The Famous French Paperwork: Exchanging a Foreign Drivers Licence to a French One (and a Warning)

Those who are fortunate enough to lead blissful lives of never having to encounter French documentation are probably unaware that any paperwork procedure over here requires a growing pile of photocopies, passport-sized photographs, several envelopes, stamps, blood, urine and stool samples, digital eye scans, swearing over your first-born child (with multiple passport-sized photos of said child), even, on occasion, selling your soul to the Devil. All of this documentation will take a minimum of six to eight weeks to process, if not longer.

I've been here nearly four years now and have the worker visas and medical visits to prove it. In those four years, I've also lived a very car-less existence, relying on public transportation, trains or even my own two feet to travel anywhere. I can certainly expound on the pros of not owning a car: not having to make any monthly payments on a loan, not having to worry about it breaking down and taking it to a mechanic for maintenance or repairs, and not having to pay for gas/petrol.

That being said, as a 27-year-old craving some more independence to be able to travel, I am beginning to seriously consider burdening myself with owning a car in France. I still have my old car in Miami, which I use whenever I visit my mother for a few weeks every year, and truth be told, I relish those days when I have my own car.

It all started when I went to my bank to see if I could be approved for a loan to purchase my own car. I figured that with my American (Floridian) drivers licence and the International Drivers Permit, I could at least be able to invest in a vehicle of my own. My bank approved the car loan which also included insurance on any vehicle I wanted to own.

But then came the hitch: "Do you have a French drivers licence?" I answered that I did not have the infamous pink paper known as the permis de conduire, only my Floridian one with the International Drivers Permit.

"We can only provide insurance on the car if you have a French drivers licence."

"Ah."

"And if your car doesn't have insurance, you might as well not have the car at all."

"Of course."

Slightly deflated, I then asked my bank clerk what I would have to do to obtain a French drivers licence and was informed that any questions regarding exchanging a foreign licence to a French one would require visiting the Préfecture. I'm perfectly familiar with having to visit the Préfecture. I even did so last summer when I had to renew my working permit visa in Le Mans.

However, for me, going to the Préfecture in Le Mans means taking a train. So, I took a train, went to Le Mans, made a beeline for the Préfecture and took a number. Once it was my turn to be attended, I walked to the friendly Préfecture worker who asked me questions about my licence.

"What country does it come from?"

"The United States."

"Ah, which state in the United States?"

"Florida."

"Okay. I have to verify if Floridian licences are valid for the exchange. Some states are allowed and others are not."

Uh-oh, I thought. Could they know that I passed my drivers exam with a car with automatic transmission instead of stick shift? Would that discredit my licence? My heart thumped harder in my chest. The clerk typed the information on the keyboard and I held my breath for the verdict.

"Okay, it's good. Florida qualifies for the exchange."

I sighed with relief. The interview continued.

"Are you a student here in France?"

"No, actually, I work here."

"Have you been here for at least six months?"

"More than that. I've been here for almost four years."

The smile fell from her face.

"So, you've renewed your visa in the past?"

"Yes."

"Four times?"

"Yes..."

That's when the first bad news came.

"I see. You were supposed to have made the drivers licence exchange within your first year of living in France. After that, your licence is no longer valid."

I only wish I could have had a camera capture the stunned look on my face.

"What?"

"You needed to have made the transfer during your first year in France. You've been living here too long as a worker to have the process be done."

"Ah."

"A couple of exceptions would have been that you were here as a student or that you were a French person with a foreign licence. But you've been working here for more than a year. Therefore, the exchange cannot be done."

"Ah."

"Didn't anybody tell you this?"

OBVIOUSLY FUCKIN' NOT, my brain screamed. Because when you first arrive to France in CDG-Roissy Airport, the first question you're asked by the passport control officer isn't "Are you planning to remain in France for more than a year and, if so, are you going to drive a car?" 

I figured a sardonic remark would have worked against me in the situation and instead replied with  "No, no one told me of this. I didn't know about this!"

"Well, in order to get a French licence, first you'll have to pass the code and eventually the road test. The good thing is that since you have a previous licence, you don't have to do the compulsory twenty hours of driving school."

Oh, joy.

As an added note of irony, I have to point out that I have always been curious to see what it must be like to go through the whole process of getting a French drivers licence and learning the exam questions. Now I've got no choice but to do so.

I wasn't going to let this bad news get me down.

"I see. Well, at least I have the International Permit with me, so in case I need to drive--"

"Oh, no," the clerk cut. "Your licence became invalid after the first year. That means that you cannot drive in France with it. At all."

"Ah."

"And if you were to do so, you'd be breaking the law."

I died a little inside after being informed that my perfectly good forty-eight dollar rectangular piece of plastic acquired from the DMV had been rendered absolutely useless. I may not have had the opportunity to use it, but I liked at least knowing that I could count on it when the time to drive with it came.

"Ah. Well, it's lucky for me that I don't own a car nor that I have driven in France with it."

As it is, no thanks to sheer ignorance, I am faced with having to do the whole process from scratch. Looking at the bright side, at least this means that I will be very well-versed in French driving rules and will become even more integrated into the culture once I obtain my licence.

In the meantime, my dreams of getting a car are on hold and I will have to keep using the buses, trains and my own two feet.

Or maybe I should just get a pimpin' Dutch bike and call it a day.

So, to any recently-arrived foreigners who plan to remain in France for more than a year, think about getting your drivers licence exchanged within the first year of your stay. Don't let the same thing that happened to me happen to you.

Bonne chance.

Barb the French Bean

It's No Fun Being an (Almost) Illegal Alien

On my birthday, I had a job interview and it went well. The company showed interest to keep me on board to become a part of their crew. However, the one issue that had been dogging me was the fact that I needed one crucial document: a work contract. Without this golden ticket, I could not logically file all of my paperwork.

Still, the company requested that I go to la Préfecture the day after the interview to see what information I could muster. For one fleeting moment, I honestly had some hope instilled in me.

In my quest to prolong my visa's expiration date, I have decidedly come to one conclusion: France possesses, hands down, one of the most cryptic paperwork bureaucracies that I have EVER dealt with.

This should come as no surprise to me seeing as how I already had the fortunate encounters with requesting a Carte Vitale (for which I am still waiting), filing for the CAF , requesting another visa from the French consulate in Miami, and eventually getting a second yellow OFII sticker in my passport. Yet a carte de séjour resides in its own category of photocopy championships. In order to obtain the information to make my dreams come true of residing in France for a longer period of time, a trip to la Préfecture was an inevitable stop in my journey. La Préfecture is essentially the gathering point for anyone who wishes to have a driver's license, a renewed identification card and, in the case of foreigners, visas and political asylum. I, however, think that it's a waterhole for mothers clutching their hysterically screaming toddlers and for downtrodden, sullen-faced men. Once I walked through the door into a stuffy room filled with a crowd of people either slumped on plastic chairs or standing stoicly until they were called. I knew that I was going to have to wait my turn. I yanked off a ticket with a number. 538.

I automatically glanced at the front desk to see if an illuminated panel would display the current number. There was none. Even my effing deli counter at the supermarket has the counter and this place didn't. Instead, I saw only one frustrated lady sitting behind the glass partition. I felt quite sorry for her because she seemed to be handling everyone who was in the room.

I sat down on the uncomfortable chair. Only twice in my life have been affronted with a language situation in which I could not understand what was being spoken around me. The first time was during my week-long experience in Italy. Here, in la Préfecture, I heard African mothers hushing their babies to be silent, a henna-tattooed woman excitedly jabbering away in Arabic to her family and even a toddler excitedly jibbering to her veiled mother in what I assume was Urdu. Admist this group of foreigners, I felt quite lonely.

"Numéro 512," called the lady. She didn't even have a loudspeaker to amplify her voice!

I looked down at my own number again. 538. Yep. I had a wait of 26 people ahead of me...

Nearly two hours later, I heard the heavenly call of my turn. I quickly explained my situation and the lady robotically handed me a sheet of paper listing what I had to do, a.k.a., all the photocopies I needed to make.

The itemized shopping list documents requested are as follows:

-A valid passport (a photocopy and the real one)

-Photocopy of the current visa

-Photocopy of the OFII sticker

-Photocopy of my birth certificate (translated into French)

-3 passport-sized photos

-A self-addressed, stamped envelope

-A photocopy of my housing contract

-A photocopy of my landlord's utilities' bill

-A photocopy of my landlord's identification card

-Photocopies of my last three pay stubs

-A photocopy of my work contract or a "promesse de travail"

That last document was the only one pending. I rushed back to company to report the news and to see if they would finally sign a contract. They only dropped a bomb: "We hesitate to sign a contract because we want to have a guarantee that you will still remain in France for a longer period of time."

Uh, seriously? You expect me to try to stay longer in France when I don't have the paperwork to do so? Why do you think I just came from la Préfecture with this information? Couldn't you even sign a "promesse de travail" in which you will offer me a real contract once the Préfecture has granted me a titre de séjour?

They must have sense my discouragement and shock because they immediately made a photocopy of my paper (how typically French) and then asked me to check up with them the following Tuesday.

I looked down at my list again. It wasn't clear whether the 3 bulletins de salaire were for my current job or the one I was currently seeking. The following Monday, I returned to la Préfecture with my French friend Janine. We decided to meet up at 9 to avoid any large lines; that only proved futile because the waiting room was just as packed as the day I had gone. Luckily, the woman next to us couldn't wait any longer and she gave us her ticket. Janine handled the situation like a pro! She asked all the questions that I could only incorrectly conjugate in my head! She was even able to pry out the information that I couldn't get out! April 15th wasn't the "official" last day so I apparently still had more time to sort out the paperwork information.

Lesson learned: get a French friend to go with you for government purposes. Who better to deal with French paperwork than the natives themselves?

Once I got to my job, I sent an e-mail to the company saying how I would pass by Tuesday morning. They only told me to come in on Friday because they would be quite busy this week. I had a little moment of panic. Why were they prolonging this for me? Perhaps they just wanted to see if I would find another job in the meantime so I could leave them alone?

To make a long, boring story short: I didn't get the contract and I didn't get the job that I had interviewed for this Friday. I have been feeling so heartbroken these days due to how my brief moment of hope was taken from me.

And this rollercoaster story, my friends, is why I haven't blogged in almost two months with a proper set of brand-new cartoons. I have honestly been far too occupied and worried about what will happen next in my life. I don't want to leave France.

-Barb the French Bean