Catch-22 ... or Catch - vingt deux?

I sold my scooter to another North American girl living/working illegally in the Riviera. She’s from Toronto, now a nanny in Nice and Monaco. I met her today in St. Rapheal. She’s a tiny little thing; bleached blond hair and a bright turquoise jacket. But she paid me a bunch of euros in cash and took my bike and that was that.

Before I sold the scooter, however, I needed to do some paperwork. Everything in France requires paperwork. Once a thief came into Chez Michel and took the cash and some jewels from one of the bedrooms. When my grandfather, a French native who has retained his beautiful French speaking skills, called the police, they arrived with a stack of papers. Sure, they may have asked the usual questions like “Where were you?” and “What was stolen?” and “What did it look like?” and “Did you hear anything?,” but the family has no recollection of those specifics. Instead, we remember when the detective turned to the man whose goods were stolen and demanded, “What’s your mother’s maiden name?”

Seriously – on a theft form here in France you need to give your mother’s maiden name and proof of your identification before any investigation can begin.

Just don’t ask why. Or what your mother’s maiden name has to do with being robbed.

Now it’s a family joke. Whenever the beaurocrats of this fine country give us a hard time, we always say, “Oh, they just wanted to know my mother’s maiden name…”

Yesterday, as I went to collect the necessary paperwork to sell my scooter, they wanted to know my mother’s maiden name… and probably my grandmother’s as well.

My grandfather and I were in St. Tropez doing errands. “Why don’t you go get the fruit while I cancel my insurance?”

“Ah,” he smiled, “it’s on the way. I’ll go in with you.”

Thank God he did.

“Where’s your carte gris?” the woman at AXA insurance demanded, putting her personal checkbook away, along with her fingernail file and nail polish…

“Here,” and I handed her the small gray piece of paper with all the bike’s information on it, along with a paper signed by both the former owner and I showing that Angela (the former owner) had officially given the bike to me with the carte gris.

“You can’t sell your bike.”

Again, thank God Papa was with me. I could never have argued like he did, nor could I have ever begun to comprehend exactly what the problem was. In fact, I’m not so sure.

The carte gris was not in my name. The bike was not mine, even though I had explicit paperwork that said Angela – whose name was on the carte gris – gave me the bike. They weren’t going to cancel my contract, nor were they going to give me the necessary paperwork to sell my scooter. They only cancel contracts at the end of the year with two months notice or if the person insured has to leave the country suddenly (like me) or if the owner sells the scooter (like me). But I don’t have the carte gris and need to live here for two more months to get it. I cannot sell the bike because I don’t officially own it. I don’t have proof that I legally own the bike, so I can’t get the carte gris – which is the proof that I legally own the bike. And I certainly can’t be insured without the carte gris, but I am.

Translation: I cannot sell the bike or cancel my insurance without the carte gris that I cannot obtain, because I cannot get insurance or own a bike without the carte gris, even though I do.

My grandfather argued my case:

When I bought the scooter I went with Angela into the insurance agency right away, so Angela could receive hundreds of euros in refund for not fulfilling her yearlong contract. The woman we saw there had her sign the carte gris (like a car’s registration) and then had us both sign a paper stating that Angela had sold her bike to me. She then tried to sell me insurance, but I did not want to drive all the way to Cannes if I ever needed to return. Instead I had her sell me a month-long contract. I then went to the same insurance company in St. Tropez and bought a yearly contract from them. I explained to the lady there that I intended to sell my bike and she told me all I would need is to come back with a written letter saying I want to cancel my insurance and she would provide me with a refund. So why is there a problem now?

“She doesn’t have a carte gris and needs one to sell the bike or to get insurance.”

“But she has insurance.”

“Then she needs the carte gris to cancel it.”

“What the hell is going on here?” I finally demanded, in English, to my grandfather who was kindly doing all the fighting for me.

“We’re back in the 19th century,” and then he continued his argument in French to the woman across the paper-covered desk:

If, in fact, I needed the carte gris when I bought the bike, why didn’t the first insurance lady tell me this? Why was she so eager to sell me all of my insurance if she couldn’t legally? And when I came to St. Tropez, why did they sell me the insurance? Why did they tell me that all I needed to sell the bike was another copy of the paperwork that required two signatures: mine, and the new owners? Why didn’t anyone tell me I needed to get this carte gris? Even if it was impossible to get? This bike came from a foreigner, sold to a foreigner and will again be handed to another foreigner. How the hell were we expected to know anything about the complicated French system if no one bothered to inform us?

Another woman joined the first and argued with my grandfather. They weren’t kind about it, even though Papa kept (shockingly – for I was livid and I hardly understood what was going on) his patience.

Finally, the boss came out and said, “She has the carte gris, she has an official paper saying that the person on the carte gris sold her the bike, have her get another official piece of paper saying that she sold the bike to someone else, get a letter, and we’ll cancel the insurance. The person you sell it to will not be able to get a carte gris and therefore will not be able to get insurance,” (though I couldn’t get a carte gris but was still insured) “but that’s her problem. We’ll refund your money as long as you come here with another one like this paper.” He pointed to the form the AXA lady in Cannes gave Angela and I to sign.

“Ok,” I smiled – finally, someone who’s willing to cooperate. “Could you please give me a blank one?”

“Oh no, we don’t have those here.”

Nothing’s ever easy.

The women were livid, angry that Papa (and I – though he did most of the work) made them lose face in front of their boss. They weren’t going to help us. The boss apparently noticed this and said, “You can only get them from the maîtress at the Hôtel de Ville, and they’re closing in five minutes.”

Keep in mind – all of this conversation was in French. We stepped outside of the office and I burst out laughing. “What the hell just happened in there?!”

My grandfather just quickened his pace, heading towards the town hall. “I just can’t believe I was actually born in this country.”

We arrived just before they emptied out completely. My grandfather explained to the maîtress what papers we needed.

“I don’t have them here,” she said simply. Figures. “You have to go to the bureau d’administration.”

So we went to the bureau d’administration where they gave me the paperwork that I had Deborah, the proud new owner of my scooter, sign. And I told her good luck getting insurance and her own carte gris and figuring out all the problems within this system. I showed her how to use the bike, as Angela showed me, then climbed on board the bus to St. Tropez.

“They make everything impossible for foreigners,” she said, waving goodbye.

I forced a smile and waved back. “Viva la France.”