I'm here to see the Ambassador.

Notbing like a little trip to the American Embassy to remind you that freedom isn't free.

As it happens, my husband and my father-in-law jointly own a piece of property.  They now have a buyer for it and want to close on the sale by the end of July.  As it happens, the Great State of North Carolina recognizes spouses in real estate sales (but, clearly, not in purchases!).  So I need to give my father-in-law Power of Attorney so that he can complete the transaction.

American notaries in Paris are obviously a rare breed.  I inquired amongst some lawyer friends who live here permanently, but none of them were able to assist me.  The last time I needed such a thing (back in 1998, I believe), I was able to just show up at the American Embassy, stand in line, fork over some money, and get 'er done.  Fortunately, I was tipped off by one of my bestie pals, who happens to be an expat, that Embassy practices have changed (perhaps owing to 9/11, or to technological improvements, or both); appointments for notarization must be made in advance, via internet booking.

The earliest appointment I could get was for today (I logged on at least 10 days ago!) at 13:30.  I was coming from the library, just a couple of metro stops from the Embassy, but I remembered that when my pal Helene lost her passport (that was in 1987, mind you), she wasn't allowed to bring her blow-dryer into the Consulate with her, so I decided to leave my laptop at the library.  Good thing, too:  computers are strictly not allowed.

Neither are: cell phones, digital camera cables, lipsticks, jump drives, vials of Airborne tablets, tubes of hand cream, small refillable tubs of wet wipes, or flashlights in the shape of little pink pigs.  All of these items were taken out of my tote bag and placed in a numbered, clear plastic ziploc bag; I was given a claim ticket for the contents.  I was really hoping to get a smile out of the security guard when he pulled out the pig.  No go.

Nearly all of the staff of the Embassy that I heard speak were French.  The security guards were all French, as were the majority of the front-line counter staff members.  Once inside, I had to take a number and have a seat.  And here I saw a variety of small dramas playing themselves out.

The guy sitting next to me was tapping his foot.  A lot.  It didn't take much for me to see, from the papework he was holding onto, that his passport had gone missing.  And he was number C834.  Number C833 was at the window almost the entire time that I had to wait to be called (I was in a different queue, with number D907), poor C834 looked like he was going to pop a vein.  "C'mon, dude," he said, under his breath.  I was relieved that his number came up, so to speak, before mine did.

When mine did, the woman at the counter was obviously French, but spoke to me in English.  Fine with me.  I explained that North Carolina has particular regulations; she sighed.  The French may have more regulation and bureaucracy than we do, but it is centralized and pertains to everyone; everyone suffers the same torture.  None of this States' Rights crap.  She took my document and my passport, then filled out a form that I had to take to the cashier's window. $30 for the service.  What a racket.

I also had to line up a witness.  I had overheard the woman in front of me at the number-getting machine say that she was there for a notary, as well, so I approached her to ask if she wouldn't mind staying another few minutes to sign as my witness.  The Embassy website clearly states that their staff cannot perform this function; I could have brought my own witness if I had so desired, but really, who would I want to inflict this experience on?  Fortunately, she agreed.

And then we waited some more.  I overheard a French man talking about why he wants to go to the US for some extended period of time (I honestly don't know how long the French can come for as visa-less visitors).  Then a couple wheeled in a pram.  Who wants to take their little baby out in 90-degree, searing Paris sun?  Well, someone who wants their baby to have American citizenship, of course!  The dad was explaining quite a bit of his life story (where he had gone to University, where he had lived since then, his employment history -- I couldn't hear it all, but it was extensive), and I realized that if he were not married to the baby's French mother, it could be difficult to establish paternity (I will refrain here from making untoward comments about the French and infidelity, but you can fill in your own comments here:                                                                                                                                    ).

After another 20 minutes, my witness was called up to Window 19.  Three minutes later, so was I.  Here, at last, a real American!  He was just finishing up with Witness woman, who told me she was honored that I chose her.  Glad I was able to make her day.  We all signed and then sealed, and then I had to go to another window to get my document back because the notary wanted to affix the pages together with a big metal gromit.  Sporting of him!

And that is all.  Took about an hour from start to finish.  I exited the building, feeling a little uneasy at the repeated signs saying that there was no re-entry without another appointment, but once I got my little pink pig flashlight back, I felt a lot better.