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Lorraine Mace |
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A Red Tape Tangle |
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“We haven’t experienced any French bureaucracy,” we boasted to friends, all of whom had been partially strangled by red tape. We’d received our Cartes de Séjour with minimum fuss, the lady at the Préfecture being so helpful that we were there only 15 minutes. Five days later our temporary cards were at the Mairie, the long-term version arriving three weeks after that. One visit to the caisse primaire d’Assurance Maladie (CPAM) and we’d entered the French medical system. We opened a bank account with ease. Purchased a house and arranged insurance without any difficulty whatsoever. We bought a car, and along with the car keys were handed our Carte Grise. Seemingly immune to French bureaucracy, our friends found us insufferable. Then we moved département. Presenting ourselves at the Angoulême CPAM office to change our address, we were told that we’d have to apply for a new Carte Vitale. We returned the next day with the necessary paperwork. Everything, that is, except the form E121, which was held by CPAM in Périgueux. “Tant pis!” shrugged the clerk, on hearing this. We would have to retrieve the E121 from the Dordogne. But there was some good news. An official visited our town of Villebois-Lavalette each Thursday afternoon, and would be able to assist us. I telephoned to the Dordogne office to arrange collection of the form. “Mais, oui,” they held our E121, “mais, non,” they couldn’t give it to us. It had to be requested by the Charente CPAM authorities. There was nothing more we could do until we met with our travelling bureaucrat. We realised we were going to have problems as soon as we saw his desk. Rigidity was the order of the day; even his paperclips were sorted by size. He proudly showed us his special pen case, designed to keep the red pens from fraternising with the blues or blacks. Pencil points were sharpened to dangerous weapon state, and papers were placed with such precision that each edge aligned perfectly. “C’est absurde,” he declared, when we explained that the Dordogne needed an official request for the E121. Returning home, I tried telephoning Périgueux again, but they would only release the form through official channels. Stalemate. “Could a telephone conversation between you and your Charente counterpart not resolve the deadlock?” I asked. “Oui,” agreed Périgueux, but the Charente would have to call him. I raced back to the office. Closed. The following Thursday I tried my feminine wiles, but to no avail. Derek felt they lost a little something in the translation. The Charente would not request the form; the Dordogne should forward it. Would he not speak to his opposite number in Périgueux? Yes, but only if Périgueux were to telephone him. In the meantime our medical expenses were mounting. The Dordogne wouldn’t pay because we were no longer in their département, and the Charente wouldn’t pay because we didn’t have an E121. Our friends, declaring it a well-deserved judgement, were enjoying our frustration. Complaining to a French friend about the bureaucracy hanging heavy on us, I gave red tape a literal translation of ruban rouge. The result was spectacular. “Vous?” he exclaimed, kissing me on both cheeks. “C’est magnifique!” he chuckled, before fleeing to share the joke with his wife. Bewildered, I looked up ruban rouge in the dictionary. I’d awarded myself the ribbon of the Legion d’honneur. The E121 issue was finally resolved when a kind lady in Newcastle cancelled the original and issued a new one. We made a photocopy before handing it over. You never know, we might want to move again one day. © Lorraine Mace 2004 |
