I value you too much to lie to you. I went into the whole thing more than a little nauseas.

Leading up to my meeting at the French Embassy in Washington D.C. (read here for my post about the journey and why it’s important) , every time I noticed the word “convocation” in my calendar, anxiety surged through me. I couldn’t identify why. The obvious, of course, would be the fear of being denied spooked me. And that’s not untrue. But it’s only a small piece.

The closest I can come to describing it is this—I worried about being shamed. For something I did, like have the temerity to show up for a meeting about my French citizenship without any French-language skills (I did briefly consider taking a class or doing Duolingo to prepare and then I realized the foolishness of expecting that to prepare me for a bureaucratic discussion). Or for having something happen that left me adrift in a sea of my own confusion.

Whatever it was, I anticipated the meeting with actual dread.

I drove up the night before, not wanting to deal with DC traffic when I already felt so rattled. Pit stains not being conducive to invitations to join a nation. I arrived at my friend Sophia’s house with Bodo’s Bagels (a Charlottesville institution) and a bottle of cider from Castle Hill, my favorite local spot for hard cider. I also brought a mini-version of the dossier I’d submitted to France, or at least photos of those documents I thought might be the most important. Namely, those that traced my mom’s maiden name (Hullin) to my current name. So her marriage certificate to my father (which gave me the last name of Piña) and then my marriage to Keith (which gave me the last name of Damiani).

Plus.

Just in case.

Not HOPING, you understand, but…

My mom’s old Fremch passports. I should ask her if they came with baguettes.

I brought two headshots that met the specifications for a French passport. Because maybe, MAYBE, they’d give me my Certificate of French Nationality and we’d have oodles of time and I’d say, “well, why don’t I get my passport? Since I’m here and all?” And the consulate would erupt in cheers and celebration and someone would playfully toss a baguette into my hand and my biggest problem would be not getting smears of brie on my passport paperwork.

I’m sure you know it didn’t turn out like that. I think I likely telegraphed the ending when I titled this post.

Sophia (who I invited along because she speaks French and also she is a stalwart supporter and one of the most grounded, calming people I know) and I presented ourselves to the Embassy a half-hour before my appointment. Everyone loves punctuality, don’t they? Besides, my stomach was too queasy to wait any longer.

This is friendly part of the Embassy’s face

The Embassy, to be honest, resembles a soviet-era prison. And therefore does not inspire a sense of optimism. They also require a check-in at the guarded gate. No problem and typical of embassies. But.

Hurdle, the First: I had my ID, but the guard couldn’t locate my name. I scanned his list and noticed I had been indicated as “Lisa Hullin”. I don’t have any documentation with my first name and my mother’s maiden name. It’s not particularly typical in the States.

I didn’t want to lay out my trail of paperwork through a plexiglass window right there on Reservoir Road, so I pointed to my name and said “That’s me!” The guard shook his head and walked away and came back and insisted, “But you’re not on the list.” And I said (taking a page from Keith and his dealings with Italian bureaucracy—pretend you’re right and you will be), “Sure I am, I showed you, right there!” Finally he shrugged and let me in. And let Sophia in for good measure. Even though she wasn’t on any list.

We were given cards to electronically open all doors and then had to go through a warren of narrow hallways and a “what do you have in your purse?” machine and a series of dead ends and barred doors. Which we must have passed successfully because then we were given the run of the Embassy compound. Seriously. We were almost at Building B when I said to Sophia, “It’s weird that they wouldn’t watch us to make sure we’re not wandering into sensitive areas” and Sophia said, “What makes you think they’re not?” Her eyebrows raised significantly.

She’s quippy, that Sophia. You’ll remember her from my last post as the friend who thought that my final exam would be having to differentiate between a supermarket and a bakery croissant.

Oh, my friends….

Simpler times.

We passed the embassy cafe, which I’d heard is fabulous. No, seriously, reviews call Les Cafe Descartes the best french bakery/cafe in DC. Apparently for 20$ you can get a prix fixe, 3 course meal, that takes you right back to Paris. But you need a membership card to get in. I’d applied the night before, but had yet to get the confirmation, which can take 2 weeks. So we did nothing but look longingly at it. I did get the confirmation later the day of the meeting, so it’s actually pretty fast. If you’re in DC, and you know ahead of time, might be worth the surreal tromp through the imposing embassy for some of that French-food action. You can even order a King Cake there.

Instead, we entered the consulate and waited. I was glad I brought Sophia, since the sign asked visitors to have a seat and wait. I would have sashayed straight to the counters. She gave our business when the guy came over and we spent fifteen minutes deciding which consulate worker we hoped would handle my case and also trying to make sense of the characters and features of the mural. I identified the Little Prince and really hoped someone would ask me about it so I could seem knowledgable.

I thought the woman in the mural might be Joan of Arc, with a smurf hat on (I wanted to snap a photo for you, but the one sign in English reprimanded guests to turn their phones OFF, and I did want to show myself to be a rule-follower). Sophia told me it was probably Marianne, the symbol of France. I hoped nobody would ask me about that.

Palms good and sweaty now, a woman approached and said, “Madame Hullin?” And I leaped up and said, “Oui!” and oh my that felt strange. Both heartwarming and imposter-syndrome-esque to be referred by with my mother’s maiden name.

Sophia and I were shown into an office devoid of any feature whatsoever. No photos, no staplers, no pens even. Must be the room they use when they want to simulate, “Office.” Did the woman introduce herself? I don’t know, my head was full of its own noise, but we’ll call her…well, why not Marianne. Seems fitting. I asked if we could speak in English and she said yes, but I don’t think I’m imagining the fleeting look of displeasure that crossed her impassive face.

Hurdle, the Second: With a quick glance at Sophia, clearly wondering who she was, but too polite to ask), Marianne asked for my ID. I handed it to her with all deference and she shook her head in despair. Quickly, I whipped out my documents. The time passed in a blur of explaining which was which, laying out the name trail. Finally she nodded and said, “You’ve been called so I can read to you this paper which says the decision. You have been refused.”

Refused.

Not denied.

Refused.

Marianne went on to tell me that the refusal was on the basis of the fact that one of apostilles didn’t meet the standards of the Hague Convention of 1961. So funny, to be so specific about the name and date of the convention, but no detail at all about which apostille or how it didn’t meet the convention.

Her job was to alert me to my options forthwith, namely—send an appeal or hire a lawyer (not optimistic about that last by the way, I tried getting a sense of how much that option would cost earlier in the process by contacting a bunch of firms in France, none of them got back to me).

Hurdle, the Third: Finding my words. Marianne bristled a little when I followed my landed fish expression with questions about how to determine the apostille problem. I think she’s been on the receiving end of a lot of vitriol when people don’t get their citizenship. Maybe that explains why the office is devoid of sharp objects.

Hurdle, the Fourth: Somehow, I convinced Marianne that I could be trusted to maintain civility, and she listened patiently when I explained that each of my documents included an apostille, and showed her the photos of the documents (at that point, we understood the letter to imply that the apostille problem was on my birth certificate, so I showed her the photos of those; later I realized it could have actually been any of them). She looked mystified, and asked to show the apostilles to her boss.

I agreed.

Five minutes later, she returned and said her boss wasn’t in. On Sophia’s prompting (my head, still awhirl), I asked if she would email me later, once she talked to her boss. She said yes with a smile that I get when Gabe asks me if we can go for a run later. Maybe. We’ll see how I feel.

But as we were leaving, she ran after us and said her boss had arrived, did we have a few more minutes?

Now, it’s hard in these moments not to hope that the boss will have some sort of authority to say, “Why this is preposterous! Give this woman her identity card now!” But in reality, I understood that all we could get from the boss was perhaps an understanding about what was wrong with the apostille. This decision is made in France, and France alone.

Nonetheless, I eagerly accepted her offer. She returned a few minutes later and said her boss couldn’t find any problem with the apostilles. She then told me very clearly how to appeal and what to say… that I needed to ask which birth certificate (my Panamanian or American) had the problematic apostille and what the problem was, specifically. She underlined where on my paper it directed me to the appeals office.

I felt a little heartened.

Only a little.

But hey, she didn’t shame me. She was helpful. I’ll hang onto that.

I said goodbye to Sophia, thanking her for being such a steadying force for me, and hit the road so I could be home in time to take Gabe to his guitar lesson. And maybe get some editing done because, oh yes, did I tell you? I also have a book to get to my editors this week.

As soon as I got home, I messaged my friend Sandy who helped so much with my application. She said she was on board for helping me draft my appeal because she didn’t want bureaucracy to win. I tell you, I needed that laugh.

That night, Keith and I went through the Hague convention requirements to see if maybe my Panamanian birth certificate didn’t meet criteria because it was taped or because it was small or because it was backwards. None of those seemed to be a problem according to the listed requirements. Thank goodness, because if Panama messed up, getting a new birth certificate and getting it apostilled would be a year-long process.

Then we went through all the photographs that I’d taken (on his insistence, he’d like me to add) of the documents I’d submitted to France.

Eureka.

My father’s birth certificate, apostilled by the great state of Arizona, is missing a seal. There’s a box for the seal, because that is the defining feature of an apostille. The box is empty.

I’m angry with myself for not noticing, but it really didn’t occur to me that an apostille could be missing a stamp. I’m angry with Arizona for not doing their job. And I don’t think I have the right to be angry with France, but I wish they’d sent me a letter saying, “Hey this apostille is missing a stamp. Get us a new one or we can’t process your application.” I mean, they did send me a letter after I sent my initial application and asked for additional documentation (including that birth certificate from my father), why not just ask? No idea, but I do know this…

Bureaucracy is a series of loops. Some connect in obvious ways, some don’t. Some will make sense at some point, some won’t. Some go up, some go down. I’ll just have to keep plugging away.

At this point, there’s a real possibility it won’t come through before we leave, so we’ll need to adjust our itinerary (more on that coming up). But there’s also a chance that I’ll send off my father’s birth certificate (I ordered a new copy on Monday, got it Thursday and sent it off that afternoon for the apostille which takes 10 days) to the appeals department and it will go through.

Maybe I’ll get to try that embassy French cafe. Some day.