So to go to France for longer than 3 months, one needs a visa.
To get a French visa you need to make a 15 min appt. on the consulate website. You can only get an appt on this website. You cannot call. If you call, you will incur the wrath of the French consulate and run the risk of being shot down with croissants and smothered in Brie.
In fact, there is not even a number to inquire about visas. Rather, there is a number, with no human on the other end. Instead there is a recording that says "Look on our website. If you can't find the information on our website you are a dumbass and France does not deal with dumbasses. Try the British embassy instead." Or something to that effect.
So I was understandably nervous when I went to my appt. I woke up at 9:30 am, something I haven't been able to do all summer, and was on the subway at 10:40. shiiiiiiiite. My appt was at 11am! As usual I was late. It's a disease I think. Like alcoholism.
I was late because I got caught up in a discussion with my housekeeper about crime rates in her country. (I'm still not really sure which country she's from...I think I have it narrowed down to Haiti though).
It said specifically on the appt confirmation e-mail I had printed out (which it said I must show to security, although I'm pretty sure someone who really wanted to hang out in the French consulate could have just faked that e-mail with a word document) that it was MY responsibility to be 10 min early. In no uncertain terms, my appt would be canceled if I was late.
But I was late! And I made this appt a month ago and it was the ONLY 15. block left before I had to leave. So I ran from the subway station to 2 Bloor West and frantically pressed the elevator button for the 22nd floor.
In the elevator a women asked me what my major was..
"Um Philosophy, you? Thinking it was sweet of her to make small talk.
"Law" she said. Wow, people are really friendly in Toronto.
And then I exited the 22nd floor and realized that it consisted of a business school. fuuuuck. I looked again at the email. It read
"2 Bloor St. Est #2200".
What the hell is Est? It could be WEST or EAST! Were they missing the W or the A? My already tired brain couldn't process this.
So I ran downstairs and procededed to run down Bloor. By this time it was 11:08 and I knew I was fucked. But I figured I might as well TRY.
I was at 170 Bloor St. East when I realized that I had missed #2. How?
So I ran back in the opposite direction and realized that 2 Bloor East is in the same building as the Bay! How the hell was I supposed to know this?
It was 11:12. I took the elevator to the 22 floor and, sweating in my boyfriend plaid button down, almost shoving a women and her massive stroller out of the way.
I ran into the consulate already planning my excuses. The women at the desk however told me to chill out, that it was fine as long as I was here now.
Ugh. This is so like the French. Acting so regulated but in fact really laid back.
I shoved my papers in through a drawer in between the glass wall separating us and she looked through my papers ( I can't even talk about the application it will just stress me out again. It was all in French. I don't read French very well. I had to photocopy a bunch of papers. Get pictures. Passport. Etc.,")
She couldn't find 2 blank sheets on my passport that the Visa required. Dammit those border control people who aren't considerate enough to stamp each page until it is used up and instead just stamp to whatever random, previously blank page that they open to.
" Just stamp it over that American stamp, whatever, I don't care, they don't care, no one will care"So she told me that in 10 days I had to e-mail them to see if it was ready and then come pick it up.
Whew. Hopefully it won't take longer, because my flight is on the 12th business day and I really don't feel like rescheduling that.
To calm myself down from this ordeal, largely of my own making, I browsed Holts, which thankfully neighboured the consulate. Ahhh staring at the Marc by Marc Jacobs new autumn purses...
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