Red Tape? More please!

Thus came to an end my first week in France. Much as I would like to blame my strange sleeping habits on jet lag, I have adjusted to the new time zones. If only every adjustment moved at such a natural pace. Of course, I studied a significant amount of French in college - enough to say just about anything that I need to - albeit sometimes in a rather inelegant manner. So why, then, was I surprised to hear that here, in France everybody speaks, well, French. Maybe surprised isn't quite the right word, but nonetheless the auditory sight of everyone around me jibber jabbering away in that other language that I speak reamains somewhat surreal. Oh yeah, nobody spoke English in Madagascar, but I knew that I didn't speak Malagasy, so there was no real point in straining my ears and my mind trying to decipher the words flying back and forth through the air. If people needed me they new they could reach me in French. Life was easy. Now, though, I actually do speak the language that everyone around me does, although about 30% as well. What hidden instructions may be hidden in each and every interaction I have with someone. What long list of things will go wrong if I don't correctly comprehend each little detail. Enter stress stage left. Never before have I been so hyper-conscious of the words coming out of my mouth nor of the words filtering in. When I went to a one day orientation for all the language assistants stationed in Picardy (the region in France in which I live), speaking English again was like a glass of iced tea on a hot summer day or [insert simile of choice].

On a less psychological level, this country is in love with its paperwork. I already applied for and received a visa before I left - but it's only good for three months in France - not sufficient for my seven. Therefore I have to apply for my carte de sejour, my residence permit or green card if you will. Fine, well, before I can apply for carte de sejour I have to have opened up a bank account in France. Well, apparently it's the national law (or something) that you have to have a carte de sejour before you are able to open an account. Well, with a little fancy footwork including signed contracts from my school, attestations that I had a place to live in France and some who do you know type stuff going on, the bank account is in the process of moving forward. Now getting back to my carte de sejour, I have to have a medical examination (before which I have to have enrolled in the social security program here which also requires a bank account) and a translated copy of my birth certificate. Of course the translator lives in another town, so the delays add up. Luckily for me though, on a rough week I only work 12 hours a week and suffice it to say that while my contract started on Wednesday the expectation that I be in the classroom ready to go (thankfully) did not. So, with many a trip to the office to beg (the secretary) Sylvie's help, I am on my way to successfully, I hope, navigating that treacherous sea of paperwork.