Ode to La Mairie de Toulouse
As is my terrible, shameful habit, I waited until the last minute to get Jacques a passport or ID card before flitting off to Portugal last month. While I've always been a world class procrastinator, my reasons for waiting until absolutely necessary to fill out and turn in the necessary forms were more a symptom of PTSD. PTSD from enduring the rage/coma/depression/feeling-of-helplessness-inducing feelings that would sweep over me anytime I was obliged to take care of some administrative task at la Préfecture de Paris. La Préfecture de Paris. Just writing those words makes me flinch.
When I finally made it to Place du Capitole, I wandered around lost for a bit trying to find the entrance. I was looking for: a line; police officers outfitted with machine guns; and/or something resembling a metal detector. But the city hall here has none of that. You can actually wander in from either the front or back entrance, which is a park or a place, respectively.
Second oddity: the welcome desk. The person working there was not only at the desk, but smiled at me when I said bonjour. After listening patiently to my question, she kindly guided me to the appropriate building for passports. I had no trouble finding it, and quickly arrived at the reception desk, prepared for an earful about how I was missing everything, had done everything wrong, and that I am basically a dunce. Not at all; the receptionist even giggled at our I.D. pictures of Jacques. (Which are, admittedly, hilarious. We couldn't get him to close his mouth, so they were melded shut a la Photo Shop, giving Jacques the appearance of the World's First Baby with Collagen-Injected Lips.) After a wait of only about 20 minutes (I KNOW) our number was called, and World's Sweetest Grandma welcomed us. And when I say welcomed us, I mean she stepped around her desk, played with Jacques' feet (explaining that she would love to stroke his cheeks, but in her line of work, it's best not to), and at one point offered her babysitting services. I like to think this is because Jacques is particularly edible with his charm, but I must also think that:
THE MAIRIE DE TOULOUSE IS JUST A WONDERFUL PLACE.
When I finally made it to Place du Capitole, I wandered around lost for a bit trying to find the entrance. I was looking for: a line; police officers outfitted with machine guns; and/or something resembling a metal detector. But the city hall here has none of that. You can actually wander in from either the front or back entrance, which is a park or a place, respectively.
Second oddity: the welcome desk. The person working there was not only at the desk, but smiled at me when I said bonjour. After listening patiently to my question, she kindly guided me to the appropriate building for passports. I had no trouble finding it, and quickly arrived at the reception desk, prepared for an earful about how I was missing everything, had done everything wrong, and that I am basically a dunce. Not at all; the receptionist even giggled at our I.D. pictures of Jacques. (Which are, admittedly, hilarious. We couldn't get him to close his mouth, so they were melded shut a la Photo Shop, giving Jacques the appearance of the World's First Baby with Collagen-Injected Lips.) After a wait of only about 20 minutes (I KNOW) our number was called, and World's Sweetest Grandma welcomed us. And when I say welcomed us, I mean she stepped around her desk, played with Jacques' feet (explaining that she would love to stroke his cheeks, but in her line of work, it's best not to), and at one point offered her babysitting services. I like to think this is because Jacques is particularly edible with his charm, but I must also think that:
THE MAIRIE DE TOULOUSE IS JUST A WONDERFUL PLACE.
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