The Bichier I Get, The More You’ll Love Me

Quite a few of my foreign friends have asked me why French people are so unpleasant to foreigners. I usually tell them not to worry about that. We don’t hate foreigners, we just don’t like people in general. That’s all… And basically French people are as rude towards foreigners as they are towards each-other. That’s the way we like it to be as we were all raised believing that “the bitchier I am, the more you’ll love me”.

Let me give you an example:

Two days ago, during my lunch break, I ran to the police station to make a new ID Card. Because in France, we think it’s logical to make ID cards at the police station you see.

Police woman (in a very customers oriented manner. Not!): Did you bring your Electricity bill, birth certificate, 2 identical ID pictures and your old ID card?

Me (proud, it took me 3 hours on Sunday night to gather all the paperwork): Yes, look it’s all here.

I organize the various useless pieces of paper neatly on the counter.

PW: C’est pas possible, you’re missing your old ID card. You’ll have to come back.

Me: Well, as a matter of fact, I don’t have an old ID card.

PW: How can you not have an old ID card. Has it been stolen? Do you have the official stamped statement that says it has been stolen?

Me: No, it wasn’t stolen, I simply never had an ID card.

PW: So you’re not French then, I thought I heard a little accent

(Clueless bitch)

Me: I am French and my accent is different from yours because we apparently do not come from the same region.

I bend my head on the side and smile.

PW: ha, so where are you from?

Me: Bordeaux

PW: But that’s in France

Me: It is indeed.

PW: So you’re French?

Me: I am indeed.

PW: But you don’t have an ID card?

Me: No, I don’t.

PW: You know you should always have identification on you.

Me: Yes (controlling bitch) I know, that’s why I have a passport, but I don’t always want to carry my passport around so that’s why I need an ID card.

PW: So how come you don’t have an ID card?

Me: Well, I used to have one when I was a kid but I never renewed it.

PW: That’s silly, how can you live without an ID card?

Me: Well for many years I lived overseas where they don’t give a damn about French ID cards, you see.

PW: Well, I’m not supposed to know what these overseas people want and not want.

Me: That’s why I’m telling you.

PW: So give me your passport then.

Of course, that’s when I realize I have left my passport at home. Crap. So much for patronizing her back.

Me: I have left it at home, but it’s not far so I’ll be right back.

She sighs loudly. I run home.

Me: Hi I’m back, here is my passport.

PW: Take a number and wait in line, please.

Me: But I…

PW: … and fill out this (huge) 4 sheet folder (with information that is already included on my birth certificate).

I fill out the form nicely and moan a little.

PW: Number 111 please

I have number 113, but nobody else is sitting there so I go to her counter and sit down.

PW: Are you number 111?

Me: No, I’m 113, but since nobody else is sitting here, I thought…

PW: You should’ve thought that it wasn’t your turn yet, so please go back to your sit and wait till it’s your turn.

Me: Ok, captain.

PW: Number 111?

PW: Number 111, please (she insists)

I smile softly at her waving with my little number

PW: Number 112, please

I’m boiling inside

PW: Number 112!

I stand up and take a sit in front of her. She sighs and moans something to herself.

PW: (she looks at my pieces of paper) These ID photos are not going to be accepted. We cannot continue the process. (read, had she said “c’est pas possible” I’d have pinched her nipples real hard).

Me: You are kidding me right? They were made by an accreditted photographer whose specialty is ID pictures.

PW: But obviously he didn’t do his job well. By the way, there are no accreditted photographers for ID pictures, they tend to accredit themselves, that’s all.

Me: So what is wrong with this photo? I know I look pale and sick in it, but it’s totally ok.

PW: Oh God, you do look pale, but that’s not the problem. First of all, it’s black and white and your left ear is missing. Your face has to be symetrical or the machine won’t understand.

Me: (trying to joke) But what if I had cut my ear, like Van Gogh you know. So that means that Van Gogh couldn’t get an ID card then? Just because a machine doesn’t find it symetrical enough?

PW: Van Gogh wasn’t French so he wouldn’t be allowed to have a French ID card anyway.

I hate it when Police women know about Dutch artists.

Me: (trying to flirt a little bit to make her my friend and accelerate the process): Oh I see you know quite a lot about art. Do you like Van Gogh?

PW: You’ll have to come back with better pictures.

She shows me other people’s files.

PW: Look this man brought good pictures, ok he looks horrible in it, poor man, but at least that’s an official picture.

Me: (getting really pissed off) Now I’ve had it! I can’t believe this is taking so much time, you’ve been sending me back home to get my damn passport, then you make me wait in line again, then you tell me I look pale and that my photos are not official. No wonder people complain about French administration. When I lived in Sweden, I had my ID card done within a day, you can have it done at the bank, the post office, the city hall ie lots of places and THEY TAKE THE ID PHOTO THEMSELVES, THE WAY THEY WANT IT, ACCORDING TO THEIR STANDARDS! They don’t keep on sending me people back and forth like this.

PW: I told you, I don’t know what these overseas people do and don’t do.

I leave the police station and run to the photoshop. Which is closed because it’s lunch time. I have a sandwich while I wait.

At the photoshop

Me: I’d like real official and accreditted ID photos please. With both ears please.

Photoman: Whatever. Sit down.

Click click

Photoman: You look a bit pale. I’ll have to touch it up a little. It’s 6 euros.

Back to the police station I don’t take a number, I don’t wait in line, I go straight to the police woman and put the photos in front of her.

PW: Well, that’s better.

Now that she’s done playing with my nerves, she finally smiles softly.

I leave the police station thinking that I’m starting to like this woman.

See, it works.