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

I'm a Legal Immigrant Again...and Obese (A.K.A. Trip to Nantes)

For the third time in my American life, I found myself with the task of having to pay a visit to my good friends at the Office Français de l'Immigration et de l'Intégration (the OFII), and a couple of things have changed since my last doctor's appointment back in 2010.

For starters, this round of The Famous French Paperwork featured the sticker which validates my current visa. It changed. It is no longer a yellow sticker with an adhesive transparent covering; it is a multi-colored sticker that is divided into small, tear-away bits to prevent people from falsifying any documents.

Of course having original documents is part and parcel of the deluge of passport-sized photos and photocopies involved in la bonne paperasse française.

Barb the French Bean Fact: I keep two passport-sized photos in my wallet at all times.

Well, not at all times. Here is this one exception:

Wallet and photos. Never leave home without 'em. 

As of this writing, the pictures have been safely tucked away into my wallet's interior once more. I provide so many photos that I have seriously begun to consider buying my own photomaton picture booth so it can provide me with an infinite number of passport-sized photos for the rest of my life.

As for the doctor's appointment (la visite medicale), I learned that the procedure of having to go topless for the tuberculosis X-rays was still intact. In case you were wondering, my lungs are fine.

Back in that fateful November 2010 day, I also had the joy of finding out that I had lost a total 44 pounds (20 kilos) since I had started to work out during the summer months. My celebration was later crushed by Dr. Killjoy when she stated clinically that I was overweight and that I still needed to lose another 30 pounds (14-15 kilos).  

Like I said, a couple of things have changed since I visited the familiar OFII in Dijon and replaced it with the one in Nantes. Based on the scale, I am no longer overweight if not OBESE. Yes, my BMI teeters above 30, which automatically places me in the "obese" category. At least I am making my country proud with the stereotype that all Americans are overweight or obese.

This is the cartoon I made when I was told  by the doctor to lose more weight two years ago. The sad part is that I actually resemble the cartoon in real life now...

Not only was facing the hard truth a wake up call, when the doctor pricked my finger to sample my blood, she informed me that my sugar level was 3 points above what should be normal for someone my age.

For those of you not in the know, I'm currently 25 years old. I probably shouldn't be hearing things like that.

If that doesn't send up a proverbial red flag, then I don't know what does. 

Not wanting to slide down the proverbial slippery slope and end up with a dreaded case of "diabeetus" by the time I'm 33 (ack), I asked the doctor if she could direct me to a nutritionist, STAT.

The French doctor, being very keen about prevention and keeping people healthy with effective socialized medicine, wrote a referral in heartbeat. I'm supposed to take it to my general practitioner, which I will do once I have one.

This act, to my knowledge, is known as "envoyer quelqu'un chez un généraliste vers un spécialiste." The "spécialiste" in this scenario would be le nutritionniste, and if I know my French doctors, le généraliste will give me plenty of ordonnances so I can have some happy pills medicine.

Weight and blood sugar issues aside, I'm in relatively tip-top health and the doctor complimented on how well I spoke and understood French. She said that I had the makings of someone who could reside in France in the long-run, and that made my heart all a-flutter to hear such a nice thing.

Right after the visite medicale, I took the initiative and purchased myself a nifty pedometer (un podomètre) so I can keep track of how many steps I take and calories I burn a day. Some of the crucial first steps to a successful weight loss are being honest with yourself and being aware of your actions. I think of it this way: the chocolate binges that I don't partake in today means that I will be able to enjoy them 40 to 50 years from now. (Now I only have to stop eating so many alcoholic chocolates and slices of fluffy brioche with apricot jam...)


I also purchased a copy of The Hunger Games in French, which made me one very happy French Bean.

Happy France gives an approximation of where things are

Visiting Nantes, by the way, was a personal Francophile dream come true. Not only did I revel in the historical significance of being in THE city where Henri IV of Navarre signed the famous edict, thereby giving a short-lived peace between the Catholics and the Protestant Huguenots, I also took some lovely photographs about the Duchesse Anne castle, former seat for the Dukes of Brittany.

The monument on the right is Nantes's tribute to its fallen soldiers.

I really liked this wall.

My mother often complains that whenever I travel, I take approximately 10,000 photos of my surroundings and only 1 of myself. LOOK. PROOF THAT I WAS BY THE WALL.

Inside the courtyard area!

LOOK. PROOF THAT I WAS IN THE COURTYARD AREA.

April 13th, 1598: the day when the Edict of Nantes was signed, granting religious tolerance to Protestants.  

'Tis an awesome well.

The museum is closed on Mondays. It made me sad but gave me an incentive to return someday.

View over the wall. Things sure have changed since Henri IV was around.

Banner showing some Breton symbols.

Old and new side-by-side.

Outside of the castle, I took a left turn and walked further into the city.

I found it kinda odd that the statue of the Duchesse Anne faced a run-down, graffiti-littered hotel that bears her name.

What the heck?

As usual, the French don't disappoint when they decorate their buildings in scaffolding. 

Another moment of serendipity: I realized that based on the architectural style, this building's a former covered market (les halles).

After my doctor's appointment, I headed back to the train station but took a detour into the park. My brain went into an unfiltered "OMG IT'S FALL AND TREES AND STUFF" mode.

Do NOT get between goats and their chow.

I never expected to find a Cypress tree in France. 

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Being in Nantes, walking in a bustling city that I had only read about in textbooks when I sat in my university classes, made me feel like a kid at a Disney World candy shop. As a Floridian who has been to Disney World eight times, it's a familiar sentiment. France is the country where I truly relish living.


Another memorable point to my day in Nantes: out of curiosity, I stopped by a Breton language school and asked the kind and proud Bretonne lady some things about the Celtic-origin language that is taught and still actively-spoken in France. We ended up reminiscing for half an hour about the values of being an open-minded bi-lingual person and how the knowledge of several languages benefits being able to interact with all kinds of people.

I also walked out of the Ofis ar Brezhoneg with these snazzy "Learn Breton" pamphlets.

The language is absolutely incomprehensible to me, but maybe I'll buck up and try to learn it someday. Some of my co-workers are Bretons themselves so maybe I can ask them for tips, especially from the cute one.

Kenavo (good-bye) from Barb the French Bean