All in.

All in, as in fully committed. It can also mean very tired, which is likewise apt. We’re applying for French citizenship. Oh. My. We’ve been kicking the decision around for a while. It’s not for the fainthearted, but neither is expatriating, frankly. In both cases, it has to be a labor of love or the frustration will best you.

At this point in our bureaucratic journey in France, we could coast. We have our hard won 10 year residency cards, which already give us more rights than the standard one year cards. We could kick back and enjoy a full decade without darkening the doorstep of the prefecture as we’d done annually. Plus the 10 year cards come with a subtle but important change: the burden of proof shifts to the French government. It is no longer up to us to prove we merit living here, the onus is on France to prove otherwise. But it is nonetheless permission to live here rather than a right.

Besides the inalienable right to live in France, the right to vote is the only notable difference between residency and citizenship (given that we’re retired), but the other benefits are substantial. We would have a second passport and a sense of belonging. Prior to the previously unthinkable second coming of Trump, I’d said that if France went so far to the right that they’d kick me out, I’d proudly leave. Now my allegiances have changed and I would dig in my heels. I didn’t come here in 2017 as an act of fleeing the US, I came because I very much wanted to live here. Even as we continue to travel, France is where my thoughts turn when it’s time to think of home.

When we’d first moved to Paris, I read an article on expat homesickness: how it was inevitable, whether it crept up slowly or came on as a full body slam. Here, it said, is how you’ll feel, here is how you’ll cope. Duly noted. The year passed without incident. I didn’t go so far as to think I was immune, just thus far resilient. We went back to Chicago that summer to wrap up loose ends and see the folk. One evening, just before we were due to leave, we went to the theater. Exiting, picture this: sunset, cafés, outdoor tables, people meeting up, laughing, talking. Homesickness smacked me upside the head in all its teary-eyed glory. I sniffed to Mark, I want to go home, to Paris!

Seven years later, we’re doing what we can to make it real. There’s a forest of documentation to gather: birth and marriage certificates, both ours and our parents’. All have to be in apostille form, which is the international standard, then translated. FBI background checks (cleared!) That’s just the US side. We have to pass a language test, level B2, which requires a decent amount of fluidity. Think college level. It’s a extensive test of listening comprehension, grammar, written and oral expression. If we pass, it will be in no small measure due to French friends who are making the time to drill us over and over, running us through our paces. (Shout out to Xavier in particular, we owe him big time!) Then there’s taxes, attestations, and receipts to gather, proof of income, etc., etc., and another etc. for good measure. In short, the points of possible failure are many. As it should be. Citizenship should not be a cakewalk.

Should we manage to navigate the dossier minefield and have it accepted, the waiting begins. Anywhere from 18 months to 5 years later, we’ll be called for an interview, which will be a quiz on how well we’ve integrated our lives here, plus a good dose of French history. I don’t think I’ll have to know my Louis from my Henris but you never know.

The language test is in 2 weeks. Wish us luck. Fingers crossed and cue the Marseillaise!

Cheers,

Maer