A week already that I have been swimming in marital bliss, or something. The Gorgeous Chook and I registered our Pacs on the 19th of December, which, considering we've been together for 11+ years, was 'bout bloody time.
For those not familiar with the Pacs (Pacte civil de solidarité), here it is in a nutshell. It is a status for adult couples that dates from 1999 and was put in place by the Socialist Jospin government. The idea was to recognise that couples could benefit from certain rights and advantages without going down the mariage route, and was clearly aimed at same-sex couples though it is open to all couples (except relatives). The Pacs gives couples certain rights and reponsabilities (joint tax declaration mainly) but not others such as right to adopt. For the record this and other reasons are why the Pacs cannot be seen as an adequate alternative to same-sex marriage, but more on that another day.
We decided to get Pacsed for several reasons. In no particular order: we're going to have a baby, we're buying a flat together, we have no plans to get married for the moment and it will lighten our tax bill. It also simplifies certain administrative procedures (never a small deal in France) such as GC putting me on his excellent medical insurance. Symbolically it sounds slightly more serious to say you are Pacsed than just "with somebody".
So, at the beginning of November I called the town hall to set a date. A Pacs is carried out by a court clerk at the local Tribunal de Grande Instance (TGI, i.e. the local courthouse; sexy). A date was set for the 19th december which was the last available day of the year. Why so long? why, the bloody paperwork of course.
There are certain documents necessary to get Pacsed, which are easy-peasy to get hold of if you're French but, yup you guessed it, a little more challenging if you're not.
If you're French you need a recent (under 3 months) copy of your birth certificate which you get from the town hall of your birthplace and a photocopy of some ID. You also need to write a couple of joint-letters with Chosen One, which involve declaring on your honour that you a) live together and are not family b) have some kind of committment and long-term plan together. It can even go into the nitty-gritty detail of tax regime, wealth sharing etc. Pretty straightforward.
If you're not French, in this case British (the EU magically disappears during Pacs procedures) the list is a little longer. Ultimately this is what you need to hand over:
- The two joint-declarations mentioned above
- A copy of your birth certificate (under 6 months), duly translated by a certified translator
- A certificate of non-Pacs that you get using form Cerfa n°12819*04 (don't ask)
- A certificat de coutume delivered by the Embassy or Consulate of country in question and containing all the originals (and translations) of the papers used to get aforementioned certificat.
- An attestation de non-inscription au repertoire civil for those of us who have been living here for over a year.
Crikey. Where to start?
I started with the Embassy to enquire about this whole certificat de coutume thing. For that they need my birth certificate which is somewhere in the UK, So first I must get that.
Ditto for the certificate of Non-Pacs.
And for the attestation I need to the certificat of coutume delivered by the Embassy.
So I start again, with getting a recent copy of my birth certificate. A few phone calls, letters and a couple of weeks later that plops in the letterbox from the UK.
I'm ready to get my little parcel ready for the British Embassy: photocopy of passport, birth certificate and 85€. (For those who have already been married, Pacsed, have changed their name or in any other way fucked with the admin before, the list is longer).
A few days later the certificat de non-coutume arrives. Perfect except they've misspelt my name- Jessell. I call the embassy and, having lived in Paris for so long, am absolutely flabbergasted by how nice and efficient they are. I called during lunch hours and spoke to a very nice woman who took note of my problem. Forty-five minutes later I had a message form the Vice-Consul himself, apologising and saying that the new copy was in that Friday afternoon's post. Jesus, that's efficient. (Actually ... but that's for later).
So by then, a good few weeks down the road, I had a copy of my birth certificate and a certificat de coutume with the wrong name. Time to look into the certificate of non-Pacs.
Form Cerfa n°12819*04 is a horrible form you find online, fill in and send off with a packet of documents, in order to get the certifcate of non-Pacs. When I saw that it was going to have to tour France for a extended holiday i realised the timing might screw our date and so got on the phone to somebody to confirm this was all going to be fine. The person unfortunately confirmed this was actually going to take 4-6 weeks. "Or you could come to our office?". As it was in the north of Paris that sounded fine, as I was 8 months pregnant with contractions and had been more or less bed-ridden for a month it sounded complicated. Fuck it, I took a taxi to Corentin Cariou, a hideous and isolated area of Paris full of tower blocks of grey council housing and anonymous admin buildings. Waddling and clutching my huge belly and pelvis, I staggered to the grim office block. It contained the courthouse with lawyers and their clients milling about looking worried and admin back-offices. In one of these, everyone -the three middle aged women fonctionnaires and the young dude with long hair whom I'd had on the phone- clucked over me and asked why the hell I was there.
For the goddamn certificate of non-Pacs.
They looked at the usual pile of documents. One pointed out that my birth certifcate hadn't been officially translated and was therefore technically not valid and that on another my name was wrong, but as is usually the case, the other fonctionnaires who were obviously pitying this exhausted pregnant woman who was still wearing pyjamas, completely ignored the rules and 45 seconds later I had a fresh and crisp certificat de non-Pacs in my hot little hand. Four to six weeks is for wimps.
Even better, all four of them started giving me advice on how to speed up the following procedures which, it turned out, could take weeks. This was helpful as I learnt that the third and final, and most vital, attestation was a paper that would have to come from the tribunal in Nantes, a 385 km taxi ride away... They gave me a direct fax number for someone and recommended that I write a tear-jerking account of my predicament.
[The taxi I had taken to get there was still in the neighbourhood so a quick call later I was back in the car. Some peculiar things happened to the taxi driver that day. I'll have to tell you about them sometime.]
Progress was being made, though I still didn't have the corrected copy of the Coutume thingy from the British embassy. I decided to get the fax to Nantes together with all documents imaginable: original and recent birth certificates, ID, forms, certifcates of everything and of course the shit-eating letter explaining why nothing had yet been translated and why my name was misspelt (still no news form the bloody Brits at this time). Not having a fax machine at home I asked GC to do it from his office.
The very next day I got a message from a guy called Poulailler (chicken coop) in Nantes telling me that only the first page or so of my epic fax had got through, could I send again. On the phone to GC who duly did. I called him back on the number he had called me on and told him everything was under control. He didn't seem too pleased to be contacted.
He had to get back in touch with me though as once again oinly the first page had got through. He told me to send all the pages as separate documents. And not to call his direct line again or to bug him and how had I got this number, anyway?
I realised the women at the grim office had given me the key to the holy grail: direct access to the paper-stamper supreme who is generally just an imagined and omnipiotent figure hidden far-away and that one just has to have faith in.
I was on the phone to God.
I explained my predicament: pregnant, lame, anxious, in love, British, francophile, sniff, sob.
He seemed pretty unimpressed but told me it was in the pipes.
Two days later a letter arrived- the wonderful, longed-for attestation.
WITH THE WRONG FUCKING MISSPELT NAME ON IT!
By chance I had by now received the corrected version from the Embassy so was all set to go through the rigmarole again when, by magic, in the following post, a corrected attestation arrived, signed by my friend chicken-coop.
I had everything! Just needed to translate the birth certiciate and there we were. Did that with a translation firm in the neighbourhood, a mere 60€ for a page comprising challenging vocabulary such as "Name of father" and "Place of birth".
Nevermind. Our dossier was complete. We turned up on the wednesday at 11.35, ten minutes before our slot. Some other couples were waiting, more straight than gay and clearly the TGI was running late. So we waited about 45 minutes, they took our dossier away (we held our breath) and this very bouncy, plump and camp guy wearing a bright pink pullover and a silk cravat told us to follow him. We sat in a miniscule room furnished with an orangey-shiney wood desk and three chairs and he got us to check the documents. they had got GC middle names wrong and reversed my first and second names. Easily corrected.
And that was that. We signed our paper and it was finished. I asked our Master of Ceremony if he would mind taking a pic, but he got rather huffy saying this was courthouse not a wedding hall and why didn't we get married anyway? He explained he was pissed off with having to run from tribunal to tribuanl dealing with Pacs when the judicial system was understaffed and had more serious things to worry about. He was also dismayed to see that a lot of couples got Pacsed as a kind of engagement party, a few months before the Real Thing. We reassured him this was not the case, that we were doing this for tax and insurance purposes and this seemed to pacify him.
We got our pic in the end, a nice bubbly girl waiting to get Pacsed with her female partner took it. I look huge, and my belly is huger than it looks; but I'm happy. because even though getting it done was the least romantic thing in the world, i'm still very chuffed to be Pacsed to Chook.
mercredi 26 décembre 2012
mercredi 19 décembre 2012
So here we are in the 56 bus
It's not every day one finds oneself in a surreal comedy sketch so I thought I'd try and share this crazy bus journey with you...
So I was at the maternity in the far east of Paris last Friday for some final blood tests and, unable to find a taxi in the area to carry my huge load back home, decided to take the bus.
I waddled to the bus stop, just in time to see the 56 sail away down the street; checked the digital display board- 15 minute wait- and settled down with my magazine and second breakfast of the day. A middle-aged gentleman came along, saw the board and started telling me that this bloody bus was always late, absolute scandal. Noticing I was pregnant, he started to rant saying that pregant women and elderly folk such as himself really shouldn't have to wait when the weather is so cold. I made polite clucking noises and returned to Paris Match.
A woman with a huge shopping trolley appeared and basically groaned about the same thing. Really! the market won't be around all day you know! Bloody incompetent bus. Then another pregnant lady, clearly coming from the maternity herself, squashed herself down next to us and, looking at the board began to panic about how long the bus was going to take-she was going to be late for work.
This was a little surprising to me, clearly these people have never had to take a bus on a friday late-morning in the suburbs where you can easily wait two hours. Also, having taken this bus before I was pretty certain it was going to be deserted; last time I had even wondered how much it cost the RATP to finance empty buses tootling through Paris.
A few minutes before this clearly longed-for bus appeared, a homeless guy, limping, very skinny and carrying a sleeping bag crawled upto the bus shelter. He was clearly very cold, stank of piss, and had vast amounts of snot flowing around his mouth like a gruesome oral jellyfish attack. Lacking cash but well-stocked up on Kleenex, I took a few out and reached over to him; He took one look at my offering and started whimpering with his eyes shut, rocking slightly on his heels.
"'Leave him', said shopping trolley woman, 'he's always here at this time, he'll be off again in a moment'.
Really? Ok. So, having once more tried to shove the Kleenex in his hand with nothing more than a groan in response, I sat back down. Sure enough, two minutes later he packed up his stuff and shuffled off again. Clearly there is a routine I'm not aware of here.
The 56 bus arrives dead on time to comments of "about bloody time". It's absolutely packed. I get a seat of course, opposite a little birdy woman. Across the aisle from me an elderly skinny man barks. Literally. WOOF!
Birdy woman gets out and a middled-aged woman with a dozen bags of Xmas shopping plonks in front of me. A dozen Xmas shopping bags land on my feet, knees and huge 37 week pregnant bump.
'Don't worry! there's enough room for all of it', she chuckles. 'So when is your baby due?'
'Any time now', I reply, 'but due date in January'.
'Ah! Capricorn!',she says, 'I get on well with Capricorn because I'm Pisces'.
'Right. And she'll be a dragon according to the Chinese zodiac'.
'Oh, I don't know anything about that. I'm Pisces rising sign Pisces, so you know I'm very Pisces. Very emotional, sentimental and trusting. But I don't forgive you know.'
'Right; no'.
'What are you?'
WOOF WOOF! The man started barking intensely. Nobody looked up.
'Sagittarius rising Gemini'
'OOH! the double signs. Interesting. I like Sagittarius. my daughter-in-law is one. And I work with a lot of them. But you'll change you know, when you hit 40 you'll be a real Gemini. A double sign. Interesting.'
I was about to ask what was so interesting about double signs, when the bus stopped at a busy stop. The man started barking again with real gusto. About ten people got on, including a big black lady with a little boy in a vast pushchair that she parked next to me. Some people at the back of the bus began to shout because a guy in a wheelchair needed the little platform to be let down so he could wheel himself up. The driver said it was broken so half a dozen people had to get up, out of the bus and hoist up the huge guy in his massive chair. Bus was well and truly about to explode at this point.
"LET GO OF ME!,' wheelchair guy was yelling, 'PUT ME DOWN!'. People manoeuvred him into the aisle where he blocked the exit. 'DON'T TOUCH ME!', he roared as a couple of people slid past him to get out at the next stop. Everyone squished together to give him space.
'Oh dear', I said, 'I hope he's ok'.
'Nah, he's fine', replied Mrs Astrology, 'he just can't stand being touched. He's always like this. Like the man who barks- he just can't bear it when the bus isn't moving- you know- traffic lights, bus stops and such'.
'I see, so do you often see them?'
'Oh yes'.
At this point two things happened, the little kid in the pushchair next to me released his hands from his mittens and a lady who had been standing behind Mrs Astrology joined our conversation.
'Oh hello, I was listening to your conversation. I'm Taurus rising Taurus you know!'
'Oh wow, so very Taurus!' I said feebly.
'Oh! I'm Pisces rising Pisces!' said Mrs Astrology.
'Yes! and we should get on as from your year of birth I can say you're a monkey for the chinese and I'm a rat and...
At this point the little boy next to me took my fingers and shoved them in his mouth, and started grumbling about something.
'Nicolas! Non!',shouted his nanny. 'Sorry about that but he wants to sleep and he mustn't because it'll screw up his nap times. We need to keep him awake.'
'We?...'
'He likes the plane. Make a plane with your fingers and land on his nose, like this'- Vroooom....
'...And what chinese sign are you, dear...?'
'WOOF WOOF!'
'Er..... vroooooomm.... Rooster....'
'What about the Arab Zodiac?'
'Er, no idea... vrooom'
'GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!'
'WOOF WOOF!'
'...and dagger in the Arab horoscope, and maple in the Celtic...'
'...no, you have to fly your hand around a bit, like this- No! Nicolas! No biting!...'
'...so if you're born in 1968 or in 1980?...'
'VROOOM'
'DON'T TOUCH ME!'
... Nicolas! NO!'...."
This lasted a good ten minutes, and finally I just staggered to the door, throwing off Xmas presents, Nicolas, Astrology women and slamming into Wheelchair who started to go berserk.
And there I was thinking the bus would be eerily empty like last time. Clearly there's a bit of a party going on every friday around midday on bus 56.
So I was at the maternity in the far east of Paris last Friday for some final blood tests and, unable to find a taxi in the area to carry my huge load back home, decided to take the bus.
I waddled to the bus stop, just in time to see the 56 sail away down the street; checked the digital display board- 15 minute wait- and settled down with my magazine and second breakfast of the day. A middle-aged gentleman came along, saw the board and started telling me that this bloody bus was always late, absolute scandal. Noticing I was pregnant, he started to rant saying that pregant women and elderly folk such as himself really shouldn't have to wait when the weather is so cold. I made polite clucking noises and returned to Paris Match.
A woman with a huge shopping trolley appeared and basically groaned about the same thing. Really! the market won't be around all day you know! Bloody incompetent bus. Then another pregnant lady, clearly coming from the maternity herself, squashed herself down next to us and, looking at the board began to panic about how long the bus was going to take-she was going to be late for work.
This was a little surprising to me, clearly these people have never had to take a bus on a friday late-morning in the suburbs where you can easily wait two hours. Also, having taken this bus before I was pretty certain it was going to be deserted; last time I had even wondered how much it cost the RATP to finance empty buses tootling through Paris.
A few minutes before this clearly longed-for bus appeared, a homeless guy, limping, very skinny and carrying a sleeping bag crawled upto the bus shelter. He was clearly very cold, stank of piss, and had vast amounts of snot flowing around his mouth like a gruesome oral jellyfish attack. Lacking cash but well-stocked up on Kleenex, I took a few out and reached over to him; He took one look at my offering and started whimpering with his eyes shut, rocking slightly on his heels.
"'Leave him', said shopping trolley woman, 'he's always here at this time, he'll be off again in a moment'.
Really? Ok. So, having once more tried to shove the Kleenex in his hand with nothing more than a groan in response, I sat back down. Sure enough, two minutes later he packed up his stuff and shuffled off again. Clearly there is a routine I'm not aware of here.
The 56 bus arrives dead on time to comments of "about bloody time". It's absolutely packed. I get a seat of course, opposite a little birdy woman. Across the aisle from me an elderly skinny man barks. Literally. WOOF!
Birdy woman gets out and a middled-aged woman with a dozen bags of Xmas shopping plonks in front of me. A dozen Xmas shopping bags land on my feet, knees and huge 37 week pregnant bump.
'Don't worry! there's enough room for all of it', she chuckles. 'So when is your baby due?'
'Any time now', I reply, 'but due date in January'.
'Ah! Capricorn!',she says, 'I get on well with Capricorn because I'm Pisces'.
'Right. And she'll be a dragon according to the Chinese zodiac'.
'Oh, I don't know anything about that. I'm Pisces rising sign Pisces, so you know I'm very Pisces. Very emotional, sentimental and trusting. But I don't forgive you know.'
'Right; no'.
'What are you?'
WOOF WOOF! The man started barking intensely. Nobody looked up.
'Sagittarius rising Gemini'
'OOH! the double signs. Interesting. I like Sagittarius. my daughter-in-law is one. And I work with a lot of them. But you'll change you know, when you hit 40 you'll be a real Gemini. A double sign. Interesting.'
I was about to ask what was so interesting about double signs, when the bus stopped at a busy stop. The man started barking again with real gusto. About ten people got on, including a big black lady with a little boy in a vast pushchair that she parked next to me. Some people at the back of the bus began to shout because a guy in a wheelchair needed the little platform to be let down so he could wheel himself up. The driver said it was broken so half a dozen people had to get up, out of the bus and hoist up the huge guy in his massive chair. Bus was well and truly about to explode at this point.
"LET GO OF ME!,' wheelchair guy was yelling, 'PUT ME DOWN!'. People manoeuvred him into the aisle where he blocked the exit. 'DON'T TOUCH ME!', he roared as a couple of people slid past him to get out at the next stop. Everyone squished together to give him space.
'Oh dear', I said, 'I hope he's ok'.
'Nah, he's fine', replied Mrs Astrology, 'he just can't stand being touched. He's always like this. Like the man who barks- he just can't bear it when the bus isn't moving- you know- traffic lights, bus stops and such'.
'I see, so do you often see them?'
'Oh yes'.
At this point two things happened, the little kid in the pushchair next to me released his hands from his mittens and a lady who had been standing behind Mrs Astrology joined our conversation.
'Oh hello, I was listening to your conversation. I'm Taurus rising Taurus you know!'
'Oh wow, so very Taurus!' I said feebly.
'Oh! I'm Pisces rising Pisces!' said Mrs Astrology.
'Yes! and we should get on as from your year of birth I can say you're a monkey for the chinese and I'm a rat and...
At this point the little boy next to me took my fingers and shoved them in his mouth, and started grumbling about something.
'Nicolas! Non!',shouted his nanny. 'Sorry about that but he wants to sleep and he mustn't because it'll screw up his nap times. We need to keep him awake.'
'We?...'
'He likes the plane. Make a plane with your fingers and land on his nose, like this'- Vroooom....
'...And what chinese sign are you, dear...?'
'WOOF WOOF!'
'Er..... vroooooomm.... Rooster....'
'What about the Arab Zodiac?'
'Er, no idea... vrooom'
'GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!'
'WOOF WOOF!'
'...and dagger in the Arab horoscope, and maple in the Celtic...'
'...no, you have to fly your hand around a bit, like this- No! Nicolas! No biting!...'
'...so if you're born in 1968 or in 1980?...'
'VROOOM'
'DON'T TOUCH ME!'
... Nicolas! NO!'...."
This lasted a good ten minutes, and finally I just staggered to the door, throwing off Xmas presents, Nicolas, Astrology women and slamming into Wheelchair who started to go berserk.
And there I was thinking the bus would be eerily empty like last time. Clearly there's a bit of a party going on every friday around midday on bus 56.
samedi 8 décembre 2012
So here we are making pot-au-feu
It's getting chilly out and I'm stuck inside so conditions are met for making Pot-au-feu, a classic French peasant dish of beef and winter vegetables in a lovely beef broth. I made the classic recipe, without potatoes and with a marrow bone, but I'm guessing you could chuck in pretty much what you want.
This is for 6-8 people, and you will need, as well as a long wintry afternoon at home:
Meat:
500 g of paleron (shoulder blade cut)
500g of gite (topside cut of beef)
500g of plat de cotes (brisket?)
N.B. These are the French cuts, and are different in other countries. Ultimately what you're after are three different cuts of beef: a fatty, a lean and a gelatinous. Consult your butcher if in doubt.
1 marrowbone per person
Seasoning
3/4 garlic cloves
1 large onion
4 cloves
6 black peppercorns
sea salt
bouquet garni
Veg:
4 large leeks
2 large celery stalks
5/6 turnips
5/6 carrots
2/3 parsnips
Recipe:
First take meat (not bones) and cut into largish pieces (about 2/3 pieces per person untimately), put in huge casserole and add 2,5 litres cold water. bring very slowly to the boil (it should take at least 15 minutes) and skim all the collagen and crud that will appear on surface every ten minutes or so. Simmer gently for an hour or so.
Second, add your seasoning: peeled onion studded with cloves, peeled and crushed garlic cloves, bouquet garni, peppercorns and a tbsp of sea salt. Bring to the boil, then simmer gently for a couple of hours. Remember to skim away the crud from time to time
Third, add the veg which should by now be peeled/washed and cut into large chunks. (I cut the leeks, carrots etc into 3, the turnips in half etc). Add to the pot and let simmer for about 30 minutes.
Finally, once your veg is cooked add the marrow bones for about 20 minutes right at the end. they generally drool fat into the soup which can make it all a bit fatty (personnally I don't see the prob) so you can always fart around by wrapping them in muslin/gauze and then putting them in pot.
Voila! add salt and pepper, and serve with mustard, coarse sea salt and gherkins. It keeps in fridge (possible to remove excess fat once it has formed a hard layer) or freezes, and makes great leftovers.
Bon appetit!
This is for 6-8 people, and you will need, as well as a long wintry afternoon at home:
Meat:
500 g of paleron (shoulder blade cut)
500g of gite (topside cut of beef)
500g of plat de cotes (brisket?)
N.B. These are the French cuts, and are different in other countries. Ultimately what you're after are three different cuts of beef: a fatty, a lean and a gelatinous. Consult your butcher if in doubt.
1 marrowbone per person
Seasoning
3/4 garlic cloves
1 large onion
4 cloves
6 black peppercorns
sea salt
bouquet garni
Veg:
4 large leeks
2 large celery stalks
5/6 turnips
5/6 carrots
2/3 parsnips
Recipe:
First take meat (not bones) and cut into largish pieces (about 2/3 pieces per person untimately), put in huge casserole and add 2,5 litres cold water. bring very slowly to the boil (it should take at least 15 minutes) and skim all the collagen and crud that will appear on surface every ten minutes or so. Simmer gently for an hour or so.
Second, add your seasoning: peeled onion studded with cloves, peeled and crushed garlic cloves, bouquet garni, peppercorns and a tbsp of sea salt. Bring to the boil, then simmer gently for a couple of hours. Remember to skim away the crud from time to time
Third, add the veg which should by now be peeled/washed and cut into large chunks. (I cut the leeks, carrots etc into 3, the turnips in half etc). Add to the pot and let simmer for about 30 minutes.
Finally, once your veg is cooked add the marrow bones for about 20 minutes right at the end. they generally drool fat into the soup which can make it all a bit fatty (personnally I don't see the prob) so you can always fart around by wrapping them in muslin/gauze and then putting them in pot.
Voila! add salt and pepper, and serve with mustard, coarse sea salt and gherkins. It keeps in fridge (possible to remove excess fat once it has formed a hard layer) or freezes, and makes great leftovers.
Bon appetit!
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