The Visa.

The Visa.

Oh a post is well overdue isn’t it?  Thank you all who reached out and asked when something else was coming.  Truth is, since returning to Canada from the South Pacific adventure at Easter, I have done a lot but really didn’t feel it was something that would interest readers.  It has felt wonderful to connect with old friends and colleagues, some of whom I hadn’t seen in decades, especially so when time allowed us a leisurely catch up which wasn’t always possible, but we all did our best juggling life, commitments, and schedules.  After all, not everyone has this indulgent, retiree time on their hands!   I have been to the Prairies, BC, Mexico, bopped around Ontario and all the while, brewing in the background was the effort to gain what seems like an elusive long stay visa to France.

Backing up, filling in some of the blanks………. I have done 3 (?) 90 day, short term visits to France.  These don’t require any sort of official paperwork and are referred to as short term visas.  And that 90 access applies to just about all of the countries in Europe so, for example, one can’t go to France for 90 days and then on to Portugal.  When the 90 days is up you basically must leave Europe.  And you have to leave for 90 days before you are permitted to return to any European country.   That worked fine the first time as I was still working, had taken a leave of absence, and had to return to my career.  But the next couple of times I needed a plan for what to do and where to go when my 90 days was up.  And even that worked out okay as I did travel and meet up with people I wanted to see.  But really, how long does one want to be completely nomadic??

Now pretty much all of this time I have been working on a visa that would allow me to stay a year, renewable from within France.  So in the early months of 2022 I filled out the online application and waited and waited and waited…… and heard nothing.  And it turns out I heard nothing as what I didn’t realize was that in conjunction with that application I had to book an appointment with the agency that the French government, and many other governments including Canada, is contracted with to vet all of the applications.  They make sure all of the necessary documents are in order before sending it to the Consulate for a decision.   Ah duh.   So once I figured this out I redid the application and tried to book an appointment in one of the 4 French Consulates- Montreal, Toronto, Ottawa and Vancouver (tho to be honest my heart was never in crossing the country to get an appointment when there are three centres much closer to where I was living in NB at the time).   And guess what?  There were never any appointments available.  Like never.  Not in any of the cities.  I would check and check and check and be so disappointed, and discouraged, at the lack of ability to get in front of someone.

So 2022 passes into 2023….. in November I headed back to France for three months so parked the Visa quest.  When I left in February for New Zealand I still didn’t check (what was the point when they only open two weeks of their calendar at a time?).   But as that trip started to wind down I did start to look and lo and behold, there were TONS of openings in Toronto.  Perfecto.  So I booked one, got my info together and off I headed for my Bloor Street appointment on May 19^th.  So intimidating.  The office itself is modest but there was a security person at the door refusing entry to anyone who didn’t have a confirmation of booking letter.  Finally, my turn was called and oh dear, there was a check list (who knew?  Actually I probably should have known but the whole process really had me flummoxed).  Of course I was missing things off the check list so dejected I left and headed for a visit with Claire in Ottawa.  Good timing.  A real spirit lifter hanging with her.  And a chance to reset and start over.

So once again I went online to make an appointment for Toronto and nothing.  Zilch.  Zero.  But ah ha!  Ottawa had openings so I made one and headed back to Burlington as planned where my ever so patient and detail-oriented aunt helped me with putting together my application package.  Emily couriered me from France a sworn document proving, in essence, that they had room to accommodate me (which wasn’t my intent, to live with them, but with no address to present this was my only option).  Mercifully that document arrived a few days before my appointment.  I printed out document after document showing I had private investments so I would not be a financial burden to the French social services system.  And to be safe I printed out a statement from end of 2022, Q1 2023 and year to date to end of May 2023.  I contacted my pension plan and had them send me a letter stating what my pension income is.  I printed off what I am eligible to collect from CPP should I choose.  I purchased expat medical insurance, opting for in patient coverage only (I will pay to see a doctor on my own I reasoned, as this would be cheaper than paying a monthly premium for that privilege).  I had Emily’s long form birth certificate (which is different than the little wallet ones most of us have) in an original showing our relationship.  I had every page of my passport copied as requested.  I had  headshot photos. And all of this, except the birth certificate, I had in duplicate; a package for them and a package for me.  My corporate training serves me well sometimes.

The appointed date, July 9^th finally arrived, and Claire drove me to the modest Ottawa office.  I could have driven but honestly, I was so nervous it was nice to have a chauffeur.  Again, the same process of security at the door but I was good, I had my appointment letter in hand and ready to present.  Into the crowded little waiting room I go, nervously watching others also restlessly waiting for their appointment.  Like the Toronto office this one was handling applications for various European countries so it wasn’t like I was able to look around and go – Wow, we all want to go to France!

Finally, I was called in and the young woman began to review my package.  Check; the letter saying I would not work in France.  Check; the photocopied passport.  But wait, no check on all of my investment evidence because, surprise surprise, they wanted bank statements not investment statements.  (Nowhere did it say this btw.  It never occurred to me that investments wouldn’t even weigh in as proof of financial independence.)  The young woman helped me print off information on a couple of my bank accounts which only showed a portion of what I had readily available.  (Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have hundreds of thousands spilling out of accounts but through some hard work and luck I have a little slush fund that allows me to travel without leaning heavily on my investments.  After all, they have to see me through another 30 years!)  And my health insurance, all of those printed pages?  She rifled through seemingly looking for evidence of one thing, that I have coverage to be repatriated back to Canada should the need arise.  (Touch wood, it never will.)  And the document Em had scrambled to complete and get notarized and couriered to me?  ‘Why did it only say she would house me for 90 days? “I was asked. ‘ Because that’s all she was allowed to put according to the officials in her local region.’ I nervously replied. (Which was perplexing even to me because for 90 days one doesn’t even need to go through the visa process.  Insert shrugging emoji here.)  The clerk quickly gave me a piece of paper and a pen and directed that I write out that my intent is to get my own place in those 90 days.  Gheesh.  All those hours of preparing and it comes down to quickly adding this handwritten letter to my application. 

Alright.  I managed to get through that stage and was ushered into a room for electronic finger printing and retina scanning.  This man told me I might hear a response in two and a half weeks and the response could be anything from- rejection, we need more information/ acceptance for somewhere up to a year/acceptance for a year. 

The waiting game began.

I didn’t think about it too much the first two weeks, figuring the turn around would never be that quick.  Week 3 started and I was like – This could be the week!  But no, it slumbered its way to a close just as the long weekend in July was beginning and no word on my application.  The following week I was like- Okay, this week for sure!  (I am nothing if not optimistic!)  But no, week 5 wound down with no word…..  Week 6 I am like-‘ Maybe I need a backup plan here?’  Then voila!   A notice saying my application had been processed and was in the hands of UPS to deliver!  Hallelujah!  The end, regardless of what it was, was in sight!  But it was 24 hours before my UPS account (set up just for this purpose, it’s not as if I have a lot of need to courier things in and or out of whatever place I am staying) finally showed that they had a package for me.  The next day nothing had changed; status still showed that I would be updated on delivery.  Sigh.  No update that morning until, suddenly, it changed to Out for Delivery!  No warning. No heads up.  It was on its way to my home away from home in Burlington.  Only trouble was, by then I was two hours away at Stratford getting ready to go see the musical Rent.  (Classic.  Catch it if ever you can.)  A quick call to my uncle, and he and my brother-in-law who happened to be passing through, agreed to wait for the delivery and would get a message to us as soon as it had arrived.

I was a nervous wreck by then.  So much hinged on this.  Was I going back to France this month as planned and staying the usual 90 days?  What was I going to do for the following 90 days when I had to leave Europe?  Or was I going to be able to go and put down some European roots, close to Emily and her lovely French family (including of course, darling Toddler Nina)?  I prepared myself for either scenario; after all, when things are out of your control focus on the controllables is about all one can do.

The show ended and an immediate check to my email showed the package had been delivered.  This was it.  The verdict was in.  Now not only were we two hours away but consensus from the carload of women was we needed to check out the local Value Village.  After all, Stratford is a bit of an up-market town so who knows what treasures awaited?  (Turns out a few but I was unable to make any buying decisions but rather distractedly thumbed through the racks.)

Finally, we arrived home and the envelope was passed to me.  I cut through the plastic outer shell and with only a brief pause, opened the paper envelope.  And out tumbled my passport, one of the two head shot photos I had had to submit, and the form Emily had notarized.  No other letter.  No obvious visa hanging out of my passport.  I was devastated.  Where to from here?  What were my next steps to try round 3?  All of that hope and effort, dashed.  I was in those minutes, crushed.  Here I was, now poised for a 4^th round of living in France for 90 days, not really able to feel like I lived there but more like I was perched on the edge of French life with the 13 week countdown always going by so quickly. 

Along for the ladies’ day out that day was my aunts well-traveled friend visiting from Switzerland.  Canadian by birth, she has lived in this small European country for decades.  She picked up my passport and started thumbing through it.  My aunt was watching and when she saw a visa on a page she excitedly asked- “Is this it?’  I replied ‘No’, with an edge to my sad voice I am sure, ‘that is my visa for when I visited Vietnam.’  “And this one??’ she asked, again with excitement in her voice.  “No, that was when I visited Cambodia.”  And then, the Swiss guest said- “Is this it?” And there it was, on page 19 of my passport, in all its modest power, the visa I had been chasing for a year and a half.  And they had given me the maximum period of a year.  I cried, and hugged and cried some more.  This was it.  The door had been opened. 

So there you have it, weeks away from my 64^th birthday I am heading off on a great European adventure this Friday night with a flight from Toronto to Paris.  I have what looks like the sweetest downtown apartment rented (big merci to Emily and Francois for finding it and checking it out for me), I am going to live with the locals, like the locals and soak up as much as I can of this wonderful BIG new chapter.

Stay tuned for more tales from across the pond.

xo