Pillar to Post
Yesterday, I went to see the police. Nothing serious, I just lost my British Passport (a silly story not worth retelling here), so I needed to get a police report. All of those schoolboy phrases, starting with “Où-est le commissariat de police, s’il vous plaît?” suddenly seemed startlingly relevant for the first time in my life. My third form teacher would be proud…
But nothing in France is simple, especially getting a police report. As Ed mentioned recently, France bathes in a marasma of overlapping and mutually ignorant layers of public service. The police services (plural, for there are at least 3) no exception.
After consulting the British consular website, it seemed that I needed to get the report from the Police Nationale. So I duly trammed into town and trotted into the Commissariat de Police on Place de la Comédie, a prefabricated-toilet-looking building with violently slamming doors that skulks behind the Office de Tourisme.
Not the Montpellier Police Station. (Image: franck_h20)
I explained my situation to the junior officer on the front desk: I’d lost my passport and needed to make a déclaration de perte. The officer seemed slightly perturbed that I wanted to talk to him about a document that wasn’t issued by the French authorities. “You must talk to your consulate, monsieur. It is a British passport, not a French passport.“
I explained again that I’d already talked to the consulate, and they said I needed to make a déclaration with the local police. However he insisted again that his station couldn’t help me, and I needed to make the déclaration at the Préfecture (which is the local office of the French national government, nothing to do with the police).
A little bit doubtful, I headed back across Place de la Comédie (a furnace in the mid-June sun) and up to the Préfecture. The lady at the reception desk was confused with my request, but her colleague seemed confident that they could help. He took great delight in adressing me in barely comprehensible lycée-level English, (although I told him we could speak in French) telling me to “ka-nock” on the door of the Office for EU citizens, and they would sort me out.
I ka-nocked on the door of the Office for EU Citizens, and eventually a rather informed-looking lady emerged. She was appalled that the police officer had told me to come and see her, and said it was a police matter, and she couldn’t help me. She suggested that if the police nationale couldn’t do anything, I should try the police municipale (the local city cops who essentially handle noise complaints, hand out parking tickets and look enviously at the “real” police and the Gendarmerie who get cool guns).
“Je suis jaloux, moi” (Image: StreetFly JZ)
The Police Municipale is a short walk from the Préfecture, and when I arrived, the bloke behind the desk (resplendent in shorts, flip-flops and a polo shirt) told me in no uncertain terms that they were not the autorité compétente for a déclaration de perte, and I should address my query to the Police Nationale. With a sigh, I thanked him for his help, and headed back out into the afternoon heat, back down the hill to the Commissariat de Police.
Back in the public-toilet architected Commissariat with the slammy doors, Mr Junior Desk Officer was not pleased to see me back, but he was polite. This time there was another colleague with him, with a couple more stripes on his epaulettes, who also thought that a déclaration de perte was not his job, but he had enough training to go and fetch a sergeant, who indicated, finally, that yes, a déclaration de perte could be lodged at the Commissariat. So they entered my details in a computer and told me to wait for the next available duty officer.
While I waited in the police reception, a trio of CRS officers strolled in. The CRS are part of the Police Nationale, but their main job is to quell riots and make the regular police officers jealous, because they carry enough impressive clobber around their waists to start World War III.
The CRS are evidently taught a particular way of walking at CRS-school: a kind of slow-motion Robocop swagger with a dash of professional wrestler. The CRS walk says “I could break your legs just by staring at them”. They also wear dark blue one-piece boiler-suits, possibly designed for easy laundering after a day spent thigh-deep in blood and tear gas.
Not quite like the CRS dudes I met in the police station
Finally I was called through to the interview room, where my statement was taken by an efficient lady officer whose official image was somewhat spoiled by the pink Hello Kitty watch on her wrist.She’s probably incredibly bored with stupid foreign residents losing passports and permis de séjour, but didn’t show it. The whole process took about five minutes, and I thanked her and walked out the door with a precious signed and stamped déclaration.
So, all in all, a rather a typical experience of French bureaucracy – three agencies who didn’t know what the other did, resulting in one big hot, sweaty circle back to where I started. It didn’t bother me too much, I’m developing a good argumentative pose which helps in getting results in this country. But I have a lot of spare time and speak reasonably functional French. I can’t imagine how difficult it would be if you were a foreign tourist in a rush…
Result!