A Quest Begins
In one of the previous posts, I talked about how I became an English teacher in France. In this post, I will talk about the biggest obstacle facing any foreign national who wants to live and work in France: the French residence permit (Titre de Séjour). The application process is seldom straightforward in most countries. In fact, a country would find it hard to outrival France in its convoluted administrative steps.
Like other countries, France requires a foreign national who plans to live in France to apply for a residence permit, part of the country’s broader immigration process. This requirement is waived for European Union (EU) nationals – citizens of one of the other 26 member states. As an EU national, you can reside and work legally, with no paperwork beyond your national identity card or passport. This freedom of movement is one of the biggest advantages of being an EU citizen.
Being a non-EU national but married to one who lives in France, I need to apply for the French residence permit. With this permit, I am eligible to live, work, and enjoy social security benefits in France for five years. Aside from not being able to vote in France or the EU, I have basically the same rights and obligations as a French citizen. After five years, I have the option to apply for a permanent French residence permit. This would be valid for 10 years and is automatically renewable.
The French Residence Permit: Clear and Straightforward?
Residence permit application topped my list of priorities when I arrived in France at the end of 2015, to join Silviu. In fact, we were rushing to get it done within a week of my arrival, since we had to leave for Romania for our wedding.
Based on the information available on the national government website, the application procedure looked clear and straightforward. I was to apply for the French residence permit at my nearest Préfecture or Sous-Préfecture (the local administration or sub-local administration), with the list of required documents. Upon submission of my application, I would receive a temporary French residence permit, a “récépissé”, while I waited for the permanent one to be issued. Even with this temporary permit, I was allowed to work.
Everything Was in French
All the online information relating to the application was only available in French. Without Silviu to help me, I would be completely lost.
Well, you might exclaim, “Of course, it’s in French! You are in France.” But think about it from the position of a new immigrant: “The information on the website is meant to help me settle in France. But I am a foreigner who is likely a non-French speaker. Perhaps it’s unreasonable to expect that information be translated into every language. But shouldn’t it at least be available in English?” English is, after all, the most widely spoken language, with close to 20% of the world’s population speaking it. Basic translation of the essential information would definitely make life easier for newly arrived immigrants. As a new arrival in France, either for work or to join family, doesn’t this little detail leave you with an unkind first impression of the country?
Back to the Future - 1999
The application process in 2015 reminded me of days as a student in Paris, 20 years ago.
An Au Pair in Paris
I arrived in France in 1999, a year after graduating from university in the United States. There, I had hoped to find a permanent job before my student visa expired. The plan did not go as I hoped. Restless, I was reluctant to return to Singapore to find a job and settle down like most of my peers. So, I told my parents I wanted to improve my French, a subject I had taken a few classes in at university. With that reason in hand, I applied for an au pair position in Paris.
An au pair is a young person from overseas who lives with a French host family, to learn French and immerse in the culture. In exchange for a room, some paid living expenses, and pocket money, the au pair helps the host family with light household chores and childcare. At the same time, the au pair has to enrol as a student in French language classes.
First Contact with Préfecture
With a huge backpack, a smattering of French, and youthful dreams of the Country of Love, I arrived in Paris. The initial installation was tough. Not only did I have to deal with the language barrier, but I also had to negotiate the red tape around securing a student residence permit by myself.
I cannot remember much about my experience with the Préfecture from 20 years back. Still, I guess it had to be really bad, since it leaves a bad taste in my mouth to this day. Nevertheless, a fragment of that unpleasant, distant memory has lodged permanently in my mind. I remember standing in a long queue outside the Préfecture in Paris, under a drizzle, shivering and not well-equipped for the weather.
Has the Digital Age Arrived in France?
The application process today is not too different from that of 20 years ago – an era when the digital age had yet to arrive. Apart from the fact that application information is now available online, the actual steps remain wholly unchanged.
Coming from Singapore, and then living in Hong Kong for four years before moving to France, I was used to efficient, painless digital government services. So, I was lost for words when I realised that services I had always taken for granted were not available for the residence application process. This included making appointments and submitting documents online.
Ready or Not
The government website provided a list of the documents required. However, it treated key details – like the fact that documents had to be in French and notarised by a French-approved notary – as non-essential. A new applicant without this piece of information would not be able to submit their application. Fortunately, we already knew that all required documents had to be translated and notarised. This was thanks to my au pair experience, and Silviu’s own experience applying for a student residence permit in 2009, before Romania became a full EU member. We also prepared additional documents that we believed the Préfecture might ask for.
Even with Silviu’s usual meticulous research and preparation, we could not shake the foreboding that things would not go smoothly. So, we proceeded to our nearest Préfecture with dread.
First Round
One morning in the first week of December 2015, a couple of days after I arrived in France, Silviu and I went to our nearest Sous-Préfecture. It was around 5 o’clock in the morning. Bundled up in bulky winter wear, we stepped out of our cosy Mickey Mouse apartment into the chilly predawn morning. With us: a thick folder of documents, a flask of hot coffee, and our rain jackets and iPads, safely tucked into Silviu’s backpack. The temperature was below 10 degrees Celsius.
The Sous-Préfecture is located in Palaiseau, a city twice the size of Orsay, where we live, and just 10 minutes away by intercity train. At half past five, we boarded the first train to Palaiseau. Do not be mistaken, though – the public service for immigrants does not start that early. Officially, the Sous-Préfecture opens at half past eight. However, as experienced residence permit seekers, we knew that arriving at the stated opening hour, or after, would definitely mean a wasted trip. First-time seekers rarely know this, and it’s nowhere stated on the website. There is actually a daily quota of around 100 applicants, and the little paper number tickets are usually used up within the first thirty minutes.
Arriving at the Building
Located five minutes away from the train station, we found the building without much difficulty. The sky was still dark, and the neighbourhood was lit by tall street lamps. Under the orange glow of two of these lamps, in front of the small, gated pedestrian entrance, we realised that the “secret” quota wasn’t so secret after all. A quasi-orderly line of about 30 people had already formed along the perimeter wall leading to the entrance. We located the end of the queue and positioned ourselves behind a young man of Arab origin.
The Queue
The 30-odd people were in various states of position. Most of them were standing, while a few were either squatting or sitting. Some squatted or sat with their backs against the wall. A few came well prepared and sank comfortably on portable folding chairs. I was the only Asian, and Silviu was one of the handful of Caucasians. The rest were either of African or Arab origins.
It would be another three hours before the Sous-Préfecture opened. To make the wait more comfortable, I took out my raincoat, spread it on the ground, and sat down cross-legged against the wall. While I got myself settled, Silviu walked to the front of the queue to check out the scene.
A few minutes later, he walked back with a piece of slightly wrinkled A4 paper and a plastic ballpoint pen in his left hand. Some self-appointed monitor had come up with a numbered name list, to keep applicants queuing in an orderly manner. On the paper, I scribbled my name beside the number 32, wondering whether everyone would really abide by it.
The Long Wait
Time crawled. I removed my iPad from the backpack and tried to read one of my several e-books. Surprisingly, I was not sleepy at all. Between the caffeine from the flask of coffee and the refreshing, intermittent drizzle, any sleepiness was chased right away. I found it hard to concentrate, though, easily distracted by the comings and goings of the queue. From time to time, new arrivals would pause and ask where the name list was. Once or twice, commotion broke out near the front of the queue – it seemed a fracas ensued whenever recalcitrants tried to cut the line.
I was not the only applicant accompanied by family members or friends. Some had people waiting for them in the cars parked along the road, next to the queue. Every so often, someone would step out of a stationary car, walk to the queue, and take the place of whoever they were relieving. That person would then leave the queue, get into the same car, and rest there for a while. It’s a smart way to reduce the discomfort of queuing – provided you have a car.
The Gate Opens
The streetlights turned off soon after sunrise, at around seven. The queue was longer now, with as many people in front as behind me. As half-past-eight drew near, any signs of lethargy or sleepiness in the crowd disappeared. The initial murmurs became louder, more excited. Various sounds of zipping, packing up, folding, closing could be distinctly heard.
Half-past-eight arrived and left. The gate did not open. At twenty-to-nine, the security guard finally graced us with his presence. At his approach, the people in the queue became agitated and visibly pressed forward. A few rogues tried to jump the queue but were harshly held back by disgruntled applicants. The security guard, looking thoroughly bored, swung open the gate with little interest. The queue completely disintegrated as everyone swarmed towards it. As I passed through the gate, I spotted the name list lying drenched on the ground, a few metres away. It was the one on which I had scribbled my name three hours earlier.
As if We Were Struck by Lightning
After we entered the compound, we hurriedly moved towards the entrance of the main building. Once inside, we had to join another queue to reach the front desk. When it was our turn, we were asked the purpose of our visit. We explained that I was there to apply for the residence permit and that Silviu was not French. In response, she told us we had come to the wrong office – we should have gone to the main office, the Préfecture, not this Sous-Préfecture. The main one was farther away, an hour from Orsay, and getting there meant changing trains twice. It seemed this office only handled applications where the spouse was French.
We felt as if we had been struck by lightning when we heard her pronouncement. Four hours of waiting in the cold, in the rain, at ungodly hours – all for nothing. Nowhere was it written that a family member of a non-French EU national had to apply at the main office. Frustrated, yet resigned to a situation beyond our control, we left. Our earlier foreboding had not been unwarranted.
Second Round
It was like déjà-vu. A few days later, carrying the same backpack stuffed with the same items, we left our apartment at the same time to catch the first train. This time, though, we arrived later at the main office, the Préfecture (not the Sous-Préfecture), since it took an hour to get there. Fortunately, for reasons unknown to us, the queue was shorter than before.
The gate opened promptly this time. We entered the main building, and an officer directed us to the front desk. After we stated our purpose, the lady whipped out a one-page document and waved it in front of us. “Do you have this piece of document?” it asked – a list of the required documents for the residence application. Silviu calmly replied, “No, we don’t have the document, and it’s not available on the government website. But we have brought all the documents as stated on the website.”
Sent Away Again
She continued, “I will give you this document. You can come back once you have all the documents as stated on the list.” Silviu tried to explain that we already had everything. He wanted to show her. She brushed his explanation aside, though, and added, as if granting us a reprieve, “You do not have to queue up the next time. Just come directly to me.” She then scribbled something quickly on the document, pushed it towards us, and turned to the person behind us. There was nothing else we could do.
It was absurd. It was a complete farce. We wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. How could the lady be so rigid? Was it just her or was it the French system? A glance at her list confirmed our initial belief that we had all the required documents in our bag.
Third Round
We returned to the main office the following day, this time arriving just before opening. Once inside, we made our way directly to the front desk and showed the same lady that we had her list. Her face showed no sign of recognition when we greeted her.
How many foreign nationals had she turned away so far? Had any of them managed to convince her she was wrong to dismiss their right to fair treatment?
The Final Check
She took back the list and asked us to hand her each required document as she read it out. We held our breath as she examined them. The whole ordeal ended in a few minutes – we had passed the first round. She gave us a piece of paper with a number on it. We were to go to the main room and wait for our number to be called.
It was a big room with a row of counters on one side. The rest of the room was filled up with chairs that were mostly occupied. Each counter was managed by an officer who specialised in a type of application. For the French residence permit application, there were only two counters. By the time our number was called, two hours had passed.
We handed the whole set of documents that were previously verified by the front desk lady to the office-in-charge. The officer did not pose many questions to us as she reviewed these documents. The review took only a few minutes. But it seemed an eternity to us. We were tense.
We would have shouted, “How high?” if she’d asked us to jump – anything to get our application accepted that day.
The officer looked up from the files and announced, “Your file is complete.” Titanic relief must have washed visibly over our faces. “You would be notified of the outcome of your application in three months’ time.”
A Twist in the Tale
And Claudia lived happily ever after. Of course not. A few weeks later, I received a letter informing me that my application was not “regular,” and that I owed a fine of €300. According to the letter, I was supposed to have applied for my residence permit before arriving in France.
Silviu and I were surprised, since we had read nothing about needing to apply for the permit before coming to France. Silviu believed the Préfecture had made a mistake, as that rule only applied to spouses married to French nationals – not to us. Still, he felt it was in our best interest to just pay the €300 fine. He worried that pushing back further might mean even more red tape for us.
Three months later, I received my five-year French residence permit.
Hereafter
Ever since those few days with the Préfecture, it fills me with dread every time I have to go back for other administrative matters. This includes converting my Singapore driving permit to a French one, or updating my address. Fortunately, the French are more efficient with these matters these days, and my last two trips were almost painless. Almost painless. Well, firstly, online services were still not available. Secondly, the officer in charge of updating my address nitpicked over the documents required.
Four years have passed since I obtained my French residence permit, and I’ll have to renew it next year. I cringe just at the thought of going through the whole rigmarole again. From what I’ve read over the last four years, the French residence permit process remains as ponderous as the country’s 45,000 chateaux. It’s a wonder an applicant doesn’t throw up their hands in despair and go home, having had to face such an ordeal. Or perhaps that’s exactly what the French hope.