Legal Immigration

I am a bona fide immigrant. I’m legal until January. In France, immigration entails two prerequisites: confirmation that 1) you are not a petri-dish of tuberculosis, and 2) you will not produce offspring during your stay. Seeing that I am neither TB positive nor attempting procreation, it should be a rather simple process. The entire extravaganza occurred last Tuesday, when a group of disgruntled Americans queued up at 8 am in a line in the cold (yes, I was one of said American nationals). I had heard the horror stories of Ellis Island conditions, endless lines, angry French people, and unnecessary public nudity. Fortunately, I have been to the DMV a few times in my brief time here on Earth. Hence, I was not too flabbergasted. We waited in a few different holding rooms until we were called by name.  We must have gone and waited three or four times to be called into the next chamber, only to sit and wait some more. Some of my colleagues likened it to a concentration camp. I was assuming that the look the French doctor would give me when I tried to describe “Rapid Gastric Emptying” would be akin to a painful death. Facial expressions in France are no joke. They can be scary. The highlights of the visit included an eye exam, a chest x-ray, and a private meeting with a doctor. In my experience, I did not feel overly exposed, and emerged with an “EXCELLENT” photo of my lungs (which I have proceeded to post on my bulletin board out of pride), and when asked if I had ever had surgery (I only got as far as “fundoplication...fundoplication...je pense que c’est la même mot en français”). The good news is that I’m not as suspicious as I must seem, and I got a nice stamp in my passport.