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On pulling my hair out in France

Well, it happened. I knew from the get-go that the time would come when Paris would break me, but I laughed off every nudge that suggested as much from expats who’ve been here longer than me — which is just about everyone.

While I love Under the Tuscan Sun for its warm bath of easy viewing, few things in cinema piss me off more than the false pretense Diane Lane set when she spontaneously decided to just stay in Tuscany. (Ladybugs. Lots and lots of ladybugs.) Truth be told, I actually had no real feeling on the matter until September 2022 when I found myself in Tuscany with no desire whatsoever to board my return flight to the US and thus began my Google marathons of “how to move to Europe.” Turns out, unless you’re swimming in money rich and just want to buy a villa in Lake Como à la George Clooney, they really make you work for it.

And now, after all the years it took to make the thing happen, to get the visa, to pack the bags, to say à bientôt les États-Unis, French bureaucracy has come tap dancing down the stairs.

It’s no exaggeration when I say I cried a dozen times this past week. Yes, ok, I cry very easily. But still! Condensed between Monday and Friday, I did my best to not buy out an entire boulangerie’s pain au chocolat supply to cope with the stress that is ensuring every T is crossed as my business becomes a legal entity in France. Last thing I want is discovering I fucked things up and am now in French court for tax evasion.

But no no, that’s not just it. The French healthcare system! Oui! One is not even allowed to think about beginning the registration process until they’ve been in the country longer than three months. And even when you want to fill out the paperwork, to just turn it in, to get going because you know it may be another six months until you receive your Carte Vitale and can fully benefit from a healthcare system that actually respects its patients, there are technicalities and hurdles and utterances of n'est pas possible that have you heading for the boulangerie’s comfort. For all the aches and pains and tears the American healthcare system has given me, you’d think I’d be more resilient, but no, shatter I do, on two continents.

Oh, but why don’t we throw one last heartache into the mix? Why not? She’s already on the floor holding wet tissues. Hop to it: French civics class! Conducted entirely in French, save for the rudimentary single headphone that was surely manufactured in the ‘90s draped over my right ear, funneling in the whispered English translation of the general concepts being taught. Liberté! Égalité! Fraternité! And why even bother with the English translation when the test I’ll be taking at the end of class will be in French and I’m required to pass it to stay in this country past September. Do I know how to talk about civic solidarity, secularism, and national sovereignty in French? Not one bit, but I’ve been trying my damnedest to figure out how with everything I’ve got.

Are we surprised I woke with a migraine?

France keeps showing a little more leg, asking how badly do I want this? Do I have what it takes to live here? How many contradictions and hurdles am I willing to endure in order to stay?

Thank god for my stubbornness because as much as this week has unraveled me, all it really takes is stepping outside and walking a few blocks in this absurdly beautiful city for me to say, “Put me in, coach.”