How to Fail at French Bureaucracy 101

It all started on a Sunday afternoon at the photomaton, aka the ubiquitous photo booth used 99% of the time for official picture IDs and 1% of the time for fun, Amélie-like photo strips.

“See, Mark? Unlike in Canada, no need to go to a photographer! For €8, we’re gonna get 6 pictures, and it only takes five minutes,” I bragged with unusual French pride.

“How many pictures do we need?”

“Just one.”

“Then why are we getting six?”

“French logic.”

And as promised, five minutes later, the photomaton spat out the mandatory no-smile mugshots governments around the world seem to favour for ID documents.

This was one of my summer 2023 missions—renewing my national ID card and applying for Mark’s first French ID document.

Applying for IDs or renewing them has gotten ridiculously difficult in both France and Canada—blame COVID, the war in Ukraine, global warming or just reasons.

In France, it’s almost impossible to get an appointment to drop off a passport or an ID card application. I started trying back in April—no spots in all major French cities because the backlog is huge.

So, much like during the early stage of COVID vaccine availability, you have to use a search engine and book the first available spot in a town or a village.

Yes, we’re all pretty desperate.

I ended up booking an appointment in Montaigu-Vendée, population 5,000, and a brand-new accreditation to accept ID card and passport applications, the French government is as desperate as we are.

At least, it was only a 30-minute train ride from Nantes.

“Don’t tell me I never take you to exotic places,” I told my mum. “When why the last time you had the opportunity to ride the 9:35 a.m. train to Montaigu-Vendée?”

We arrived early for my 11:20 a.m. appointment at the city hall because they aren’t that many trains to Montaigu-Vendée.

We found the town centre easily and we sat down at the only café conveniently located more or less in front of the city hall because even for an adventurous mind, there’s absolutely nothing to check out or explore in Montaigu-Vendée.

I had spent hours checking and double-checking I had all the required documents for both Mark and me—former ID card, proof of address, birth certificate, online application number and ID pictures. You don’t get a second chance with French bureaucracy.

“It’s weird, I have yet to see anyone going to the city hall,” I mentioned at one point. “All the appointments available were gone in five minutes, there should be a constant flow of applicants coming and going.”

I was getting slightly worried.

At 11:00 a.m., we decided to walk to the city hall.

“Are you here for passports or ID cards?” the employee asked.

“Yes, we have an appointment at 11:20 a.m.”

“It’s not here, it’s in the new, dedicated ID document centre.”

“Where is it?”

“Oh, it’s far. About… 15 minutes?”

“By foot?”

“Oh, you don’t have a car? Forget it, it’s a 50-minute walk. I don’t know try… hitchhiking, maybe?”

Fuck.

I didn’t even have the centre’s address, which was literally in another town—I learned later that Montaigu-Vendée was the result of the amalgamation of several towns, now all called “Montaigu-Vendée” even though there were several kilometres apart.

We started walking along the road.

“That’s it, I’m hitchhiking. We’re never gonna make it.”

“This reminds me of travelling with your dad,” my mum said.

“As far as I know, he’s still hitchhiking,” I informed her.

A nurse picked us up and dropped us off right in front of the centre at 11:15 a.m.

Phew.

Then I sat down in front of the employee, who started checking all my documents and misspelling my name four times.

“Pictures… Oh, no. They don’t meet the standard.”

“Wait, why?”

“Looks like there’s a shadow here. No, look, top left. And yours are… overexposed. Also, your mouth is slightly open.”

“It’s not!”

“It is.”

“Fine, where is the photomaton? We can take another set.”

“Oh, no photomaton here! You will have to book another appointment. Next!”

Fuck me.

There was no point in arguing.

We left and started walking along the road, between the farms.

“Are you gonna call another Uber, mommy?”

“This is called hitchhiking, I strongly recommend against it, now help me flag a car.”

Eventually, someone picked us up and dropped us off at the train station.

Meanwhile, I somehow found another appointment in Angers.

Wish me luck.

And photomatons are stupid, really.