Rachael Williams-Mejri's Blog

How Not to Do Your French Visa Part 6

Moez, his friend and I all piled into the car the next morning and arrived at the courthouse around 10:10am. We hoped to get everything done that day, although I continued to have my doubts.
 
The woman behind the counter told us to please wait – so we did. We waited…and waited…and waited…
 
As it turns out, it is incredibly hard to get this request done. The person actually has to take the file folder, cross the hallway, and the people at the desk in the room across the hall have to put a seal on it. Arduous task.
 
Oddly enough, Moez got his done after about an hour. However, mine still sat and we waited. Why they didn’t take both at the same is a testament to the excellent organizational systems that have been put in place by French inspiration.
 
Sometime around 12pm, approximately 1 million people showed up and stuffed themselves into the tiny office. The woman became more and more exasperated as she tried to deal with incredible numbers of people who desperately wanted to eat.
 
At first, I pushed my way in with everyone. After being reassured she had not forgotten us, I went back outside to wait. Once the door started to be closed, she called us and handed over the request – both of which came back without the brown folders she had insisted on the previous day. Maybe there is a black market for file folders and the people in the office are making a small amount to pay for their lunch.
 
Finally, with both requests in hand and nothing to do until 2:30, we drove back to downtown Tunis, wandered around, ate, drank coffee and finally made our way back to the secure section.
 
The police reassured us that we could not pass through until 2:30, so we stood there looking annoyed. Finally, at 2:30, Rambo came and took everyone’s identity cards or passports. He took them back to the headquarters (a small observatory box) and then came back and called us one by one.
 
Once back into the proper office, we were asked to sit by someone we hadn’t seen the first time. After a few minutes, because 2-1/2 hours isn’t enough time for lunch, the first man we had seen came through the door to help us.
 
Quickly taking the info, he requested a copy of my passport. For the 15th time since starting this process, I repeated that the French had my passport, which is why we were participating in this fiasco in the first place.
 
Stapling the copy of my resident card with everything else, he put both of our requests on the pile, informed us it would take 7-10 days and went back to doing nothing.
 
Leaving, I encouraged Moez to pay a third month to extend our short-term housing. Were they to even get it to me in one week – which I seriously doubted – it would be the 28th of February. We still had to take the bulletin de mouvement to the agency, which would take a day to transfer the paper to the consul, which would go down the list to the next missing paper.
 
We resigned ourselves to a longer fate in Tunisia as we listened to our neighbor’s dog bark hysterically through the night. 

How Not to Do Your French Visa Part 5

​Drama was soon on the horizon as I waited patiently for my visa. I had requested a long-term visitor visa that required nothing from my husband. We had all the appropriate documents for that and figured it wouldn’t take much time. Obviously we were confused.
 
My dossier was left with the agency on Monday. It arrived at the consul on Tuesday. On Wednesday, I received an email with instructions indicating that I was required to show my husband’s resources in France. I sat there fuming. I wasn’t even doing a visa based on my spouse. I was doing a visa based on myself and my resources. What did he have to do with anything?
 
I quickly called the call center, and with exasperation that they were actually required to help someone, they told me all I needed was a letter indicating Moez’s current state of affairs. I was both surprised and wary, but quickly wrote the letter, had him sign it and we drove and deposited it at the agency.
 
And we waited…
 
The following Monday, I received a new email. We needed to get a bulletin de mouvement for both me and Moez. A WHAT!? I called the call center and promptly handed the telephone to Moez. After a few minutes, he hung up and looked at me.
 
As it turns out, this piece of paper shows one’s goings and comings from the Tunisian airport. Of course, the only place it could be gotten was from the Ministre de l’Intérieur – a governmental agency. I cringed, while positive Moez assured me it wouldn’t take long.
 
Our first stop was in fact in the Ministre de l’Intérieur. Because everything in Tunisia shuts down from 12:00pm to 2:30pm, we arrived at 2:30pm on the dot. The man behind the desk was of course sitting there doing nothing as is par for the course in this country.
 
After chatting with him for a few minutes, Moez suddenly jumped up and told me to follow. As it turns out, we could not just request a bulletin de mouvement. We had to get an official request from the court. I wanted to remind Moez at this point about my doubts on getting this done early, but I never say  “I told you so” and wasn’t going to start now.
 
When we arrived at the courthouse, we finally found the correct office, and they informed us that we needed photocopies of both my and Moez’s passports. I reminded everyone my passport was with the French, so they suggested I make a copy of my resident card. Moez’s friend had been with us this whole time, and seizing upon a way to be useful, quickly took our documents to be photocopied.
 
Once he returned, the same woman behind the desk told us that we had to get a notarized letter requesting the official request. I am always amazed how people in Tunisia and France suddenly realize what else needs to be done once you have completed what the previously asked. I suspect this is the only entertainment they have.
 
We all dashed down to a photocopy store and asked for two sheets of paper. Moez’s friend wrote both of us two letters in Arabic and we made more photocopies. Afterwards we hurried down the street to find a notary. By this time, I had decided we weren’t going to get much done today, and was not in a hurry.
 
The notary took a bit of time, and of course a gaggle of obnoxious Tunisian women pushed in front of everyone to be helped without a number. However, once we reached the notary, we were in and out relatively quickly and headed back to the courthouse. We were officially in possession of an official letter to make an official request to get our bulletin de mouvement.
 
When Moez started talking to the woman in the court office, I could tell something was wrong.
 
“What is it now?” I snapped.
“We need a brown file folder for each of our requests,” he responded.
 
Somewhere along the way, we had gotten one, but now we needed two. Thankfully, a woman standing in the office had extras and quickly offered to give us one. As we put together our files, we realized that the photocopy of my resident card was on the same paper as Moez’s passport.
 
“Here,” I snatched the paper away from Moez, almost yelling. I ripped it apart and slammed both down into their respective folders and then walked out.
 
Moez and his friend joined me in a few minutes. “She said to come back in three days,” Moez said.
 
I snorted with disdain. “Big surprise. Someone might have to push two buttons on the computer keyboard.”
 
Moez grinned. “But I begged and she told me to come back tomorrow morning.”
 
At this point, I was so exasperated that I didn’t even care. There would be something else. There always was.

How Not to Do Your French Visa Part 4

​The continuing saga of the French visa has become more humorous than frustrating. When I originally left Paris to go back to Tunisia, I warned everyone we would be there for three months. I could feel it. Everyone told me: “no, nah, no way.” Well, month three has been ushered in and of course we are still here.
 
After preparing all the necessary documents, I went back to the money-making agency. This time, we asked for the Premium Lounge and I was immediately escorted inside. I waited behind three people, and once passing security, I went to the Premium Lounge line. No one was waiting, so I was quickly ushered into the room.
 
Inside, there were a group of comfortable armchairs, people sitting behind a few cubicles, someone at the cash register, and someone taking care of something inside little curtained rooms. We had free juice and coffee, of which I did not partake, and a coveted bathroom. For the first time since we had started this process, I felt more human than cow-like.
 
After a few short minutes, my name popped up on the television screen. The woman who took care of me went through all of my documents, handed me the final product and I went to the cash register, where I paid a hefty sum. He sent me along to take my fingerprints (in the little, curtained room), and I left within just a few minutes. The entire process took probably 40 minutes. This is a testament to money, I suppose.
 
When I got home, I verified my account online. To my surprise, I saw something red indicating that I did not have all of my documents, or they weren’t in accordance with the French consul’s requirements.
 
Moez assured me there was nothing to be concerned with – particularly since all of the documents I submitted were exactly what they had required. I went back over what they said was missing, and threw my hands up in disgust. Everything they required was there. What the girl had missed I do not know.
 
What I did know is this is France, and the idea that there was nothing about which to be concerned was laughable at best. Drama was coming, and I knew it.

How Not To Do Your French Visa Part 3

​After cooling off considerably, I realized I needed an option other than going back to the US to get my visa. The more I dug into what I need to do to get one, the more I was convinced I was making a mistake.
 
There were numerous problems with going back to the States. We could either consider Moez and I going together, or just me going and staying with my parents. Neither one of them seemed to present a good option.
 
If Moez went with me, we would go to Virginia. We would need a place to stay for at least a month – but more likely longer. This means we would have to purchase an open ticket, which were always more expensive. Lodging was an issue as well. No one wanted to rent a place less than six months, except corporate housing, which would cost $5,000 plus a month.
 
If I went alone, I would need to have an open ticket as well. The more I researched the requirements in D.C. as opposed to Houston, the more I was convinced I was not going to have all the required paperwork and would need to return. This is actually fairly common for the French. They give you a list, which you then fulfill, and then they say: “no we need this too.”
 
For example: the requirements in D.C. and Houston varied. In D.C., the person needed $40,000 insurance coverage – in Houston it was $50,000. In Houston, one needs a criminal background check, but no letter from one’s employer. In D.C., the criminal background check isn’t needed, but the employer record is. In both places, you needed to be a resident to do your visa in that state – but only Houston required the proof of residency. The list of differences was varied enough that I wondered if they knew they represented the same country. My biggest concern, however, was that they all needed the requirements the other one listed, but they simply didn’t list them so that one would need to come back again. This means more time.
 
Additionally, if I decided to do my papers based on a French resident-card holder, I would need to do something with my marriage license. I looked and looked and couldn’t really figure out what I needed to do. I think we need to register our marriage at the embassy; they need to do some sort of official search; and then we would be entered into some marriage registry in France. From there, we could apply for papers based on our marriage. They warned this could take months – which means a year with the French.
 
On top of everything else, I would have to get right back on the airplane in May to visit my parents in order to escape Ramadan. There was just no good solution.
 
Consequently, both Moez and I agreed we needed to stay longer and see what we could do here. Although I knew I couldn’t cancel the tickets, Moez encouraged me to look and see. I was shocked to see that I could in fact cancel them – for the first time since I had used this company in 20 years!
 
Realizing this was a good sign, and encouraged by the blue skies that weren’t happening in Europe, we made the decision to try again with the idiots at the private company, just to see if I could even get to the embassy. Even if these nitwits would do everything to prevent me to getting to the French embassy, at least we could stay in Tunisia cheaply for the next two months before I could go back to France. From there, I could stay a month and then be off to the USA to do my visa there. I was reassured by both D.C. and Houston that it would only take a maximum of 2 weeks to get my visa from there.
 
Then again, it is France.

How Not to Do Your French Visa Part 2

​I advised Moez that we needed to leave more than 30 minutes before my appointment. After all, it’s Tunisia and one never knows what can happen between our apartment and the place of destination. Additionally, with it being the lunch hour – God knows the amount of traffic we might have to face.
 
However, Moez was assured that it would take us a maximum of 20 minutes to get there.  He was late in picking me up because of the traffic. This was already less than reassuring. Driving like a madman, he was true to his word. We literally arrived at 1pm on the dot, coming to a screeching halt on the sidewalk.
 
I hopped out and went around a mass of humanity waiting to get through the gates.
 
“We have an appointment,” Moez informed the man at the gate.
“So does everyone else,” said the guard.
“Ours is at 1pm.”
“So is everyone else’s.”
“What?!” Moez exploded. “Then why don’t you let us in?”
 
I went to the back of the line while Moez yelled at the guard. Then he parked the car in the lot across the street and came back to argue with the same fatigued individual. He waved me to come over to him, and I figured someone had discovered a mistake.
 
In fact, I was the one mistaken. Everyone waiting at the gate was there for a 1pm appointment – just like me. I was shocked, thinking there was no possible way they had that many employees to take what looked like 100 people.
 
“They told me that if I didn’t arrive on time, they would cancel my appointment,” I said to the guard.
“If they aren’t ready, then it’s their fault,” he replied.
“That’s reassuring,” I muttered, not convinced.
 
I stood there with Moez pacing back and forth hurling insults at the company, drawing sympathy from the crowd now agreeing with him, and also drawing the interest of security. It was quite cold, and there was an icy wind. I was still sick from the flu, as were others, and I began to shake in spite of my coat and thick scarf.
 
“Is this what they call a ‘waiting room?’” I questioned. “They ought to be ashamed of themselves.”
 
Moez switched the subject to this un-humanitarian concept and continued to hurl insults. Meanwhile, I lifted up my eyes to the people waiting, and I felt my anger burn.
 
As an American, I can set my dossier on fire, buy a ticket that same hour and be out of the country headed to the greatest country on earth. I didn’t need the visa to live and to live well. The people waiting with me were not so lucky. They were stuck in a country that didn’t care about them, didn’t help them, and allowed them to be treated like animals by their own people working for a foreign power. The reason they were waiting in a mass, in the cold, the rain and the wind was because they were Africans. Both the Tunisian administration and those waiting knew the crowd wouldn’t complain for fear of not getting their visa.
 
We waited for 15-20 minutes before the demigods came to work and began to take people. As I reached the inside, shivering and yet relieved, I noticed we had yet another line in which to wait.
 
We were finally allowed into the final line – some 30 minutes or more after our appointments – and stood there as the line to our right began to fill up. We moved little by little, and then completely stopped while the new line that had appointments after ours was taken.
 
I shook my head but said nothing. What good would it do? Moez was calling, I knew, but I had to switch off my phone. It had started drizzling, and I angrily considered those outside. I watched as a few elderly women were brought through the line after – I was later told – they had collapsed due to being treated like water buffalo.
 
My thoughts drifted back to my time in Dubai. One never even saw an Emirate in a line. They had their own offices and were treated with the utmost respect by their own people due to the importance their government placed on them. It was a stark contrast to the way the Tunisian government and people treated their own.
 
At some point, the line began to move when a young woman realized that she had to go to work. As I stood waiting for the last person in front of me to be taken, the man next to me looked at my passport. I have great peripheral vision, and I could tell he was staring curiously at it. Finally he turned his back to me to murmur something to the woman with him. I chuckled. It never ceases to shock Tunisians that I wanted to live in France for awhile when I could be in the USA.
 
I stepped up to speak to the woman behind the counter. She held my passport and looked at me inquisitively.
 
“You don’t need a visa to go to France,” she said.
“I do if I want to stay for more than three months.”
 
She conceded and asked what type of visa I wanted. After checking the system, calling upstairs to the 3/4 –gods room, she informed me that my request was incorrect. She told me it was clearly my fault and not theirs and that I would have to request a second meeting.
 
The idea that this private company could simply draw a line through the incorrect visa information and enter the correct one was completely foreign to everyone. The idea that I had selected the correct visa and their system had changed it – something I had actually remarked on the night before – was also not something they could understand. It was simply: “You are wrong, we are right. Good-bye.” If I had been wrong and chosen the wrong visa, I might have been more forgiving.
 
I realized that this reaction could also be due to my being American.  After all, how often does a woman from Tunisia get to lord it over an American? What she didn’t realize was that at the end of the day, I get to go home to a country that provides me everything, while she gets to go home to loud imams, barking dogs, no freedom, no ability to go anywhere without a visa and men who don’t want to marry Tunisian women.
 
I took up my dossier, shrugged and said: “I will go to the States and do it. How do you get out of this joke?”
 
By the time I found Moez, I was fuming. They treat their own people like cows, they don’t know how to work, their system is crap, and I am done! When my eyes fell on the time, I got even angrier. I had been there for more than an hour and a half – to be told I was wrong and they couldn’t help me.
 
“I will go back to the US to do this visa,” I announced. “I am done with these people and this country.”
 
So, we went back home and bought the tickets back to France.

How Not To Do Your French Visa

​As it turns out, I do have the right to do my French visa in Tunisia. What a great advantage. While listening to the local imam bellowing and the dogs howling one day, I could only hope that right would be a quick one. I should have continued dreaming.
 
In Tunisia, France has decided that they need to use a private group rather than doing things themselves. Other countries followed along, and pretty soon you had one private group doing the work for several embassies.
 
When the group started, it was apparently an excellent option for people. There were appointments scheduled, a small fee accepted, and people were advised if they had the proper paperwork and a chance to get their visa.
 
Things have changed.
 
Someone realized that by charging a 68TDN fee for each person meant money – and a lot of it. Consequently, the doors were opened and people started pouring in, mostly to receive rejections after of course paying their fees.
 
I learned that there are two types of visas: long-term visitor and one based on my marital status. You would think the later would be the better option, but not in France. In France, apparently you have to go through all sorts of gyrations with one’s marriage license – which we don’t have. I ordered an expedited marriage license, which arrived at my parents’ house very quickly. However, I also ordered an expedited birth certificate at the same time to be sent to the same place. Over a month later, I am still waiting. The excuse? It’s coming from Louisiana, which is by far a third-world country. Sending an expedited birth certificate from New Orleans to northern Louisiana was after all an incredibly difficult procedure.
 
Without the proper documentation, we needed to do a long-term visitor visa. Oddly enough, if one does the visa in Tunis, it is different than in Washington D.C., which is different than Houston… I still cannot understand why each of these places has different requirements if it’s the same country. Yet, trying to understand is a waste of time. Apparently it makes sense to someone.
 
I needed something to prove I am not a criminal – something not required in D.C., but required in Houston and in Tunisia. So I got a copy here in Tunisia stating I am completely crime-free. It took them a week and they did an international check. I always worry someone else has my same name and is doing mischief around the world. It looks like I needn’t have worried.
 
I also needed health insurance so the country won’t have to pay anything in the event that I drop dead from different visa requirements.
 
Loaded with a two-inch thick dossier that proves I work online and won’t need their money, along with all other requirements, I scheduled an appointment for a long-term visitor visa and headed to the company for processing.
 
What ensued was beyond chaos.

Escape from Tunisia

​At the beginning of January, I flew back to Tunisia to do a long-term visa for France. At the time, it seemed like a great idea. It was inexpensive, two hours away, and we knew people. Moez was convinced it would take only two weeks. I pleasantly disagreed, and cast my vote that it would be at least two months, and maybe three. As I listen to the barking of a savage dog next door, I have decided I will not spend all of February here. Regardless of how much money it costs me, I will winter in quieter places where neighbors are more respectful.
 
Unfortunately, I have neighbors. Even more unfortunate is they are Tunisians. Consequently, they are loud. They are not the obnoxious nouveau rich who enjoy honking their horns, or the pet owners who think allowing their animals free reign is a part of civilized society. In fact, my obnoxious neighbors are my landlords and are very nice. They are old school, even bringing us traditional meals from time to time.
 
We are renting from an elderly couple who took in an impoverished woman. This woman became their housekeeper, and in thanks for her room and board, always does the housekeeping. When I say always, I mean from 7:30-8:00am until 9:30 at night. Every. Day.
 
The lady of the house informed us that she is a bit deaf – certainly a blessing if one must live in Tunisia. Although she seems irritated by the wild animal living next door, and his wannabe gangsta owner, I wonder if she can even hear the wolf life creature’s bellowing. For sure, she cannot hear the noise her housekeeper makes.
 
I roll my eyes towards the ceiling, and chant: I don’t have to live here. I am not going to stay here. I am leaving soon. I can handle this.
 
Boom! Thud! Thump! Scraaaaaape!
 
I close my eyes for a moment and then finally get up and go to the kitchen to check on the soup. Having caught the flu only seems to prove I should never have come back here.
 
Clang!
 
I shutter and gather my things to retreat back to the living room. I pause on my way out and listen to the new sound. It sounds like someone is trying to collect too many sticks in one hand, making one fall out. Then the person attempts to recollect with the same problem, and the same result. It then happens over and over again.
 
I trudge back to the living room. It is noon and I know what’s coming. Tunisians like to eat – and far more than Americans. I hear a thud and nearly jump out of my skin. A child’s hysterical screaming pierces the air – for a very long time.
 
This continues throughout the day and evening as people come and go. Finally, around 9pm, the flu is just too much and I head to bed. As I lie there, I hear yet another noise above me. It sounds like a gigantic hamster running on his wheel. I have stopped guessing at what they could possibly be doing. It is common Tunisian behavior to nervously buzz from one part of the house to the next making as much noise as possible. I can’t change it. I’m in the wrong place. I need to leave.
 
I wish we had set aside an astronomical budged for a stay in the States, and Moez is right alongside me ruing the day we ever came back here. He is more determined than ever to never set foot back in this country again. For the first time, I am as determined.

Missing Germany

Let me go ahead and confess that I already miss Germany. During my recent three months in Paris, I decided it was time to travel. Our first visit was in fact to Italy. We regrettably arrived by plane, taking as much time between all the waiting and transport as we would have if we had taken the train. Afterwards, we rented a car in Paris and drove to Switzerland. This anti-climactic and rather sterile experience was brief. Instead, we took off the next day and drove to Germany, taking a minute to cross over the Austrian border.
 
France is notorious for bleeding its people through various taxes. This might be the case everywhere in Europe, but I am not familiar with everywhere else, so I speak only for France. Consequently, there are tolls everywhere – and expensive tolls at that. They make sure there are radars at every step so people don’t speed and the government can make more money.  We got one of these tickets and paid it before it went up in price.
 
When we arrived in Germany, there was something oddly familiar about it. The roads were big, the cars were nice, and there seemed to be space everywhere. What’s more is there were no tolls in site. I suddenly realized it was closer to the U.S. than what I had been used to in Europe. However, one thing was glaringly different: when we crossed the border into Germany, the speed limit disappeared from our GPS. Judging by the people passing us at high speeds, we realized it was no mistake.
 
It was a breath of fresh air as we approached someone on the left side of the road and s/he immediately moved over. It reminded me of driving in the U.S. when I was a kid, before people developed personal vendettas and attitudes about others passing them. However as we approached a city limit, a speed limit was introduced and everyone automatically slowed down. I was both surprised and impressed to see people dutifully following the law, only to put peddle to the meddle as they left the speed limit zone.
 
I liked this place already. Little did I know how much more fun was in store for me.

How To Get a Long-Term French Visa

​I knew when I arrived in Tunisia to do my visa, people would not understand. I don’t think most Tunisians look at visas as cultural exchanges. Most of the time they are viewed as either a vacation for the wealthy or a permanent lifestyle change.
 
The day after we arrived, Moez and I located the group that now handles the French embassy’s visas in Tunisia. We parked and positioned ourselves in a relatively short line in order to get the information we needed. With Moez distinction of being a French resident, we weren’t sure of the visa type required. It appeared that a visa for a long-sejour – so easy to handle in the U.S. – was in fact nowhere to be found in Tunisia. Once I did find it with the help of a call center, I discovered they required significantly more things to be turned in than what was required for the exact same visa in the U.S.
 
The man behind the counter became completely baffled when we explained the situation. He asked for clarification from Moez:
“You are…”
“Tunisian-American with French residency.”
“And she is…”
“An American.”
He looked at us again. “But Americans don’t need a visa” he said.
“After three months they do.”
“Ah, right.”
He got up and gave us a paper. “But why on earth would an American want to go to France for an extended period of time?” he questioned Moez.
It is hard to explain to people about cultural exchanges and new life experiences, so I didn’t bother.
 
I tried to explain to the man what the issue was. The problem is, there are different visas, and I am not sure which one I need. He clearly didn’t know either, so he finally handed us over a card for the call service. I realized, he had never come across this case before – which kind of made me nervous. It was with sudden realization that this might just be the first time an American has been issued a visa from Tunisia for France.
 
Yikes!

How to Publish a Kindle Book

For some reason, people make publishing a Kindle eBook sound really easy. In my mind, I suppose these people could be used to going through an editor – which I hear is quite difficult. Given that J.K. Rawlings was rejected multiple times by various companies, I cannot vouch for the knowledge editors are generally assumed to have.
 
Given the information out there, I decided I would rather publish my own books. When I think about it, I am not looking at writing simply for money. While undoubtedly I would like to make my living as a writer, the reality is I would rather write what I wish and publish it instead of be thrust inside some kind of cloning machine.
 
Thus it was that I undertook an attempt at publishing my own book in the world’s largest store. Obviously writing the text was the first thing that needed to be done. Surprisingly, the actual writing might have been among the easiest of the steps I undertook. The most painstaking one was proofing over and over again. Reading and then reading out loud made me aware of what I was saying and if it made sense. It really is a never-ending experience, and I am sure I still have errors floating around.
 
Then came the cover. I created a cover and thought something was missing. It was perhaps even a bit cheesy if I am being honest. I put it out on social media and found out that people I don’t know have strong opinions about things. It was interesting to see how people responded to the various covers based on little to no information. I finally figured out something: the people who knew me best did not go with the “professional” look. They went with the camels on the beach. This is when I knew I was right in choosing this picture. After all, the book is NOT a serious or scholarly study. It is a complete dash into my sarcastic sense of humor as I recount my personal experience in Tunisia.
 
After finally choosing and tweaking my camel cover, I had to actually publish it. I confess – it took me several days. I must have gone over the manuscript a thousand times looking for various things, updating, and re-updating. I finally realized that I was putting it off. I simply needed to take the plunge and admit it won’t be perfect, but it will be done!
 
Without further ado…that’s what I did! Click here for An American in Tunis