French Bureaucracy Part 2: Advocating for yourself.
There was a moment, at the latter end of the first six months of my life in Paris, when I woke up and simply began to cry. I only cried for 5 minutes, staring out at the cute little Parisian street view, wiping my tears and allowing myself this little pity party of one. I was completely and utterly exhausted.
I was waiting on several things: the banker (Madame Moreau) to return from her vacation, a social security number so I could set up my healthcare carte vitale, which I could only get once I had official status as a freelance worker and paying taxes, which would only kick in once I had an official address, which I could only confirm once I was living at my new apartment and able to officially receive mail and connect my bank account, which I could only do once both electricity and internet were set up, which I could only do when my banker returned from her vacation so she could set up my account.
It was a never-ending Ouroboros Cycle of one thing not working until the other thing was working, but currently, nothing at all was working.
So on this particular morning, I gave myself 5 minutes to feel sorry for myself and to cry. It was also the first time I was truly aware of how alone I was; while my closest girlfriends and my sister are all highly accomplished and competent people, nobody in my life could truly understand or help with this scenario. I realized how much I had relied on them in the past; they were always a phone call away if I had any questions relating to finances, taxes, banking, or jobs. While they were all still very much there for me, starting my life completely over from scratch in France, during a pandemic nonetheless, meant that I was very alone in my struggles.
I shyly admitted this to a fellow expat girl I had met in Paris. “Sometimes I wake up, and I cry for a few minutes; I’m so stressed out,” I told her. She knew immediately what I meant and told me it had been the same for her.
“France makes it purposefully extremely difficult to integrate; they want to weed out the weak with this insane process,” she told me. “You’ll see, it will seem like nothing is working for months and you are wading through endless amounts of bullshit and paperwork, but then one day, everything will click, and suddenly, it will all work at once.”
I appreciated her soothing words, but I had trouble believing her. I was about to move into my studio, and I had no bank account, healthcare card, social security number, not to mention running electricity. And I still didn’t even have a proper French work contract. I was waking up in sheer panic every day with the clock ticking down.
When I finally heard back from Madame Moreau that she had returned from her vacation, she scheduled our meeting for a mere two days before my apartment move-in date. I was at a complete loss as to what to do and was petrified that I was going to move in with no electricity.
And then I learned the single most important lesson that France taught me: to advocate for myself and push back against the status quo, refusing to accept a “no” or “it is not possible now.”
It would not be an exaggeration to say that France kind of turns you into a Karen.
Deciding that two days before move-in was way too close for comfort, a week before my actual move-in date, I marched into my local branch on a Tuesday (because of course, Mondays they are closed) and demanded to see Madame Moreau, saying it was an urgent matter. The receptionist found her, and after I politely introduced myself, I told her in carefully practiced French, “I am about to move into a new apartment and cannot get electricity running without a French bank account; you have to help me today. Please.”
To my tremendous shock, she agreed immediately and even apologized for the delay. She ushered me into a private room and got me set up within 30 minutes, being incredibly kind and patient with my limited French throughout the entire process. I left with a stack of paperwork and a sticky note where she had carefully written my RIB and all other pertinent numbers because, “of course, it will take a few weeks to get your online account set up” (I had to be sent a passkey via paper mail, and only THEN could I have an online account).
But it was done. Roughly six months after I had arrived, I had a French bank account.
I practically ran back to get in front of my laptop and immediately set up an account with Engie, the electricity provider. I was notified that power had turned on right away, to my great delight. I added all the banking information to my account with URSSAF, the organization that would track my freelance contributions. I was also now able to get set up on Ameli, the healthcare website.
Suddenly, everything was clicking, everything was working.
Finally, I chose an internet provider. I picked a budget option that would run me 24€/month for decent internet. To my great horror, the only appointment they had available to send someone to set up my internet box was two weeks from now.
I had a multitude of work Zoom calls scheduled with the company I was consulting for, highly important calls. I was terrified to tell my boss I didn’t have internet, with the job situation so precarious. In addition, I did not yet have a French phone number (also not possible without a French bank account), so I couldn’t even book the appointment because I had no number for the service technician to call.
Again, I would love to say everything magically worked out from here, but no.
Which is why I will continue this saga of French bureaucratic trauma in Part 3.
How to advocate for yourself in France:
- Be aware that the French will always tell you “no” at first. To everything. Like, even the most absurd of things. Push back, demand explanations, fight your case. They will often crumble, and the “no” turns into a “yes.”
- Go into the actual bureaucratic office and demand to see someone who can help you. They can refuse an infinite number of times via email/paper mail/phone, but they tend to be much more helpful at the actual offices. However, be prepared to wait for a long time to be seen (the tax office is the ninth circle of hell for this).
- Charming them helps. I often repeat how much I love France, and I want to make sure I do everything the right way (which is not a lie). You will also be seen in a much better light if you can speak in French, so practice your phrases and learn the vocabulary.
- It is really okay to cry.
- Put all your energy into getting a phone number and bank account first; everything else hinges on these two things.
