The Retrieval of Tequila

Having lived here in the past, I should’ve known that retrieving Tequila from French customs would be a ridiculous affair. But, for whatever reason, I honestly/optimistically/naively believed that I’d march in, hand them the paperwork, and retrieve my dog. The whole process couldn’t take more than 15 minutes, right?

Wrong.

If now, with glass of rosé in hand and champagne in the fridge, I could see the humor of this story, I’d write this better. But I can’t. All I have to say is thank God I speak French – even if it is painful for the French to hear – because no one spoke English. (Isn’t it odd that no one in custom’s was fluent in English?!)

This about sums it up: I walk in smiling, hand over my paperwork and wait. When the grumpy woman behind the counter scowls at me and speaks rapid French to her colleague, I start to get nervous. Something about a vet in Paris.

Then I start to panic. “Where’s my dog?” I ask repeatedly. I ask this to everyone I see over the next several hours, over and over again. “I just want my dog.”

With pain-staking slowness, her colleague fills out a bunch of paperwork while she continues to call Paris. Her colleague then addresses me more slowly so I can understand: “Take these up stairs to have them signed, then come back.”

I smile and go to follow his directions. It’s so French/painfully bureaucratic to have to march across a building just for a signature that I then must carry back to the original office before bringing it to a third, then a fourth, then back to the previous place, all for a dog that has a European passport. What would be even more French was if they made me pay at each location. Which they did.

Anyways, upon entering the second office, I found myself faced with an even grumpier woman than the one I’d left. She sat looking miserable, methodically stamping documents. She didn’t even look up when I arrived. Finally I – using my most polite voice and in careful French – explained, once again, that I’m looking for my dog.

“Door seven,” she says without ceasing her stamping.

I smile forcefully and find door seven. It’s locked. I knock on the door and suddenly become aware of a man talking behind it. I wait as patiently as possible as the panic deepens. “Where’s my dog?” I ask again and again, this time to Tony, who’s been kind enough to stick with me through the whole process.

Ten minutes pass. I knock again. “Excusez-moi, Monsieur?” His conversation grows more passionate. This is going no where fast.

Ten more minutes later, I return to the front desk. “Excuse me, is there someone else I can talk to? He is busy.”

The woman makes a fuss about stopping her stamping. Her gaze is stern. “For what?”

“I’m looking for my dog,” I say. ‘Remember, you idiot?’ I want to add.

“Door seven.” Her eyes return to her documents, her left hand methodically grabs the top sheet, her right hand tightens its grip on the stamper, and I realize I’ve lost her.

I return to door seven. The Oz behind it continues talking on the phone. My panic deepens still.

Fifteen more minutes pass before I return once again to the front office. This time, thankfully, there is also a man sitting behind the desk. French men are always nicer to me – God knows why. (Hah.) The woman and I have the same exact conversation as we had fifteen minutes ago, but this time when she dismisses me, the man jumps in. “Did you knock?”

I give him the most pathetic look I can muster and respond, “But yes, of course.” I flash a smile and sad eyes. “I just want my dog. I’m looking for my dog.”

Before you know it, the man is also knocking on Door #7. Unfortunately it doesn’t help; the man continues to talk on. I continue to worry. “Where’s my dog?”

Another ten minutes pass and I’ve had it. My feet march angrily towards the front office, my heart aches for poor Tequila who’s sad and scared and alone, my head struggles to string sentences together in French. Just as I’m about to launch into a tirade, I hear a door open. I know it’s #7.

I still can’t figure out who that man was or why I had to pay him 34€, but at the end of our incredibly brief interaction, he laughed jovially and said: “Yes, and excuse me about before, you know I was on the phone, and he was talking talking talking.”

“Yes, fine, of course,” I say instead of what I’m thinking with increasing anger, which is: “Where’s my dog?”

“You know how it goes,” he adds laughing, clearly not put off by my scowl, “it’s the French. We love to talk.”

Ugh.

The rest was painful. I waited in the warehouse forever, making small talk with the man running the show behind a glass window. He tells me I have to wait for the vet to see my dog. When I persist, he tells me the vet has seen the dog and needs paperwork. When I continue to nag, he says he’s waiting for the vet to call so that they can retrieve the dog from her kennel. When I’m about to flip out, he has his colleague take me to the vet.

“How is she?” I ask him.

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen her.”

OMG.

I’m painfully aware it’s nearing 5:00pm, and if I know one thing about the French, it’s that they don’t like to work. So if 5:00 comes and Tequila’s not out of customs and it’s time for them to go home, I don’t know what’s going to happen.

To wrap up an already too long story, we go with the vet to see Tequila. I enter the room and she’s not even barking; now I know something’s wrong. But she sees me and it’s all over. Her tail wags, she paws at the door, the water spills. ‘There’s my dog’ I think, and I shower her with love.

The vet checks her, scans her chip, has me sign more papers, has some woman sign more papers, and sends me back to the warehouse – sans chien. He explains that the dog is required to be released through the front entrance. I roll my eyes and follow his instructions.

Then I wait. Again.

We wait another 20 minutes at the warehouse for the vet to call and release my dog. The moment she arrives I let her out of the cage and all the boys who’ve been moving things in the warehouse swarm her. They explain that they’ve taken care of her all afternoon, giving her water and attention and such, and that’s why she’s so nice to them – she knows them. I keep my laugh to myself. Even if she didn’t know them she’d be lying on their feet begging for belly rubs. It’s just her style.


I’m just hoping she won’t beg too much from Tony’s boss’s friend, who’s taking us to dinner on the beach tonight…

God – despite everything, I love the south of France.