Moving to France: Chapter 1, Lesson 1, the Beginning

Why do I consider this day the beginning?

For the past several years—5 to be exact, I’ve considered moving to France. Though reading books and magazines, watching travel shows and hating Rick Steves was my favourite bedtime routine, it was only the prologue to what now marks a paradigm shift.

Today I transferred money to my lawyer in Paris.

When I called my bank to inquire about a wire transfer, I was under the impression that it would complete uneventfully. Alas, I was sadly mistaken.

It was as if the Red-Tape Goddess was welcoming me with open arms. She is going to be a busy wench, but I have my warrior ready and waiting to thwart thee.

So it all began with a phone call.

“I’d like to make a wire transfer to a bank in Paris please.” The operator asked me the usual identity questions, verified the transfer information and informed me of the wire fee. All I had to do was sign the fax. Crap. I didn’t have a personal fax number set up.

I inquired, “Can you please email me the document so I can sign it and fax it back to you?” Nope. There were privacy issues. My next suggestion was to have them fax it to the closest branch which was a small satellite office located in a grocery store. “Ok Colleen, your fax should be ready for you to sign in 45 minutes.” This seemed like a long time to prepare a fax.

I arrived 50 minutes later at the grocery store. “Can I see your ID?” But of course you can see my ID but make it snappy, my coffee and english muffin were getting cold in the car. “Do you have the transfer bank information you gave to the operator?”

As he asked me for information I already provided—and didn’t have with me, I sat down. “All I have with me is the account and BIC number. The other information I gave to the woman over the phone. She said my fax would be ready by this time.” He searched his computer for signs of my fax and asked me a plethora of questions I answered graciously.

After 15 minutes, my patience was waning. “Why isn’t it here, it’s just a fax?” I tried to be nice. “Well, ma’am I am sorry, but I cannot find any record of you calling or anything about a fax. Can I have a fax number and I’ll get this sent to you as soon as it shows up,” he smiled.

Though I loath being called ma’am, I almost got up and walked away. It was as if I was taking one for the team, I would be the nice patient customer. The Parisian lawyer would have to wait for the funds. C’est normal.

But wait, why would I do this? My fax and bank information had to be somewhere. He apologized again and said there was nothing he could do. I couldn’t ring the call center again because they see the same information. I was out of luck according to his plan.

“Well Bob,” I looked him in the eye, “I am going to sit here until I get and sign my fricking fax!” At this moment, I didn’t care I had work to do. I didn’t care about my coffee and english muffin. He sighed and made a phone call which, I swear, lasted 20 minutes. By this time, I had retrieved my coffee and english muffin out of the car and started my laptop to check work emails. VOILA! They found my fax. It was sent to another store I didn’t know existed.

They printed it. I signed it. It was done. That process took a little less than 2 minutes.

In the scope of life, this wasn’t a big deal. However, this beginning feels a little surreal. Each event steps me closer to a goal which has been in planning stage for too long. Like an actor who has studied and practiced their script and is ready for their final performance—I can say this…

“I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. De Mille.”

(c)Copyright Photos Function of Time