 | Getting a French long-stay visa was challenging. We had to do a boatload of paperwork back in California, involving bank statements, health insurance, proof of income, taxes, passports, marriage certificates, birth certificates, tiny photos, airline tickets, and letters stating why we wanted to move to France and promising not to work there. It was grueling, but if you’re a grownup who can handle taxes and health insurance, you can do it. |
All that remained to do after we got to France was get an OFII checkup (OFII: L’Office Francais de l’Immigration et de l’Integration) and submit the results to the OFII office. I had heard that the checkup was just a basic health thing, so I wasn’t worried.
I sent in my paperwork to schedule the checkup and decided to have a little soirée to celebrate meeting new people in Paris. It was very classy. I put out cheese and bread and meat on a tray. We drank rosé.
My new expat friend Lexie asked how our OFII ordeal was going.
“Great!” I said brightly. “All that’s left is the checkup.”
“Oh, you mean the Tits and Jeans Checkup?” she asked.
I simultaneously clutched my pearls and sloshed rosé down my front. “What?!”
She nodded and poured me some more wine. “You go in this room and take off everything on top. Then you go in another room and they do a chest x-ray. It’s a big room with people working there. You can wear your pants but no top. Tits and jeans.”
I was too stunned to ask any clarifying questions.
Now, let’s get one thing clear: I’m no prude. I wear shorts. I swim regularly in a tasteful one-piece, but if I lose five pounds by next summer I might try a bikini. I wear above-the-knee skirts and v-neck blouses. I am not ashamed.
But topless? In an office with multiple people? That’s different.
There was nothing to do but go through with it.
On the day of the appointment, I gathered my wits about me and went to OFII. Since my appointment was at 9 am, it was too early in the day for a soothing glass of wine. Rats.
The security guard was nice. The first receptionist was nice. The second receptionist was nice and told me this funny story about how her daughter got her car towed in New York because she didn’t know she wasn’t supposed to park in front of a fire hydrant. “Haha yes things are different in different countries,” I said.
After waiting a few minutes, a dapper French doctor invited me into his office. I tried very hard to speak French. I did the eye test in French (my alphabet is excellent). He weighed me, which was encouraging because it was in kilograms and I have no idea how much that is. He measured my height with a wooden thing on the wall. He took my blood pressure and pricked my finger. He asked me some medical questions. It was all in French. I was hopefully optimistic. All clothing still intact.
When that was over, he showed me into a little dressing room with two doors, one open to the waiting room and the other leading God-knows-where. A diagram on the wall showed a man with pants and no shirt, and a woman with pants and no shirt. She had her arms crossed demurely over her chest. Tits and jeans. The time had come.
At that point I lost all power of speaking and understanding French. The dapper doctor pointed to the sign and said, “Bluh bluh bluh bluh, bluh bluh. Bluh?” He smiled and left.
I closed the door and obediently stripped down. Should I go out or would they come get me? Should I hold my stomach in? Should I cross my arms like the lady in the drawing, or just keep them casually by my sides? A jaunty hands-on-hips posture? Lord, no.
While I was trying to decide, the non-waiting-room-door swung open and Dapper French Doctor No. 2 smiled at me and said, “Bon jour, madame!”
Alright, friends, listen up because this is really important. He maintained eye contact the whole time.
So, I don’t want to hear any more of this dress-modestly-or-you’ll-make-the-boys-crazy talk, because if this guy could somehow manage to look at my eyes with me all sunny side up, everybody else should be able to focus around fully-clothed women. I’m just saying.
Anyway, I had lost my power of French. I have no idea what my arms were doing, it’s all a blur. The dapper French doctor propelled me over to the x-ray machine and propped me up in front of it. I heard other people somewhere behind me, making office-type noises with paper and desk supplies and maybe a copy machine.
“Bluh bluh bluh bluh your hands, please.” Seeing my expressionless face, he went behind me and placed my hands on my hips while I mashed myself against the x-ray machine. Then he went around the corner. Something whirred and clicked.
“Bluh bluh bluh, and then bluh bluh.”
I stood there motionless until he came back and ushered me back to the dressing room. He wished me a good day, but I’m not sure if I replied.
I gratefully put my clothes back on and went into the waiting room, murmuring a prayer of thanks that it was over. The receptionist told me to go into a different office, where Dapper Doctor No. 3 was waiting for me. He had my chest x-ray, showing I do not have TB. Dr. No. 3 asked me a few questions about my health history, in English because I had still not regained my French, then pulled out a stethoscope and said,
“Take off your shirt.”
What?! Lexie never mentioned a second topless scene! And she certainly never mentioned taking my top off in front of someone! I wasn’t prepared for this. Walking around topless is one thing, but taking off my shirt in front of somebody is a totally different issue. That’s intimate!
Would the lights dim? Would “Let’s Get it On” start piping through the PA system? (Hey, it could happen. Last week I heard “She’s a Brick House” and “Sexual Healing” in the grocery store, although it was that peppy new progressive house remix of “Sexual Healing” which I’m really not into. What, like old-school sexual healing was too moody for you?)
He waited patiently while I gulped and took my top off. Of course, it got caught in my glasses. And earrings. My skin got clammy and my breathing more ragged.
But again, friends--he maintained eye contact, except when he was staring over my shoulder into the mid-distance like health care professionals do when they listen real hard. It can be done!
He finished up and I put my shirt back on, smashing my hair and knocking my glasses off. There was no graceful way to do it.
After every paper had been stamped, they told me to show up for my final OFII paperwork appointment on Friday.
I breathed a sigh of relief and took myself out for breakfast. It was over, for real this time.
I sent in my paperwork to schedule the checkup and decided to have a little soirée to celebrate meeting new people in Paris. It was very classy. I put out cheese and bread and meat on a tray. We drank rosé.
My new expat friend Lexie asked how our OFII ordeal was going.
“Great!” I said brightly. “All that’s left is the checkup.”
“Oh, you mean the Tits and Jeans Checkup?” she asked.
I simultaneously clutched my pearls and sloshed rosé down my front. “What?!”
She nodded and poured me some more wine. “You go in this room and take off everything on top. Then you go in another room and they do a chest x-ray. It’s a big room with people working there. You can wear your pants but no top. Tits and jeans.”
I was too stunned to ask any clarifying questions.
Now, let’s get one thing clear: I’m no prude. I wear shorts. I swim regularly in a tasteful one-piece, but if I lose five pounds by next summer I might try a bikini. I wear above-the-knee skirts and v-neck blouses. I am not ashamed.
But topless? In an office with multiple people? That’s different.
There was nothing to do but go through with it.
On the day of the appointment, I gathered my wits about me and went to OFII. Since my appointment was at 9 am, it was too early in the day for a soothing glass of wine. Rats.
The security guard was nice. The first receptionist was nice. The second receptionist was nice and told me this funny story about how her daughter got her car towed in New York because she didn’t know she wasn’t supposed to park in front of a fire hydrant. “Haha yes things are different in different countries,” I said.
After waiting a few minutes, a dapper French doctor invited me into his office. I tried very hard to speak French. I did the eye test in French (my alphabet is excellent). He weighed me, which was encouraging because it was in kilograms and I have no idea how much that is. He measured my height with a wooden thing on the wall. He took my blood pressure and pricked my finger. He asked me some medical questions. It was all in French. I was hopefully optimistic. All clothing still intact.
When that was over, he showed me into a little dressing room with two doors, one open to the waiting room and the other leading God-knows-where. A diagram on the wall showed a man with pants and no shirt, and a woman with pants and no shirt. She had her arms crossed demurely over her chest. Tits and jeans. The time had come.
At that point I lost all power of speaking and understanding French. The dapper doctor pointed to the sign and said, “Bluh bluh bluh bluh, bluh bluh. Bluh?” He smiled and left.
I closed the door and obediently stripped down. Should I go out or would they come get me? Should I hold my stomach in? Should I cross my arms like the lady in the drawing, or just keep them casually by my sides? A jaunty hands-on-hips posture? Lord, no.
While I was trying to decide, the non-waiting-room-door swung open and Dapper French Doctor No. 2 smiled at me and said, “Bon jour, madame!”
Alright, friends, listen up because this is really important. He maintained eye contact the whole time.
So, I don’t want to hear any more of this dress-modestly-or-you’ll-make-the-boys-crazy talk, because if this guy could somehow manage to look at my eyes with me all sunny side up, everybody else should be able to focus around fully-clothed women. I’m just saying.
Anyway, I had lost my power of French. I have no idea what my arms were doing, it’s all a blur. The dapper French doctor propelled me over to the x-ray machine and propped me up in front of it. I heard other people somewhere behind me, making office-type noises with paper and desk supplies and maybe a copy machine.
“Bluh bluh bluh bluh your hands, please.” Seeing my expressionless face, he went behind me and placed my hands on my hips while I mashed myself against the x-ray machine. Then he went around the corner. Something whirred and clicked.
“Bluh bluh bluh, and then bluh bluh.”
I stood there motionless until he came back and ushered me back to the dressing room. He wished me a good day, but I’m not sure if I replied.
I gratefully put my clothes back on and went into the waiting room, murmuring a prayer of thanks that it was over. The receptionist told me to go into a different office, where Dapper Doctor No. 3 was waiting for me. He had my chest x-ray, showing I do not have TB. Dr. No. 3 asked me a few questions about my health history, in English because I had still not regained my French, then pulled out a stethoscope and said,
“Take off your shirt.”
What?! Lexie never mentioned a second topless scene! And she certainly never mentioned taking my top off in front of someone! I wasn’t prepared for this. Walking around topless is one thing, but taking off my shirt in front of somebody is a totally different issue. That’s intimate!
Would the lights dim? Would “Let’s Get it On” start piping through the PA system? (Hey, it could happen. Last week I heard “She’s a Brick House” and “Sexual Healing” in the grocery store, although it was that peppy new progressive house remix of “Sexual Healing” which I’m really not into. What, like old-school sexual healing was too moody for you?)
He waited patiently while I gulped and took my top off. Of course, it got caught in my glasses. And earrings. My skin got clammy and my breathing more ragged.
But again, friends--he maintained eye contact, except when he was staring over my shoulder into the mid-distance like health care professionals do when they listen real hard. It can be done!
He finished up and I put my shirt back on, smashing my hair and knocking my glasses off. There was no graceful way to do it.
After every paper had been stamped, they told me to show up for my final OFII paperwork appointment on Friday.
I breathed a sigh of relief and took myself out for breakfast. It was over, for real this time.
Here are my tips for making this a fun outing instead of a harrowing ordeal.
| 1. Make your appointment late in the day so you can have a nice glass of wine before you go. (Actually, that one’s impossible because they assign you a time. Oh, well!) 2. Practice walking around your home topless. Whisper to yourself: I am confident. I am beautiful. This is the body God gave me, and it serves me well. 3. Pray that you’ll get a troll doctor instead of the three lovely gentlemen I got. I just think it would be less weird if they were less handsome. Or, alternatively-- 4. Pray that you get a female doctor. 5. Wear a button-up shirt. It takes longer to get out of, but you won’t get it caught in your glasses and jewelry. 6. Take yourself out to eat afterwards. Have the bread. You deserve it. |
