The French Visa Process Is A Nightmare: Part I

I have gotten two separate French visas in the last two years. And both times it was like entering all nine levels of hell. I can't speak about others' experiences with the French visa process nor with visas in general. I am speaking from my own experience here so take this with a grain of salt. 

The first time I applied for a student visa (I would be studying in Aix-en-Provence) was back in October of 2013. In order to apply for a visa through the French consulate, you need to make an appointment online and meet with a series of people in person. The closest consulate was a two hour drive to Washington, DC. I filled out the paperwork posted on the consulate's website and made my appointment a few weeks in advance. My mom drove me to DC with my envelope of papers, my stupid face full of anticipation and excitement. I was going to DC to get my visa. Easy peasy. Everything seemed to be going swell. Or so I thought. 

It would not be swell. 

When we got to the gate at the consulate, the man inside the gate angrily told us that my mother could not come in with me. Not even on the grounds. Ok, I thought. No problem. I’m twenty years old. An adult. I could do this on my own. What's the worst that could happen? 

After getting a VISA badge, I walked up a little hill to the entrance of the consulate. Inside was a overly air-conditioned waiting room, where I took a number. No longer a name, I thought. That’s cool. I took my seat amongst 25 other numbers in silence and waited to be called. Actually, no. It wasn’t silent, because another girl my age, was sniffling and crying. It seemed as if she didn't have a paper she needed. I felt bad for the girl. Little did I know, In a few moments, I would become her. 

I waited in that room for about 25 minutes before my number was called. When I went up to the first booth, a man behind glass brusquely asked for one of the papers I had. He had an honest-to-God mustache and everything. Unfortunately for both of us, I couldn’t understand him. “I’m Sorry?” I asked apologetically, “Which one?” He looked at me with disdain and pointed at the paper he wanted. I gave it to him. He asked for the next one. I still didn’t understand him. I don’t know if it was his accent, or the bad quality of the microphone he was using to communicate through the glass wall between us.  Probably, it was both. In either case, he took my entire folder and started rifling through my paperwork, furiously making piles. “You don’t have the visa application!” he yelled. “Come back when you have the visa application!” 

What was I supposed to do? I didn’t have the visa application. This was 100% my fault. But my computer and printer were a two-hour car ride away. So I said, “Um, I-” The man cut me off by shoving an application through his little window. I think I said a quick thanks and then sat back down. I went out to the lobby in search of a pen. I found one at the receptionist’s desk. She was the only one who was remotely nice to me. 

I filled out the application to the best of my ability, but I left a few things blank because I didn’t know a few of the answers like "What is the address where you will be staying in France?". When I was called to go back up to the grumpy man, I was unsteady to say the least. I glanced over at a boy who was tearing up beside me. This is not a nice place, I thought. 

“This application is not filled out!” the man said. “Um, I didn’t know what to put for these-” The man started yelling at me again. And that’s when I felt them. The tears. They were inevitable. Oh no. No, no, I thought, I’m gonna cry. And I did. 

Instead of empathy, the man just looked at me and said, “Stop CRYING!” I was so shocked, I think I did stop crying. No complete stranger had ever yelled at me like that before. But I suppose if you're mean and your place of employment is this horrible, young adults in tears becomes sort of mundane. 

I spoke to another woman who was 100 times nastier and more horrible. It was unimaginable. I wasn’t crying anymore. I was just angry. In their defense, I did not have everything I needed. But that does not mean I, or anyone else for that matter, deserves to be treated like that. 

Anyway, I seemed to have most of what I needed. Until the woman asked me for my ENVELOPE. What envelope? I didn’t have an envelope. Turns out I needed a special ENVELOPE from the post office if I ever wanted to see my passport again. 

I left the consulate in a sort of daze. After meeting up with my mom, I told her what had happened. What could we do? I needed this ENVELOPE. We went in search of a post office. When we finally found one, there was a different crying girl in there with her mother buying an ENVELOPE as well. My mom and I looked at each other.  I shook my head in awe. This was nuts.

Turns out that, yes. On the French Consulate’s website at the very bottom of the page in small print, it says to bring an envelope. I got my visa eventually. And some emotional scarring, but hey. Sometimes you've gotta jump through some hoops I guess. 

*As I have told this story to my friends and family, people have the tendency to say “Oh it’s those French people. The French are rude.” No. The French Consulate People have a Napoleon Complex. (Get it? Napoleon. They're French. LOL.) Not all French people are rude. France has nice people and rude people just like everywhere else. But, in my personal experience, the French Consulate People are doing a great job of perpetuating that particular stereotype.