Airport Blues

The week before I left France to return to Minnesota for Christmas, I posted an article entitled I’ll Be Home For Christmas…I Hope. It was actually a Monday Memory article that I had written the year before when I wasn’t sure if I would get home due to “French Bureaucracy” issues. I felt a little smug writing it because I knew that this year I had it going on and there wasn’t going to be a single problem. I had all my cards, papers and my ticket set for December 19^th.  In actuality, I arrived at the Minneapolis airport at 2:30 p.m. on December 24^th.  Next time I get all smug, would somebody please remind me what country I’m living in?

Yes this is a rant…it’s my blog and I can do what I want! 

On Saturday the 18^th when I wasn’t able to print my boarding pass, I tried to call Air France to find out what the problem was. After 2 hours on hold I was simply disconnected. I tried again and the same thing happened after an hour and a half of twiddling my thumbs.  I called the United States KLM (Air France, Delta and KLM are all partners and I use all 3 to get to Minnesota) customer service number and they informed me that there was a snowstorm in Amsterdam and flights were being cancelled. Hey, I get snowstorms! I’m from Minnesota. So they rebooked me…through Paris. But they said Air France insists that you go to the airport tomorrow to validate this ticket. We don’t know why, but they insist.

So Sunday I took the bus to Marseille, stood in line for 3 hours and validated a ticket that was…. already validated!  Okay, don’t get your undies in a bundle, Delana. You’ll be going home Monday.

Snow in Paris Monday. Flight cancelled. I spent another 3 hours on-line with Air France. Disconnected. Website locked up. Called United States. I was rebooked for Tuesday.

Tuesday, I arrived at the airport at 5:30 am, checked my luggage and the ticket agent asked if I wanted to check my carry on. I said no, I didn’t want to pay the fee for two pieces of luggage. He said, no worries, today it’s free…because…and then he leaned forward and whispered, “the security people are having a little strike…not to worry…but it will make things faster. And you’d better start through that line right now because it will probably be slower than normal”.

I skipped my coffee that I had so been looking forward to and got in line in front of the security door. I was one of the first. And I waited…. and waited. Finally, an announcement told us there was a “little problem with negotiations with the security company but not to worry, the planes would wait for us”. I sat down and began to plow through my French novel.

We began to pile up like ice on the shore of Lake Superior in February, everyone checking their watches and looking around for…. something. Finally, another announcement that went something like this (I was desperately trying to translate in my head).

“We’re sorry but the this gate will not be open.  The company that we hire to do security has gone on strike and we cannot reach an agreement. This is not our fault. It’s the fault of the security company. Everyone is asked to go to terminal 2, which does have security in place. Everyone in the airport will be going through security here so we know it will be difficult but it’s the best we can do. It’s not our fault”.

What he should have said at that point is, “good luck my little sheep. You are on your own now. Air France is no longer responsible”

The herd of sheep turned as if confronted by a pack of wolves and made off for the other terminal. And of course, because I was at the beginning of the line, I ended up at the end of the line at the other end.

And there, the masses waited, like the sheep that we were, with absolutely no shepard. Air France did not organize lines according to who was leaving first, did not have an agent posted, did not give us any information… and hundreds of people were gathered en mass trying to get through a 2 foot wide door. Oh excuse me; Air France did start passing out water. But the only answers anyone could get from the 2 souls in charge of making sure none of us died were, “I don’t know anything”, or “it’s not my job”.

About one hour into that wait, les bâtards who went on strike (after 3 days of delays because of snow and only days before Christmas, mind you) had the nerve to march by us with their union flags. Babies were crying, children were getting squished by the crowds and these idiots smirked at us as they marched by. I’m getting all heated up again just writing about it.

After several hours waiting, at first hoping they were telling the truth that the planes wouldn’t take off and finally realizing that even if they did wait I had now missed my connecting flight, word came through the line, like a game of telephone, that the flight to Charles Degaulle had taken off…. empty. As had the flight to Amsterdam and all other flights to Paris. Empty. As did the rest of the flights that morning. Which stopped more than 3,000 passengers in their tracks, a huge number of whom were like me; rebooked passengers just trying to make their way home for Christmas. And did we get this word from Air France? Of course not!  They were hiding.

After the debacle at the security gate I knew exactly where to go because I had spent hours there on Sunday. The line at the ticket/exchange desk.  The line that this day, I spent no less than 6 hours in because in spite Air France knowing this strike was forthcoming, that had no extra people on board. So the 18 windows were manned by 5 people…. who had to listen to, console, and exchange the tickets for hundreds of stranded passengers.  Nor did Air France have a soul at their customer service desk to answer simple questions.  They did  eventually pass out a flyer that said we should just go home and go on-line or call customer service. I had already been down that road a few times and knew exactly how it was going to work. I stayed put.

So here’s the kicker, after becoming best friends with several couples, playing games with their children, and breaking bread with them (oh yes, Air France began worrying about our imminent deaths again and handed out more water and croissants) it was my turn at the desk. Yeppers, 6 hours later! Right around that moment a group of people approached the desk on my left and started shouting and stomping and decrying the bad treatment of Air France who hadn’t gotten them on a plane and had ignored them too. I don’t know where they came from but they definitely acted as if they knew this manifestation thing inside and out. They caused such a ruckus that the riot police arrived in full gear.

I did my part by flashing them evil looks and making nasty gestures. As far as I was concerned, they weren’t accomplishing anything and they could just get in line like the rest of us.  And they were delaying my turn, damn it! And just as I was opening my mouth to say to the ticket agent “please Madame, help me get on a plane before Christmas”, all 5 people behind the Air France desk got up and fled. They were “fearful” is what I was told. All they would say to my desperate, shouted questions aimed at their backs was “there’s nothing we can do. Check the website or call.”

Yeah, okay and while you’re having coffee in the back room, I’ll just stay out here and help the police deal with the rioters. You just go on and be fearful…go on…really, I completely understand. And then I’ll call Air France who will be happy to help me!  Big Weenies.

I trekked back out in the rain with all my baggage, dejected and weary and hopped the bus back to Aix. Wet and near tears, I called the U.S. customer service number and spent another 4 hours on hold. Air France passed me to KLM, KLM passed me to Delta and while waiting for Delta to DO SOMETHING and listening to the (at this point) obnoxious hold music, my friend Claire came over and announced she was going to remove the evil eye that had obviously been cast upon me by somebody.  She performed a little ceremony while we continued to enjoy the hold music and as we sat down for a cup of tea, me now free of the evil eye, Doreen, a ticket agent from Delta stationed in Chisholm, Minnesota, got on the line.  And I didn’t have to be a hard ass and “take no shit” as Claire had advised. Doreen was from my hood. She was “Minnesota Nice” as we say and knew all about customer service. And Doreen got me on a plane on Christmas Eve, routed through Amsterdam, so I could see my kids on Christmas. And she extended my ticket by 4 days to make up for my loss of time with them. All with a smile (I could hear it), a little chitchat about places we knew in common, and…. a result!

What’s the lesson learned here? Nothing I shouldn’t have already known. Air France sucks.

Okay, I feel better now.

Le Grève…or How to Get A Day Off School

I don’t have to go to school today…na na ne boo boo! I didn’t have to get up early and trek the two miles to the University because today we’re in the throes…again…of the French national sport…Le Grève or The Strike.

The French are known for their passion for striking. Government workers are the most frenetic. This includes postal workers, public school employees and utility workers. Transportation workers are equally enthusiastic and even students get into the act.

There has been unrest for months now and things started winding up Friday.  I had an appointment at 9 am. Sharp. I could not be late. I arrived at the bus stop at 8:15 in order to catch the bus at 8:20 and get to my appointment 20 minutes early. I waited for bus number 3. It didn’t show. Bus 4 passed; followed by bus 1, then number 23…then another number 4…and another number 1!  There should be a number 3 in between each of these! No number 3. I’m checking my watch as I pace and others are just leaving. Finally when the third number 4 stopped, I jumped on and asked the driver why I’d been waiting 40 minutes for number 3. He said he wasn’t sure but perhaps it was because of the manifestation.

So I’m standing there, wondering what this all means and why only bus number 3 is on some sort of strike. Finally I asked a lady standing next to me, who also appeared late…but not nearly as worried about it as I (the French don’t ever seem to worry very much about being late). She said, in fact, the students at the junior high (a college in French) down the road were holding a manifestation (a public demonstration) and they had blocked the main road that travels the periphery of the city; the road bus 3 has to travel on its route.  She said they had completely blocked the road for hours, this was the second day and they would probably do it again tomorrow.

“What are they mad about?” I asked.

She replied that, of course, the manifestation was in response to the government’s plan to raise the minimum retirement age from 60 to 62.

Oh sure, when I was 13, I could think of nothing else but my looming retirement and exactly what age I would be before I got to enjoy it.  It was on my mind night and day. I was such a wreck!

In fact, the pimply-faced little hormones-in-overdrive are strikers in training.  I think this was not a manifestation…it was an internship!  And who doesn’t want a few mornings off of school anyway?

So what’s the fuss? The French government has voted to raise the minimum retirement age from 60 to 62 and move back the age of full-benefit retirement from 65 to 67. If I’ve read things correctly, that’s exactly the policy in the U.S.

A huge deficit and enormous expenses burden the French government because it’s an extraordinarily top-heavy government. Declining birth rates are leaving a very few to pay for the retirement of many. Sound familiar?

And in fact, the French retirement is longer and benefits more expensive because not only can they retire earlier but they also live longer. According to the C.I.A. 2010 estimates, France has the 8^th highest life-expectancy rate in the world. The U.S. is 49th…just above Albania!  In case you’re wondering, Macau is first. Ever heard of it?

So it would follow that something needs to be done. Right? Not if French workers have anything to do with it.

The strangest thing about French strikes is they are the first “words” in the process of negotiations. In France, the opposing sides do not sit down, discuss, attempt to pound out an agreement, sit some more, pound some more, and then if all else fails…call a strike. The workers strike as a way of opening talks. And…they strike for each other. If the teachers are upset that they are expected to do more work for the same pay, the railroad workers/ air traffic controllers/ post office employees (pick one or all of the above) become their buddy-strikers.

Sometimes it’s just really hard to get anywhere or get anything done around here!

Last month, on the way to Marseille, my friend Claire and I nearly got caught up in a 30-mile traffic jam on the autoroute. Apparently, the carnival companies, (the people that travel from village festival to village festival with their tilt-a-whirls, ring toss games, and smelly stuffed animals), were upset that nobody was hiring them. (This is of course because these are tough times… the little villages ain’t got no money) So they took to the freeway, piled their trucks up 3 across and miles deep and stopped all traffic to the country’s second major city.  For hours! Well that should really solve the problem!  I’ll bet the little village boards were just scrambling to see who could be the first hire the carnies for next year. Sort of as an apology.

Today apparently I’m benefiting from this free-for-all form of liberty and equality because a general strike as been called. Nobody is really sure whom this might involve and I’m not all that happy about it. I like school.  My professor was going to have class anyway because, as she told us, we paid for it. But since 

1. Most of the professors will be on strike as well as the students...

2. Any of the students who need to take the bus into town won’t get there...

3. It will take her 2 hours to get to work because the narrow peripheral roads will be jammed with the cars of those who normally use public transportation...

4. The electric workers will most likely shut off the University’s electricity...

...we decided to add 30 minutes each day to our class until we make up the time.

So I’m sitting here wondering what sort of strike I should go on today. I could schedule a sit-down outside of the driver’s license office until they let me have the license they’ve refused me. I could stage a hunger strike in front of the prefecture until they finally give me my second year carte de sejour which I filled out all the paper work for in April. I even could picket the office of Securite Sociale because they denied my student health insurance. They said I lied about my income (in fact they inverted the conversion rates from dollars to euros and thus inflated my income…their mistake not mine). I could do all of that I suppose. But there will probably be no one in those offices anyway. Because of that darned buddy system.

                                              

Carte de Sejour

Time for Monday Memories again. Another of a long series of last year's bureaucratic nightmares that seem to be the norm here in France...at least for Americans living here. The crazy thing is, I am now actually starting to get used to it!

Obtaining my long-term Visa so I could move to France was difficult. I had to apply, in person, at the French Consulate in Chicago and had to make the appointment more than a month in advance. Other people’s horror stories encouraged me to make the appointment in September to assure that I would get it before my planned New Year’s Day departure, even though they assure you it will take less than a month. Then I had to begin gathering together all the papers on the list provided. I needed attestations from my bank saying I had enough money to live, divorce papers, proof of income, proof of health insurance and employment (which I obviously was no longer going to have after moving to France but this didn’t seem to be important), fingerprints and FBI records (I'm clean...whew!) and a long series of other papers. I then had to find someone to translate them all into French. They were to be copied 3 times, once in French and twice in English and stacked in a very particular order.

I took a vacation day and drove the 5 1/2 hours to Chicago for my 9:30 am appointment, so nervous that once I got there they would ask for something I didn’t have…or perhaps it would be noticed that a few of my papers were slightly “fudged”! Once there, I presented my documents, surrendered my passport, and crossed my fingers. The actual appointment in Chicago took no longer than 5 minutes at which point I climbed back in my car and drove the 5 1/2 hours back to Eau Claire. This process was supposed to allow me my year in Provence.

When I was approved (after a very nerve-wracking 6 weeks) and my passport with it's new Visa sent back to me, there was a little note inside that said:

"The visa you have been issued is valid for 3 months only. This is NOT a mistake. It IS a long stay visa. It will allow you to ENTER the French Territory within the dates stated on it and to apply for a residence permit once you get to France. Within one week of entry into France, you will need to go to the Préfecture to apply for the residence permit (called Carte de Sejour). This carte de sejour will REPLACE the visa and will be valid for one year, renewable in France." (the capitalization is theirs, not mine)

Très simple! Pas de problème! I have already written about how this really went down and after several visits to the local préfecture and much agony, I ended up with an appointment in Marseille 5 months later. And I now have a new list of things I must provide. A brand new (dated no less than 1 month before the appointment) birth certificate, newly dated bank papers, newly dated divorce papers, a letter stating I will not work in France (in French) and other assorted nonsense. 

I had to find a notary to stamp everything and then an "official traducteur" (translator) to make it all official. I spoke with many people who have had to do this same process, researched it on-line and knew that, even though I had been provided a list, there was sure to be more that I needed.

I completed most of this busy work before my Grand Tour with my mom and my sister but still had to get the translations done. I found a traducteur who translated in English and took my papers to the office the Monday before my Thursday appointment. The very unhappy woman (I would be unhappy too if I worked in that hot, dirty, dismal office) at the desk spoke some English and all seemed well. The papers, she said, would not arrive by post on time but would be faxed to the office and I could pick them up Thursday morning before my 2:15 appointment in Marseille. That will be 150 Euros. What??? For 4 paragraphs? I've got to learn to speak French soon because I know how I'm going to make my living! And I've been here long enough to already know this will not go as planned.

And, of course, it didn't.

The kids were visiting at the time and we planned to rent our car that morning, go to Marseille for the appointment and then go to the beach. I worked in the morning, and then ran to the traducteur's office. I walked in and asked the gentleman, in English, if my papers were ready. He replied, in French, "I don't speak English. You must speak in French."  I am not kidding you! This is a translator's office! If I hadn’t been so stunned I would have crumpled to the floor in a fit of hysterical laughter. However, people don’t take kindly to that sort of display so I played the game.  I asked him the same question in French.... my version. He said he would go look. He disappeared and I waited. Eventually, the unhappy woman from my previous visit, whom I have dubbed "The Escargot” slothed her way out to the front desk and said, in English "What do you want?".

 So much for customer service. I asked her for my papers.

"Did we call you?" she said.

 No, you said they would be here Thursday morning.

 'If we didn't call you, they aren't here."

I've been perfecting my sad damsel in distress face and I tried it out on The Escargot. Just a minute, she said. Let me call the translator's wife. She did and informed me that the papers would be faxed that afternoon. I thanked her (don't burn any bridges), told her that would be too late, and shuffled sadly out the door.

Now I have to cancel my appointment and make a new one. But if French is difficult in person, it’s virtually impossible on the phone; especially when it concerns  “official” business. I ran to a nearby friend’s house and asked him to make the call for me. However, it was exactly noon, and everything closes for 2 hours at noon. That’s lunchtime, after all! So he wrote out everything I should say, had me practice it and I called the kids and told them we didn’t have to rush.

At 12:55 The Escargot phoned me and said the papers had just been faxed but they would only be open until 1:00. I ran back to her office, picked them up (I was so excited I nearly hugged The Escargot and the non-English speaking man…. they actually smiled at me), called the kids and told them to be ready in 5 minutes, ran back home, picked them up, ran to the rental car agency, tried to open the door and…. it didn’t move  Of course! It’s 1:15. Everyone is still on lunch break. At that point, I just leaned against the window, (breathless), banging my head on the door in frustration and trying desperately not to cry. The door began to move and I looked up to see the BEAUTIFUL young man inside who said he was willing to open and get me my car.  I was so happy and grateful that he smiled at me.

The kids and I piled in the car, raced to Marseille, got lost, raced around some more, walked 3 miles, arrived at the Prefecture just in time…..and I waited for 2 hours for my 2:15 appointment that I had made 5 months ago. When my name was finally called and I arrived at the window for English speakers only, the non-English speaking women went through all my papers, asked me questions that I tried to answer, made small talk, and presented me with…tada…..my Carte de Sejour. Or at least the temporary version. The real one would arrive soon at my local prefecture. I asked her if it was real. I asked her if she needed any more papers. I asked her again if it was truly real. I kissed it. If there had not been glass between us I would have kissed her. She smiled at me too.

What a great day!  I’ve had 3 smiles and a workout and now I have this little piece of paper decorated with my photo that entitles me to ….absolutely nothing. But I have it. And in just 9 more months I will  begin gathering papers again because I get to do this every single year!

                                                            

This Just In....

The French Government today, announced several far-reaching changes that it says will go into effect within the next several years. This announcement has caused a huge stir here in France resulting in retaliation plans by several trade unions and government worker groups.

In an effort to conserve paper, the government will require all it’s offices and subsidiaries to reduce required paperwork by half. Ecologists have taken to the streets in celebration but paper companies have threatened to shut down all importation until the law is repealed and The Copy Machine Conglomerate is quickly organizing a group to begin talks with the Sarkozy administration.

As an addendum to this new change, the government says it has assembled a think tank group to devise a way for simple and necessary information to be accessed by computer at all related government agencies. The group is also being charged with the daunting task of devising an efficient telephone answering system in all government offices in order to “prevent the current practice of taking the phone off the hook”.

“Our government is paying millions of euros per year to store the mounds of paper we have accumulated”, said one government official. “And we have yet to find a way to locate any particular document when it becomes necessary”.

In addition, a new program is being established that requires all government workers to attend 2.5 hours of continuing education per year in order to learn the art of pleasantry and smiling. This program will replace the current CE program entitled “500 Alternative Ways to Actually Say “Here is your copy. Do not lose this because we will lose all of ours.” Government workers have put their foot down and plan a strike for the entire month of September. An unnamed spokesperson said today, “this should extend our already extensive August holiday by 4 weeks and with all that is now being expected of us, we deserve it.”

French Red Tape

It's Monday! Which means a story from this same time...last year. But after a year here, I know things would happen exactly the same way if it were today.

Charles Dickens called it, oh so eloquently and precisely, the Circumlocution Office.

“…the Circumlocution Office went on mechanically, every day, 
keeping this wonderful, all-sufficient wheel of statesmanship, How 
not to do it, in motion.  Because the Circumlocution Office was 
down upon any ill-advised public servant who was going to do it, or 
who appeared to be by any surprising accident in remote danger of 
doing it…”

I’m not sure if there’s a direct translation for circumlocution in French but with or without an actual word, it is most definitely here!

Today began with a visit from my landlord, Lilane.  The plan was to go to the bank so I could get a certified check in order to pay my rent. We went to the bank, where after a good, healthy Provencal line-stand, I was told I could not get a certified check without an actual account. Even though I had cold, hard Euros to give them. The women suggested we go to the Post Office where they would be happy to do it. We set out for La Poste, where after another queue, a lovely gentleman who spoke some English, explained that I could not get a bank check from anywhere without proof of a local bank account. How do you say in French, “Hey Buddy, I’ve got cash here. Who cares?”