Terrasse

She’s Having a Baby (In France)!

It’s been toooo long since my last post, and mainly that’s because so much has happened that beginning to address the changes in my life is a daunting task.  But, I’m finally biting the bullet, ready to update with the big news:

18 weeks

WE’RE HAVING A BÉBÉ!!!

At the beginning of May Mister Papa, Mister Cooper and I set out for an adventure in Portugal.  Aside from being one of the best vacation settings ever, Portugal is also the magical land where we found out we were going to be parents!

Sun-soaked Lisbon!

Once we returned to France and quotidian responsibilities, though, our initial elation lost its brilliant sheen.  And we suffered a few days of “What the F&@! - we can’t have a baby in France!!!!”  The prospect of figuring out all of the administrative and practical aspects of having a baby is scary enough, but doing all this in another language (one in which we’re not fluent at all!) and in a country where we’re still trying to figure out how to do simple things like deposit checks at the bank - well, we were beyond terrified.  But, after examining all possibilities we realized we didn’t have much of a choice!  This baby is coming and here we are - in France.  What follows is my mini-guide to being “enceinte” as they say, in France so far (if you’re interested.  If not, feel free to skip to the picture at the end).

Task #1: Verifying the pregnancy with a real doctor.

As if 5 pregnancy tests weren’t proof enough, I needed some kind of official declaration from a doctor for me to believe that this was actually, in fact, happening.  I mean, I was of course happy (and stressed and freaked), but there was a feeling of disbelief that I just couldn’t shake.  This feeling was understandable as I had just been told in April that we’d have a hard time conceiving! (If anyone other than a gynecologist, after several hormonal analyses, tells you you’ll have trouble due to ovarian cysts- don’t believe them, ladies! I know this is TMI, but I know several women in my same situation.)

So, I set out trying to make an appointment with an English-speaking obstetrician in Paris.  I started by simply googling “English-speaking Drs in Paris.”  And then I went down the list, starting with doctors in close proximity to my flat and moving outward as I received response after response like this: “How do you know of Dr. so-and-so.  From what kind of list?! Well then, we don’t have any appointments until July.”  Finally, I accepted a July appointment (I would be 13 weeks by then!) and called my regular doctor.

I found my GP the same way back in November, but somehow had then managed to hijack a list issued by the PTA of the International School of Paris, with personal reviews of each Dr.  I seriously just chose my GP because he was the first person to give me an appointment last fall.  And so my adventure in French health care began.  At any rate, I got really lucky in choosing him because he’s a fantastic doctor, always gets me in to see him the next day, if not the same day, and is super nice.  So, I made a same-day appointment with him and HE called his obstetrician friend, asked if he’d be willing to take me on as a patient, warned him that my French isn’t great and I prefer to speak English, and made the appointment for me!  Amazing!  My Dr told me that without a referral it can take a very long time to get in to see an obstetrician in Paris.  So, the next day I canceled that silly July appointment and off I went to meet my obstetrician.

Task #2: Meeting the obstetrician

He shook my hand and took me to his little office - typically parisian with an old fireplace, beautiful molding and ancient parquet floors - complete with examination table and ultrasound machine.  After introductions, up I hopped onto the table and he showed me the pregnancy at 6 weeks - just a little button in a big uterine pond.  He gave me the estimated due date, sent me to get a slew of blood tests, and told me to come back in a few weeks.  And that was that!

Oh, and by the way, all of these accoutrements that give us a false sense of privacy in American hospitals (ie them leaving the room while you undress, then throwing paper blankets over your lap at the obgyn’s office and radiologists) DO NOT exist in France.  So it’s just like, take your pants off (my dr at least has a paper screen, i’ve been to a radiologist that just asked me to undress in the middle of the room while he was on the phone), and get up there!  At first it was uncomfortable for me, since it’s just so different.  But, now I don’t give a hoot.  Always I’m just excited to see the little ultrasonic Tadpole swimming around in his temporary home!

Task #3: The official declaration

One of the first things I did after verifying that yes, I was indeed mommy to a tiny Tadpole, was to go out and buy a French pregnancy book.  Mister Cooper and I figured that this way we’d learn how things worked in the French medical system, we’d have dos and don’ts specific to France and we’d learn French childbirth vocabulary.  The one I chose, J’attends un enfant, has a great month-by-month chart telling you all the things you need to accomplish at each stage.  I learned from this that one has to report the pregnancy to several government agencies - yikes!

So at my next appointment, Dr. Baby filled out a nice form and told me it’s my job to send it all in by such-and-such date.  Well, for me this was kind of an insane process because I didn’t yet have my French health card- the sacred Carte Vitale.  It’s like the holy grail of expat living.  I had applied for it back in November and, not a moment too soon, I finally received a response THAT WEEK (early June).  With Carte Vitale in hand I filled out the requisite forms, sending one to the hautes-de-seine CPAM office (social security) and one to our town’s “allocation familiale” office (i think it’s like a child support office, but providing small subsidies even to middle-class families).  Well, one of the forms I received back (don’t remember which) with the instructions to provide tax info, copies of ID’s, bank info, my left ear, a cheek swab and a lock of my hair.  Okay, the last three weren’t really required, but the point is, don’t ever throw a piece of paper away when you live in France.  You have to be able to send every paper documenting your existence at a moment’s notice.

I guess it all worked out in the end, because this week I got a piece of paper saying we might actually be entitled to some money and they’ll let me know in the 7th month!  Plus, the last time I went to get blood tests I wasn’t charged a damn thing!

In France, when you’re pregnant, your health care charges should be minimal.  There are different levels of doctors and you can find what level your doctor is and how much the dr. usually charges at http://ameli-direct.ameli.fr/.  My doctors are both private practitioners and so are free to charge what they want (my GP is 30 euros per visit and my obgyn is 80-100 euros, including ultrasound) and they don’t process your Carte Vitale discount directly.  Instead, they fill out a Feuille de Soins stating what they did and what they charged, and you have to send it in to social security office yourself.  Social security will then reimburse you.

If you’re like me, and you’re on a visitor visa grâce à your mister (ie you can’t work in France) your personal ssn isn’t active.  So when you fill out your Feuille de Soins all you put is your name and your birth date.  Under Assuré (Insured party) you put your husband’s name, his numéro d’immatriculation (ssn - the # on his carte vitale), and his address (which is probably yours, too).  He’s the one that has to sign it at the bottom, not you.  I learned this the hard way - I’ve suffered many a rejected Feuille de Soins and now have to annoy my dr by asking for duplicates.

Okay - that’s enough for now!  Hope this is helpful to some hapless expat googlers trying to figure all this out, too!  Task #4: choosing your maternité to come soon.

11 weeks

It’s Something Like the Gates to Hades: the theater of waiting patiently

Have I ever shown you where I go to renew my carte de sejour?

not even the plants want to be here.  that tree’s branches are eternally bare (i visit this godforsaken fortress every couple of months and it never changes).  For whatever reason mister cooper and I began referring to it as “the tree of life.”  Only, it’s dead, so it’s like the place sucks all the life out of things - get it?  (okay, maybe not so clever, but it amuses us.)

I live in Boulogne-Billancourt, a town just outside Paris in a large department on the west side of the city . . . and the prefecture here is reportedly more chaotic and unwelcoming than those inside Paris proper.  What do we do here, you might wonder? we wait.  We wait in line for about 45 minutes before the damn place opens, and then we take a ticket with a number on it (they run out of tickets quickly, so that’s why you need to get in line early).  Then, you wait for your number to be called.  This normally takes three or more hours, during which time we read, we watch all the other poor souls waiting for their respective turn (and everybody has sorrowful, haunted looks on their faces), we try to spot the American students (the only ones that are excited to be there), we get coffee from a vending machine, and we sit outside by the “tree of life” for a change of scenery.

While outside we can appreciate a few of the many innovative public artworks on the grounds:

This one juts up from the ground like a spinal remnant of some jurassic beast that long ago died while waiting too patiently for his turn at the guichet.

When our turn does come around we lug our massive package containing every paper documenting our life here over the last year (seriously, every last scrap of paper having anything to do with the business of living in france) up to the counter window and beg the lady behind it to be kind.  Thankfully, she usually is.  In fact, last time the woman behind the counter was so pleased with us, she told mister cooper he could apply for his 10-year card!  although, she made sure to specify this privilege would not extend to me.  well, at least one of us won out.

The bureaucratic process of living in another country is not pleasant or easy.  Almost 6 months into the year and i’m still waiting on my new carte de sejour (and we can’t sort all the health insurance stuff out until it does come).  But after almost two years dealing with this bureaucratic hoo-ha, I begin to find it simply annoying and the tiniest bit amusing.  After all, with the prefecture such a dramatic setting, how can I ignore its theatricality?

My Life in Months

My life for the past several months has been a crazy push and pull between California (where I think my soul somehow always dwells) and Paris (new home of my heart).  I spent nearly two months this winter in California, by the end of which I was soooo ready to return to Paris (missing my cozy abode, my mister, my art, good bread, good coffee) . . . but when I did I felt completely displaced all over again, readjusting to the climate, the grey, the very non-california-ness of it all - not to mention starting to relearn/restudy the language (it’s amazing how fast you lose it if you don’t use it).  Just as I started to get back into the rhythm of it all I flew AGAIN to California at the beginning of March for a lovely friend’s wedding.  I only stayed for ten days, but even so returning to Paris was an adjustment once more.  I so enjoyed the love of old friends, meeting new ones, the sun, the relaxed atmosphere of my tiny hometown, the nature that surrounds it . . . that teeny ghost town always somehow sings to my soul.  28-year-old Marya reverts to her 15-year-old hippie self on arrival.  But that Marya is not the Marya that lives in Paris, and so traveling between these towns feels a bit like traveling between parallel lives or two different dimensions, each appealing to very different sides of me, and so as a result I’m haunted by a sort of existential jet lag for weeks after.

Needless to say, I’m back in Paris and staying put until May when I travel to Portugal with my lovely husband and my dad, Mr. Papa. (You may recall that Mr. Papa is our most frequent visitor - you can see him here)

For now, I spend most days at the Louvre navigating wayward visitors through its halls and stairwells, remarking on the beauty of favorite works, and showing kids things that will, hopefully, spark their imaginations, inspire a love of the visual, and help them to think about their world in a new way.  I also write some things for GOGOParis, working with a fantastic woman that inspires me to DO.  Life is good to me.

To top it all off THE SUN IS RETURNING!!!!  By late spring in Paris this Californian starts jonesing for the sun like a strung-out junkie.  And when the sun does shine I just drop everything, close my eyes, and tilt my face to the sky to soak it all in . . . instant relief.

See pieces of my life since January in the pics above.

An American (couch potato) in Paris

The best American television shows on French TV (in no particular order):

1. Highlander

2. Magnum P.I.

3. Starsky and Hutch

4. Fall Guy

5. Knight Rider

6. Buffy

7. Angel

8. Dragnet

9. The Simpsons (on multiple channels)

10. Grey’s Anatomy

I really appreciate the ability to watch my favorite 70s action series in French. I’m hoping next i’ll discover The Rockford Files or Remington Steele.

Another Trip to the Prefecture

In procuring legal papers to reside here (not work, mind you, reside) I have so far undertaken the following process:

May 2008

Visit French consulat in San Francisco in order to apply for a long-stay visa based on my impending marriage to a French resident (not a citizen). This involves a great deal of documentation, purchasing travel health insurance, lots of passport photos etc. They keep my passport and tell me to come back when i’m actually married.

July 2008

Return to the consulat in order to submit official marriage documents. Receive a visa that is valid for 3 months (???a tourist visa is valid for that long) and states that I must apply for a carte de sejour within two months after my arrival. They attach a separate piece of paper that says I need to do this two weeks into my stay, but I ignore it.

August 2008

I arrive in France.

October 2008

Make first visit to the prefecture in my district (92), they just give me an appointment to come back and actually apply later.

December 2008

I return to the prefecture for my appointment, making copies of endless documents, and ultimately receiving a paper called a “recepisse de demand de carte de sejour” - a receipt of my application for the carte de sejour. It has my picture on it (the woman behind counter chose the ugliest one) and it expires in March.

What to Expect in 2009

I will receive the carte de sejour in three months - this would be February or March. It will expire in August and I’ll have to start all over again. Meanwhile, before receiving it, i’ll have to set up some sort of medical appointment to be examined for any contagious diseases I might introduce into france (of course, by this time my little diseases, if there were any, have had plenty of opportunity to jump ship and start a metro-based epidemic).

So you see, from the time i initiated this process in San Francisco, to the time I actually receive the carte de sejour it’ll have been nearly a year. But the process hasn’t been too tedious or stressful, being that there are long breaks between needing to deal with it, though the prefecture does steal a bit of my soul every time i walk in.

What is stressful is that, after all this, I’m not even able to work here. This is what I was told, verbatim: “you can stay, you can enjoy all France, but you cannot work” (read with sing-songy French accent). Sooooo, I “stay and enjoy” - and have found enough ways to keep myself busy that I do “enjoy” — for someone in my field (with a graduate degree in art history) there is plenty to occupy myself with. But, we are two people living on one income in one of the most expensive cities in the world, so if I was able to work - even teaching english for example - the extra money would help a lot (in purchasing those repetto flats I have my eye on).

In two and a half years time, I believe, my husband can apply for French citizenship. What this will mean for me and for my status, I’ve no idea, but i suspect it won’t change much. There are two other possible avenues for obtaining working papers: I find a company to sponsor the status change (they must file paperwork with the prefecture, pay a large fee, and prove that no French citizen could do this job), or obtain my Polish passport if it’s possible. The latter would also take its fair share of time and bureaucratic wrestling, and it’s unclear whether I am eligible, due to my father’s unique immigration circumstances (political refugee in 1962).

So, in the end, my status is “visiter.” And my husband and I have put a lot of money and time into getting the official “okay” for me to “stay and enjoy.”  And enjoy I will, dammit.

Parisian Thanksgiving (in miniature)

My sister’s macaroni and cheese recipe, stuffing (from the box, imported by my father), greenbeans, tarte tatin . . . these were the fixin’s i managed to dig up for our first thanksgiving a) as a married couple and b) in Paris. For me, this was also the first time I was to be primarily responsible for the preparation of said meal - and i’m not really a cook by any stretch of the imagination. Being the youngest in a gourmet family, my past jobs were to chop, grate, clean, iron, set, and clean again while the rest of my family tended to the meal. Needless to say I was a bit concerned how the meal might turn out and, while it certainly did not measure up to past thanksgivings (prepared and managed by my mother for nearly 25 people), my mini-meal for three did suffice. And, with several calls to my sister for instructions, I successfully pulled-off the fancy italian-cheese-encrusted macaroni.

While we did enjoy nice company (our German friend Gandalf joined us in our festivities), I must admit I was painfully homesick for my family and my husband’s. It was strange to be so isolated and to make-up such a small celebratory unit. We were invited to a larger function with Territory friends, but as this was also my first holiday since my mother’s passing and I was suffering from melancholia, I chose to stay close to home and have more intimate festivities. So, Gandalf, Dustin and I gave thanks and satiated ourselves with the turkey-less feast, talking and laughing about nothing in particular late into the evening.

“dirty domestic secrets” or “the fantastic dreams of unpaid laborers”

i have something i should admit to you. having majored enthusiastically in women and gender studies as an undergraduate it feels a bit like a sin or like a really dirty secret that i should only offer up in confession, my face obscured behind a latticework screen: i . . . am . . . a housewife. There, it’s said.

Granted my housewifery is enforced by the French government - i’m actually a government-mandated Parisian housewife - but nonetheless, it feels like i’m failing to inhabit young marya’s lofty visions of tough, independent, financially lucrative globe-trotting. It hit me today, really, how challenging it is for me to be *gasp* a housewife and how, despite my visions of magically transcending that ugly “visiteur” label on my carte de sejour, I will not be able to be employed in France for quite some time. I must resign myself to the status of unpaid laborer - domestic or otherwise.

After applying to and receiving a favorable response from a company looking for a freelance photo editor I set my sights on figuring out some way to slither through the administrative iron barring me from occupying said position. This was to no avail. Instead of finding the magic loophole, I was forced to accept my reality, really and truly. mini-freak out ensued. “What the hell did i just go through graduate school for?” I thought. “How can my man respect someone he has to support?” “Can I really find a way to be satisfied without bringing home the proverbial bacon (or lardons perhaps, since we are in France)?” My man anticipated this freak out and was very encouraging, saying I just need to be patient and wait for our status to change, hope to be sponsored by a company, etc. But still, I’m nearly thirty and anxious to embark on a career (not to mention anxious to move on from a grad school or a two-people-on-one-income budget. we are in paris, after all, and the repetto store is calling to me).

It’s not just the lack of monetary recognition for my talents and labors that bothers me, but it also seems that (at least in my mind) “housewife” is now a dirty word, that i’m not a realized woman or i’m a failed feminist if indeed i’m living supported on my husband’s income. Yes, there are extenuating circumstances, and yes I’m still busy and still trying to work on my career even if it doesn’t pay at the moment. And yes, if you’re asking for a great city in which to be a forced housewife this is the place. But still, there’s a part of me that feels like the world at large doesn’t value that for which it doesn’t pay. Like one could do the most spiritually or artistically or abstractly valuable work but if you don’t receive remuneration it somehow doesn’t mean anything . . . it’s a sad thought, yes, and probably cynical. But this is where i’m at, this is what i struggle with in the center of what i think must be the most beautiful city.

This is the frustration of relocation without corporate sponsorship. This is one of the frustrations of living in a country where you are not a citizen. This is the frustration of being an ambitious woman trapped in genie’s little housewife bottle, forced to ninja my way around very large, French roadblocks.

A Visit to the Sous Prefecture

Many of you, particularly those closest to me, may be wondering what’s happening with my immigration status. Well, it took several months to get a visa from the U.S. in the first place and now that I’m here in France the process hasn’t become any easier.

Because dealing with the French bureaucracy is such a sticky undertaking, we decided to pony up and hire a relocation agent. This is someone whose job is to exclusively smooth the immigration process. Really, I think it is worth the investment - if only to have someone argue with the grouchy ladies behind plastic windows.

The sous prefecture is somewhat equivalent to a county office in America - it’s the place you go to deal with the official business of life: you apply for your driver’s license, apply for immigration status, apply for a passport if you’re French, apply for building/construction permits, maybe pay some housing taxes — i’m not sure exactly all that needs to be taken care of here, but the point is it’s a generally administrative building. I can guarantee that the majority of people at the Boulogne-Billancourt sous prefecture are there to apply for citizenship, visas, or carte de sejours (kind of like a green card).

The sous prefecture in my town, Boulogne-Billancourt, is a thoroughly unpleasant building: a huge concrete monstrosity left over from the 70s perhaps, looming like a huge nod to later construction behind the iron curtain. A long stone ramp leads up to the building from the street, like more ominous version of the yellow brick road, forcing you to hike up and crane your neck to see the building upon approach. In front of the building is what was once perhaps a pleasant garden, but now is only a skeleton of its former self - as if the administrative soul of the sous prefecture sucked all the life out of these sad plants. Several concrete benches surround an empty, scum-filled fountain, wild untrimmed bushes push against the open space, met by awkward planes of patchy grass. All of this is watched over by a skeletal tree naked of any leaves, its branches dramatically arched toward the ground as if it couldn’t bear the weight of merely existing in front of the sous prefecture, watching its sad visitors day after day.

And sad they are. No one wants to visit the sous prefecture. People line up in a circle around the building to wait for the doors to open. They are not waiting to be served, they are waiting to take a number. Then, you wait for that number to be called. This can take several hours. In our case, it took four. We camped with all the other poor souls attempting to take on the French system, i read, Dustin played his gameboy advance. The fluorescent light bored holes in our retina, bouncing off the all-concrete interior. You don’t get comfortable in the sous prefecture. The dilapidated green space in front of the building seems like a Garden of Eden after a few hours inside.

Finally, our number was called. We were told to come back in December. At lease the lady gave us an appointment. And I can’t leave the country because my visa is expiring before I get my carte de sejour in December. I got a piece of paper with a stamp on it that will let me out (or back in rather, if i leave) in case of emergency.

And that was it. Four hours of waiting to make an appointment for December. We left relieved, just happy to be done with this place. Free. If a bit battered.

This is taken from the Boulogne-Billancourt sous prefecture website. They’re trying to make it look like it’s not scary - but it is. Believe me.

A Week On The Couch

This is a post in remembrance of jet lag. ah yes, jet lag. after a flight from san francisco to paris with a stopover in Dublin this wicked air of fatigue trailed behind me like a piece of toilet paper stuck to my shoe. Fortunately, as i write this now, the unhappy jet lag that I experienced upon arrival is but a dim memory. I’m happy to report that my body is now fully adjusted, but in recounting to you my life in Paris thus far I cannot overlook the jet lag.

My husband claims that in order to curtail the lasting effects of jet lag one must immediately force oneself into a rigid workday schedule whether employed or not. I chose to do the opposite. Instead I settled into the habits of an ineffectual housewife — waking up to bid my man farewell in the morning and hopping directly back into bed only to wake up again after noon and proceed to read on the couch until, once again, dozing off into a late afternoon nap. Then, and this is the fun part of jet lag, I woke up in the early evening haunted by a heavy head and belly aches. My husband (Dustin) returned from work, the only activity on his mind being food, rest, and the occasional video game. While he settled down into a full night’s sleep, i held my lag-saddened tummy and quietly searched the paris craigslist into the wee hours, falling into light sleep at maybe 4 or 5 am only to start the whole cycle over again. It took some serious work to break this habit.

But I have to admit that indulging this jet lag-induced laziness was not without pleasure. My mid afternoon Parisian drowsiness was so contenting I felt that all I lacked were a few small children to feed me grapes and fan me with palm fronds. or pop down to the market to pick me up an orangina, a baguette and some soft goat cheese. at any rate, i could have used a few lackeys at hand.

okay, so as decadent as i’ve made this jet lag sound, my witching-hour craigslist searches did actually produce some results and I wound up getting in touch with an artist who was looking for a bit of help at his studio. See NY Times article here: http://www.nytimes.com/indexes/2008/05/18/style/t/index.html#pageName=18metcalfindex.html#pageName=18metcalf

He was offering to pay in trade for a studio accomodation, but as I have no use for this (and as my visa will not yet allow me to seek proper paid work) I essentially am working there on an internship basis watching, learning from this man who not only has incredible talent, but also has the strange ability to pull money out of nothing. I find his odd bohemian business acumen to be a totally fascinating and unexpectedly educational feature of this work. In addition to gleaning what i can from this non-job (at which my tasks are mainly administrative in nature at this point - compiling dossier, etc.) I am placed in a community of creative and intelligent ex-pats who were also seeking out like-minded folks in the middle of a new city.

With the beginning of this gig the week of lazy couch-sitting that my jet lag allowed came to an abrupt end. And while i am relieved to have interesting work to do in an amazing city that i love a bit more every time i venture through it, at times I conveniently forget the persistent headache that jet lag imparts and I do remember longingly my week of repose on the couch.

Slow to Act

It has been over one month since relocating and finally, as promised, i begin my blog. Having been here for a month already, I’ll have to necessarily back-track a bit, but bare with me and I’ll catch you all up.

Thus far my life in Paris has consisted of the following: learning to cautiously tread the infamously poop-riddled sidewalks, improving my French comprehension by watching dubbed American movies and television shows (think Highlander the series and Escape from New York), finding a way to structure my days and avoid producing gaping holes in my resume, settling in to a little flat with my husband, sitting at the sous-prefecture, and finally just breathing in the sheer aesthetic pleasure offered by this city.

My life has also consisted of intermittent travel - exclusively to Germany as it works out. So there has also been much beer, long train rides, and maultaschen (more on these adventures later).

What i haven’t had enough of, and what promises to be a focal point of my life here, are the art exhibits. It seems there are new exhibits, and amazing exhibits, constantly on offer. I’d like to consume them all and share with you what I find. For example, the Chateau at Versailles is hosting a sort of Jeff Koons retrospective (see jeffkoonsversailles.com) and i could not imagine a more appropriate or interesting venue for such an exhibition. For an artist who plays unendingly with themes of excess and material culture to be shown in a site that is the very embodiment - indeed a monument to - excess is entirely perfect. Beyond this, the contrast between Koons’ playfulness and the intimidating opulence of the palace promises to add another (amusing) element to his work and to the show. I think bringing Koons’ work to Versailles re-energizes both the artist’s work and the site itself. At any rate, I’ll let you know how it actually plays out once I have a chance to visit (the show goes until December).

This is it for an introduction - I will begin tomorrow to detail the events of the past month. Thank you for reading!