French Letter: hurrah, we’re cleared to live in France

It was back in March, I think, that my wife and I applied for our titres de séjour, the permits, post-Brexit, giving us the right to remain in France. So, after such a long wait, we were relieved to learn last month that our applications had been accepted and that we should report to the prefecture in Saint-Brieuc at 15.40 on October 22.

We were warned not to use the interphone. Nor should we arrive either early or late. We should simply wait and do what we were told. 

I didn’t know quite what to expect. The last time we applied, back in February 2019, when the Brexit negotiations were still going on, the result had been, to say the least, disappointing. We had driven the 50 miles or so to St-Brieuc in time to be there for our appointment at 8.30 in the morning. There were at least 20 people ahead of us, and more behind, all shivering, waiting for the front gates of the building to open. Then, all at once, we were ushered in and told to sit down and wait. 

We waited. And we waited. Eventually, our number came up and we were called to one of the windows, behind which sat a well-upholstered young man with a straggly black beard, looking profoundly bored. We had brought with us a compendious dossier, containing – hold on while I check – our tax history, both national and local, property deeds, photocopies of our passports, newly-taken photographs (in which we looked ahead grimly), proof of income and an attestation from our local mayor that we were who we said we were and were in good standing with the local community. We handed this across. 

He opened the box, studied it for maybe five seconds, then looked up at us through rheumy eyes. 

“But you are British, yes?” 

“Yes.” (I’ll come back to that another time.) 

“Then you have no business here.” 

“But we were sent an email giving us an appointment for this morning at 08.30.” 

“Well, I must tell you, Monsieur, that all applicants from the UK are required to re-apply only after arrangements have been concluded between the British Government and the European Union.” 

“Nobody told us that.” 

A shrugand the slyest of smiles. “Desolé, Monsieur.” 

I was reminded of the time in New York when I sat for more than two hours in the offices of the Social Security Administration in Brooklyn waiting to plead my case to be enrolled in the state healthcare system. My written application had been rejected as insufficient and this was my last chance.  At precisely two minutes to four, my name was called, just in time for the man behind the window to pull down his blind and declare that the building was about to close. As the blind moved down, so did I, so that I was now looking sideways at the man’s head. 

“But this is important. I have an appointment and I’ve been waiting all afternoon.” 

“Not my problem, buddy.” 

“So what do I do now?” 

 “My advice to you is, don’t get sick.” 

And he was gone. 

Mmm. The can-do spirit of America. 

This time around, in France, everything was different. Covid had forced the prefecture to smarten up its act. Instead of presenting a groaning dossier, we had applied online, enclosing scans of our passports and no more than three or four pieces of documentation. Thus it was that last Friday afternoon, at 4.35, we found ourselves, fully masked, waiting in line outside the palace gates. Behind us, on the steps were an elderly couple of Brits who weren’t even sure they were in the right place. I moved to reassure them but found myself pre-empted by a young Englishman wearing a maroon jumper and sunglasses who informed them, in a cut-glass, Home Counties accent that all was well and they had nothing to worry about. 

He was right. At 4.39, a cheery-looking matron, dressed in a vivid shade of green, emerged from a side gate and directed us through a series of subterranean passageways, then up a set of stairs, into the rear of the main reception room. No sooner than we had taken our seats, as instructed, than we were summoned to guichet number three, where a young woman checked our passports and asked us to sign our names on cards to which she then attached one each of our most recent photos (still grim, still looking earnestly ahead). All that remained was for us to have our fingerprints scanned in, which for me is always a palaver as my prints are extremely faint and rarely register the first time around.

Et voila, c’etait tout. Our permits, we were informed, were in the works and would be posted to us within a month, valid for ten years. “You will have to sign for them,” she told us, smiling, before adding (somewhat unnecessarily), “Welcome to France and have a good day.” 

I wonder if it is easy in these troubled times for the French in England. 

Meanwhile, at the other end of France, my good friend Mark was ensconced in a hospital ward outside Cannes, with a private terrasse and view of the Estérel massif, recovering from an operation that had supplied him simultaneously with a replacement knee and hip in his right leg (the left to follow next year). Among his fellow inmates: a former French international rugby player, barely able to walk, and the chief pâtissier at a Michelin-starred restaurant, who has diabetes and was in to have his toes removed. 

Mark has only recently registered as a tax-resident in France and received his titre de séjour less than two months ago. But the French state took him in and gave him the best of everything, almost free of charge. He was even told last week that, just to be on the safe side, they were keeping him in for another three weeks, with physiotherapy as well as medical care on tap 24 hours a day. As a bonus, he was supplied with a singing nurse, who, after checking his scars, entertains him with bursts of opera.

Is France, post-Brexit, an awful place, in which Brits are treated like prisoners of war? Actually, no. The French, in fact, are no more beastly to us than they are to each other, and sometimes, if you are in luck, they are as nice as ninepence. I’m simply glad that we got the bureaucracy out of the way – always a nightmare – and that I can now look forward next week to receiving my third, booster shot of anti-Covid vaccine at our local pharmacy. Winter is coming.