True Love

Sometimes just a little piece of paper can make all the difference.



This is the "ticket" from the Prefecture of Nice that was put into my hand this morning. With this ticket (numbers started at 500) I was able to meet with an immigration agent and, after 20 mins, get handed my temporary 10 YEAR visa. This is an amazing thing. Not many people can appreciate the level of trauma that non-Europeans experience in the French admin and the Nice Prefect in particular - so it's ok if faithful readers have a lukewarm reaction. I don't mind. Suffice to say that today is a monumental day in my life. It means I have at least 10 years before I have to go thru the humbling and humiliating experience again that I have sadly had to submit myself to about a dozen times over the past 7 years. Many tears and many sleepless nights and stomach upsets have been provoked by these experiences. So, as Mammy says to Rhett, "Today shoe iz a happy day."

Who made it possible? This charming man below:


This man, my husband, got up at 5:30 and drove to the Prefecture (on the other side of the city) to start waiting in line for me at 6:15 a.m. At 7:45 our bbsitter arrived and I took the bus out to meet him, a 50 minute ride. He was 3rd in line.
I then had to try to get to him - impossible to "cut in" as the whole place in barricaded. Only one thing to do - try to get to the front of the line from the back of the line. We are talking a couple hundred people.
I just stepped up to the end and started hollering (in French) "PLEASE LET ME THRU. I AM NOT CUTTING THE LINE. MY HUSBAND IS AT THE FRONT OF THE LINE. PLEASE LET ME THRU. THANK YOU. I AM JOINING MY HUSBAND AT THE FRONT OF THE LINE. HE IS ALREADY IN LINE. PLEASE. THANK YOU." I repeated this, politely but loudly, and as I was dressed all in white, started to feel a bit like Moses. Little by little people let me thru, and eventually I saw Thomas, waving to me and hollering out "IT'S OKAY. IT'S MY WIFE." One smart aleck guy said to me "Yeah, my husband's at the front of the line too." But nobody tried to attack me so I can handle a few mean jokes.

We waited together about 20 mins, they opened this 2nd set of doors, the security guards let you in 10 at a time. They scream at you "DON'T RUN. NO RUNNING."
Then you get to the 3rd barrier, a large metal overheard door, which opens like a garage door. Some people try to crawl under and cut the line, but they got barked back by some Algerians and Moroccans. Then you wait behind a red line until the Ticket Man motions you forward. For 6 years it has been the same Ticket Lady. She must have retired because there was a young guy today. Or probably she is on vacation and this is a substitute. He didn't ask me any questions, just gave me my ticket. Which Thomas and I both found odd. Normally Ticket Lady won't give you your ticket until she sees that you have all your documents and photos and copies. But Today's Ticket Man just gave me my number, 502. Incidentally, he is now protected behind a huge fiberglass partition. That's new from last year too.

The big LCD screen beeped "502", "502, Station 6". It's loud. Makes people jump. and we went to meet our maker. One would say they're not exactly a friendly lot, these civil servants. All business, no pleasantries, little eye contact. I thank god had every single thing she asked me for. Passport, Visa, 3 pay stubs, 3 months of bank statements with my name, 3 months of bank statements with both our names, various things with both our names: gas bill, electricity bill, landline phone bill, lease, marriage "livret" (kind of the French version of the family bible), Thomas' passport, 3 passport photos, my original form that I rec'd with my national health insurance card 7 years ago. All of these things she wanted to see the original and you have to bring your own copies. Then Thomas has to go to a different line and pay 70 euros (like 100 dollars) for a special stamp (looks just like a postage stamp). He comes back with this dinky stamp, and she slaps it on the whole file. We sign in 200 places and then she gives me a temporary piece of paper and says in about 6 weeks I'll get a notice in the mail (let's hope the mail theives don't strike that day) to come back and pick up the real deal. This does not require the crazy line-staking out nonsense, hallelujah.

Thomas heads off to work, and I get back on the bus into town.

If that's not love, what is? The man stood in line for me for 3 hours.

As Prince says, I would die for you!


And he doesn't just do nice things for me...here he is with Estelle Sunday morning on the beach at St. Jean Cap Ferrat, peninsula sticking out into the sea - this famous beach, Plage Paloma, faces northward back towards the mainland. These photos are looking east, to the cliffs next to Monaco.