“We should dress up,” I insist. I imagine being welcomed into Euro-modern offices, seated on grey tweed benches and offered a demitasse and a Gauloise. Perhaps a croissant.

An elegant, stick-thin French woman dressed in black will say, “Even though you have dressed your children in cheap, blinding American neon, I see you have brushed their hair and teeth, and are worthy of living in France. Here are your long-stay visas; the stamp is plated in 16th century gold from Louis XIV’s personal reserve.”

We do dress up, the way Coloradans do, me in strappy sandals and an organic cotton Prana skirt, and my husband in khakis and a short-sleeve shirt with pearl buttons. The children have selected neon. We walk three blocks (to avoid LA traffic) in a summer heat wave. We arrive slightly sweaty, my feet swelling around the straps in my sandals.

We enter the building, but are directed to go outside, around the corner, to the third door in the alley. To wait there, in the alley, outside, on a hot LA morning, in the sun. Push the button on the intercom, wait until they call you.

An American rent-a-guard takes our paperwork, tells us to wait on the pleather sofa. They do have the standard wall-mounted, cantilevered TV tuned to a French soap opera—that is very French, I suppose. We are called to one of two bullet-proof glass windows. We have to lean in close to hear our instructions from the tiny Asian clerk. I try not to smear the 6-inch glass with my sweaty forehead. At the other window, I could reach out and touch the other applicant, who is being chastised for submitting her travel itinerary instead of the correct paperwork.

We are fingerprinted, photocopied and collated. We hand over our pre-printed pre-paid overnight Fed-Ex envelope (USPS, UPS or sled-dog will not be sufficient) and receive a smile.

“We will contact you when we get the answer,” the clerk says.

We turn and leave. The answer? our eyes say to each other. Could the answer be anything but oui?

• • • • •

Il n’y a pas beaucoup de français aujourd’hui. L’consulatte français n’est pas ce que nous attendions, mais la processus est très facile pour un organisme gouvernemental. Sauf por le vol à Los Angeles. Vraiment? Dieu merci, il y a la plage.

l' consulatte français