Old and Lost in France: A Senior Missionary Story (Part 4)

 We returned from our mission to the France Paris mission exactly one month ago. Today we reported to the stake council. To wrap up our experience, Phil finished his essay about getting lost on the way to the train station in Chatou, France while he was trying to to the the police station (prefecture) to get his Carte de Sejour (official residence card) in Saint Germaine en Laye, a neighboring town. See how his escapades played out.

Part 4

(Written in Salem, UT at the request of those who wanted some closure to my tale.) 

I exited the train and took the escalator up to the main level full of flower vendors, souvenir shops, and mini marts. Successfully passing through the exit turnstile with my handy Navigo (Zones 1-5) pass, I headed toward the gare exit. But which one? Simple. The exit that leads toward the church

 and the chateau (as well as the ice cream shop).  Upon exiting, I took a moment to appreciate the lovely chateau,where Louis XIV (the Sun King) was born and which now houses the national archaeological museum and a gift shop (where I purchased volumes 36, 37, 38, 39, and 40 to complete my Asterix collection

 as well as an expensive reproduction of a tiny horse carved from a mammoth tusk in 13,000 BCE—I have the certificate to prove it) 

and the Catholic church, which has a healthy attendance on every holy day (“holiday”) and on most Sundays. Having satisfied my aesthetic appreciation for old French buildings, I quickly found the first street on my way toward the préfecture, the name of which I don’t remember now.  I could check for it on the detailed map and directions Delys had prepared for me, but they’re now in ashes floating somewhere in the breeze around Chatou after I burned them up first thing upon returning safely home to our apartment after completing my Carte de Sejour quest. 

One of the vexing challenges of navigating in and around Paris, especially for novices, is recognizing that the same street might change its name as frequently as a serial con artist or someone in the witness protection program. For example, for one block it might be Rue de la Republique and then two blocks later change to Rue de la Monarchie, which later becomes Rue de la Bastille until it turns into Rue de la Guillotine. Because I always feel that I’m literally walking through the history of France as told through street names, I think they ought to consider uniting these various street names under one name such as Rue de l’Histoire de la France or perhaps Rue des Personages Français Célèbres.

But I digress. . . .  It seems that I also have a strong tendency to lose myself in my own prose. Most of you probably figured that out a long time ago.

I followed La Rue aux Douze Noms (the street of a dozen names) down the hill to reach a big intersection. Along the way down I recognized several buildings and parking lots and statues that Delys had showed me on the Google Earth virtual journey from the night before. Like most big intersections and/or roundabouts, this one was confusing. I tried my Google Map App for some clue regarding the direction I should take. It couldn’t even indicate my exact location, let alone the route I should take.

 Fortunately, as I was consulting my phone while pondering the sad plight of human beings cast about in this fallen world, a group of teenagers at a nearby bus stop asked me very politely if they could help direct me toward my destination. I told them I was looking for the préfecture. They immediately directed me to cross the bridge over the freeway and then up the hill slightly to the left and past the church near the top.

I thanked them sincerely and hurried along the route they indicated. Later, as I paused to catch my breath and recheck my phone near the top of the hill, a half dozen kids dressed in football (soccer) gear heading down the hill on their way to practice stopped and asked me if I was lost. (At this point whatever directional confidence that still remained in me dissipated immediately.)  Once again, I replied that I was looking for the préfecture. They nodded their understanding and then as a group headed back up the hill from where they had come with me in tow and pointed out the préfecture with a smile and a “voilà.” They somehow resisted the temptation to take me by the hand and walk me into the building. I thanked them with a bow and a “merci” to which they responded a hearty “Bon courage, Monsieur” (Good luck, Mister).  I continued on my humble way, glancing at my watch to reassure myself that I had not missed my appointment time, which would have meant disaster and probable deportation.

As I approached the préfecture, I initially panicked a bit because the place looked deserted. Was this some sort of impromptu strike (which are frequent in France but usually announced well in advance)?  By then I could see the ubiquitous security guard by the door. I showed him my documentation and was immediately admitted into the inner sanctum of the préfecture. I glanced around and was shocked to see that I was the only person in the huge room. I had heard numerous horror stories of overcrowding and numerous delays from other missionaries. I scanned the room again trying to find an occupied clerk window among the dozen that encircled the room. Finally, I noticed a woman waving me over to her station. I had my Carte de Sejour in under five minutes and returned straight home without further delay, confusion, or incident.

Delys, on the other hand, who had submitted her application at the exact same time as I did, never got an appointment with the préfecture to pick up her Carte de Sejour and somehow finished her mission without one. Periodically, we’ve speculated on possible reasons why her Carte de Sejour was never processed. Confusion within the mission office? French bureaucratic ineptitude? CIA interference? Friends in high places? Friends in low places? Redacted background check? Dumb luck?

 Personally, I think there’s a very capable and sexy female IMF agent running around somewhere saving the world using Delys’s Carte de Sejour.