of doing in this, "my bohemian year in Paris." Then I could take up smoking and be an alcoholic, sing torch songs in the street and get psychiatric help then write a novel about it. I could be a vendor in a souvenir shop and chat up the clientele. I could open a bank account. I could ride a plane again. Such possibilities!

I picked it up at the OFII, where my fellow immigrants and I sat in a room and watched a short movie about the values of the republic, then one by one we were called for an interview. While waiting, I got to talking with an Algerian man, completely in French, and then the Japanese boy and the African refugee chimed in ("yeah, vous avez raison madame, yeah"), and then suddenly I was called in for my interview. I charmed the case worker into believing I am a competent French speaker and she gave me the language certificate without question so I won't have to go to 200 hours of classes; H helped me to move the two requisite "Vie en France" meetings back from October to August and September so that we could finally, FINALLY, go on our big trip in September. Then it was time for my medical and I got out of it without needing to get my blood drawn! I saw the Algerian coming out of X-ray with his finger bandaged up from the blood test. Whew! I got a doctor who volunteered to talk in English and didn't mind that I didn't have a vaccination card and that all I had was the word of my mother that, yeah, I got all my shots. Whew encore! Then I found out from the scales that I am now 5 kilos less than I was 2 months ago. Blimey!

The first thing I did after was go to Saint Severin. Then, failing to find The Abbey Bookshop where I thought it was (I wondered if it poofed away like some buildings in the Harry Potter world), I went to Shakespeare and Co to look at books (because I'm working on one with some friends) and ended up getting this -

which was pretty nifty (part fairy tale and part encyclopedia and written a la Susanna Clarke).  I held myself back because all I had was my credit card, which charges enormous add-ons when I spend in euros. And then I went to BHV and got this -

which was something I decided to do after a friend persuaded me into picking up this old hobby again.

And it felt just like the old days, having the brush in my hand.

My father gave me money to buy my first set of watercolors a couple of decades ago; he wanted me to be the artist in the family, like he always wanted to be had he not fallen out of orbit and landed on mechanical engineering... No pressure on me, of course. He wanted me to follow my heart because he was such a cool guy. But I didn't have the talent that he had, so I tricked myself into thinking I had my mother's talent, which was writing. Wells, I gots neither. But I try. I'm the Jack of All Trades, Master of None kind of person.

Around this time in 2009, my father was in a coma. I made an Elvis mix on my mp3 player and left the earphones on him so he could bop to the King of Rock n' Roll in his stupor. He left us a few days after that; maybe he wanted to hear the real Elvis in the big casino in the sky, or maybe he was just plain tired. But it's in really happy times like this that I want to speak to him, to make him know that I'm following my heart, and I'm doing okay.