The biometric chip in my passport is broken: A free verse, slam poetry-esque rant by Flo

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Yes, in the interests of accuracy, this is a photo of my actual passport even though it could just have easily been a stock photo.

The biometric chip in my passport is broken.
Or rather, the biometric chip in my passport is half-broken.
Although, I’m not sure broken is the correct term since it has never worked.
Not since the day my passport was issued
Which, by the way,
Was in 2012,
Before I turned eighteen:
The age you have to be for an epassort with a biometric chip to work.
I feel like that might have something to do with it.

While this doesn’t bother me on a day to day basis,
It makes any international journey excruciatingly irritating.
Which, as someone with a life in one country and a family in another,
Happens often.
I arrive at the gate and my passport is accepted by the first machine.
They point me to the ePassport gates:
“The biometric chip in my passport is broken” I say.
“If it worked here it’ll work there” they reply.
This is because my chip is only half-broken.
My Dad’s passport works every time on both machines.
My Mum broke hers and it works never,
but mine is half broken so I get the worst of both worlds.
Typical.

I place the passport in the machine:
“Error. Please wait. Veuillez patienter. Erreur.”
“It does this every time, the biometric chip in my passport is broken” I say to the attendant.
“Oh no just try it on another machine they’re temperamental sometimes”.
I humour them and try, but I wonder why the machines are never temperamental on anyone else’s passport.
Only on mine.
Every time.
That sounds more like a sentient machine programmed to exact revenge on me than a temperamental system, if I’m perfectly honest.
Or maybe it’s because the biometric chip in my passport is broken?
I don’t know.
It’s just a theory.

So I go to the non-eu passports and confused chinese families wonder why I’m skipping the line.
Only to be told:
“Oh the biometric chip in your passport is broken. You should’ve queued up here from the start.”
Is it now?
I had no idea.

Now I could just replace my passport but that costs nearly 75 quid and the passport still has five good years on it.
Also I want to keep a GB/EU passport as long as possible.
Also I like the photo in this one and I don’t want to have to find my deed poll again to justify my name when I renew my passport.
Furthermore I may have a French passport within the next few years.
Although that will probably also require my deed poll, and my grandparents blood types while we’re at it.
In fact, I think I could apply for it now But you need two years of higher education and I don’t know if that means two years of consecutive successful higher education or bac+2.
One I have, the other I don’t
And the website is unclear.
Or maybe i’m not understanding the nuance of the French,
In which case my naturalisation demand is somewhat laughable.
If it’s bac+2 I could do the paperwork tomorrow and have a passport surprisingly soon
And I could travel with that passport,
Which won’t have a broken biometric chip in it.
We live in hope.

But if it’s two consecutive years I won’t have that ’til next summer.
And at that point I may as well wait another year and apply at the 5 year residence mark, which is less likely to be rejected.
But article 50 has been triggered already and waiting the full five years would leave me in France with a non-EU passport for a full six months.
Which seems like a situation I would rather avoid.
So whatever happens I probably have at least another year using this passport. The one that has a broken biometric chip in it.
And quoi qu’il en soit politiquement,
It’s a pain in the arse.

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Cannes Diary 23/5/17

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I arrived in Cannes on the 16th, just before the festival. That was a week ago. I can tell you now that a week in Cannes is unlike a week anywhere else. The most obvious question here is “How many films have I seen in that time?” and the truth is that I saw four back to back some days and can no longer see straight so I don’t know. In fact I am currently so frazzled that I came back to where I’m staying in Cannes at one point to find that my roommate had used a spoon instead of a knife to spread Nutella and I am actively distraught about having to now decide between using a spoon or washing the spoon and getting a knife. It’s better than the first three days though when I was so excited that I forgot to eat and then promptly nearly fainted while walking to a screening.

What day of the week is it? Who knows. The calendar says Tuesday but to be honest I can now only mentally classify days by which film headlines that day. This is not helpful on days like when there were more than ten films premiering, and that does actually happen. I am vaguely aware that Cannes has not always seemed like the back of my hand and that my normal life awaits me far far away from the croisette. Somewhere out there is what I used to do with my time before my main hobbies became standing in or next to queues at all hours of the day. And it really is all hours. Very early on I went to a 10pm showing followed by an 8am showing the next day. This was an error and I hope to never do it again. Other people have been to a midnight screening followed by an 8am screening. These people are insane.

Cannes is batshit insane on every possible level. Firstly, anyone you  know instantly becomes your friend. If you recognise them, even if you never really spoke they are now you’re best buddy, especially if they have a higher level badge and can get you into more films. Everyone’s a potential ticket, even random strangers. The best method to get into films you want to see in the main screen is to entirely ignore Cannes’ ticketing system and get really good at making signs with the name of films on them. (hey, turns out bubble writing does have a use after all). I remember the first ticket I was given like this and how amazed I was at its very existence in my hands. That took ten minutes and a lot of talking to strangers. I have now got to a point of blasé where I showed up to an 11:30 showing one morning at 10:44 with no ticket and a sign. By 10:57 I was in the auditorium which, by the way, has a dramatic lack of leg room and are for some reason air-conditioned to -1000 degrees while it’s hot enough to cook bacon outside. Good luck dressing for that ! But, then again good luck dressing at all.

Cannes has a dress code. So that’s fun. “tenue correcte exigée” what precisely is ‘correct’ and are they really checking? who knows. Rumour has it people get thrown out for not having socks. I saw a girl at an evening showing wearing a khaki jacket one time. Beats me. Heels are pretty obligatory though, so my feet are now made of 70% blister, 10% mosquito bites and 20% toe-nail polish. I also lost a shoe somewhere in my adventures, a fact I blame entirely on the existence of beaches and the amount of sand that ended up stuck to my shoe forcing me to momentarily abandon it and then have to work up the courage to ask around if staff had found a solitary shoe. Turns out they had and they were so confused by someone losing one shoe that they even kept it. It’s worse in the evening when everyone has to be dressed up to the nines. You want to see people in tuxedos in a mcdonalds in broad daylight? Come to Cannes, it’s not even the weirdest thing you’ll see here.

This has been a stream of consciousness rant about an incredibly eventful week. If you want to read my considered opinion on the Classic films I have been seeing at Cannes, click here. Otherwise, hang around long enough and I might just share my opinions on some of the other stoning films at this year’s festival. You know, once I’ve slept and stuff.

A summary of a series of odd events and circumstances that lead to 2017

There we go, another year that we can all cross off our calendars then try to describe as a whole as if there were any relevance to calendar years apart from the psychological idea of a new start.

But that’s what I too am doing on this cold January morning. For me 2016 seemed to rush by in a never-ending sequence of train windows and changes but somehow I appear to have landed in 2017 on my feet with signs pointing up (although we wouldn’t want to jinx anything so let’s say signs pointing at like 45 degrees from the horizontal just to be safe).

This is not to say that 2016 didn’t try to finish me off. Beady eyed observers will notice the flagrant absence of blog posts for most of November and December. This is linked to a farcically long series of events and circumstances that have sapped my energy and start with delays on a parquet floor that prompted two months of not being in my actual apartment.

It all started when I wanted to experiment with gluten-free flour and made myself a cake. The cake cooked slower than one would expect and so I had to check on it every few minutes. This involved the unreasonable act of walking across my floor. Now, I live in an old building. The floor was old and it made noise. We’d put rugs down but the noise was still very very annoying. This day I discovered that it was not only us that found this noise annoying. My downstairs neighbour appeared just as my cake was actually cooked to tell me to stop making noise. I explained that I was just walking but this seemed to be to no avail. I promised to be softer on my feet and I truly did make an effort.

Cut to a few weeks later and I have overslept my alarm for an 8AM class. I will freely admit that taking an 8AM class was a mistake in itself and I plan to never do it again. However, the situation was still that I had an 8AM class and it was 7:35. I live 15-20 minutes away from Uni depending on transport. I therefore was not paying a lot of attention to my footfall as I raced around trying desperately to find clothes and books in minutes I did not have. My neighbour did not appreciate this at all and appeared at my door banging and shouting, arguably making more noise than I considered any floor/ceiling could ever make.

After some soul-searching it was decided that the floor would have to be replaced. “It will just be four weeks and we’ll stay nearby so nothing changes”, said my mother. “ok”, said I. “Can’t believe she bought that pack of lies”, said the floor fitters to each other.

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“We don’t have the wood. There is a shortage of French pine at the moment.”

“We’ll have the wood by Tuesday then it’ll be done by the end of the week”

“Oh did we say it was a delivery problem? We meant supply problem. The wood has not been sourced yet.”

“It’ll be done by next Thursday/Wednesday/Saturday”

Four weeks quickly became five, which extended itself almost instantly to nine weeks. At one point they sent a workman over who did nothing but eat lunch then leave so they could say they’d had someone on the job. This meant that I moved into a hotel for the last two weeks of term. One of which was my finals week. I don’t know if I blocked all of this out of my memory or if my mind just stopped recording due to stress and lack of sleep. It’s about 50/50. (oh yeah, did I forget to mention the thing where I moved countries on my own at age 19 but also hate change. Yeah. Stay tuned it gets less self-aware later.)

During my exam week a pipe burst in the ceiling of the apartment where there was no floor and flooded half the building as well as knocking the lift out of action. Ok.

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Once I had finished my finals I (less than twelve hours later) went on a break to Berlin with a friend. This trip had been planned for a good while and although it fell at a time when I didn’t really feel like travelling I was glad as soon as I got there to be doing something new and different. There were two missions in our heads for this trip – bars and Christmas markets (both of us had previously been to Berlin and checked off the rather more worthy and sombre attractions). We did both, fortunately for us, we picked the evening when the Christmas market got attacked by a terrorist in a truck as the only evening we didn’t spend in said Christmas market. I think the moral of the story is not to travel with me I am clearly a bad omen.

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My next stop was to head to London for Christmas. Upon my first morning in my family home I awoke in a panic with no idea where I was. I put this down to the fact that this was the fourth or maybe fifth bed I had woken up in in the last month, none of which had been my actual bed. All official sources say I spent eight days in London. I do not believe them. Quite apart from three of those days being Christmas and therefore feeling like they were beamed from another dimension I just simply do not remember that time containing five normal days. As I packed myself off to return to Paris on the 30th of December I still did not feel like my feet had touched the ground since October.

I opened my apartment front door, having taken the lift (now repaired, but still flashes up that it’s passing floor 96 in between floors 1 and 2) half expecting it to vanish into thin air as soon as I opened it. It did not. I breathed, I sat down. I slowly felt myself relax and actually be able to see and appreciate the things around me. I even did some walking around. It was the most chilled hour of my life. Then I heard a knock on the door. I ignored it, not wishing to restart the cycle of wishing I could have a flying carpet just to become less acquainted with my neighbour. The knocking came back much louder accompanied by the shout “It’s the firemen”.

You can’t really ignore firemen. If you don’t answer they break your door down and having locked myself out once I know how much those doors cost and it’s not pretty. “Do you know your downstairs neighbour? He’s not been heard from.” (we very quickly established that they were talking about my other downstairs neighbour, not the one who disliked the floor) “can we use your balcony to see how we can get into his apartment?” The firemen looked from my balcony, wished me a good evening and ten minutes later a firetruck with one of those huge ladders like you see on TV appeared in my road. The firemen kicked in the window just below me and then left without telling me anything of what happened. The next day I heard the piano music that neighbour always listens to floating up to my apartment. I really don’t know what to make of the whole scenario.

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wat?

That’s it. There’s no real conclusion to this. It was bizarre. Life’s looking less bizarre and stressful but who knows really? See you around more often in 2017 blog readers!

It’s taken two damn years…

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This week when I looked in my post box there was an envelope.

But this, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, was not just any envelope.

This envelope had the little green words “carte vitale” printed on it.

I opened it, awaiting another hurdle, another form to fill, or the declaration that my application had been refused because the wind had blown over a gnome on a tuesday in march and the circumstances were as such not conducive to my receiving a card.

But no.

I have a Carte Vitale.

I HAVE HEALTH INSURANCE.

I feel like a hacker that has finally broken into the pentagon.

This means that next time i get myself into an improbable situation like being mugged or getting concussed I can let France pay for my stupidity instead of me. This also means that I can complete the inscription process for the association I have been part of since last October (the official inscription form for me at the moment reads ‘no social security number’ as if I didn’t exist. But all that has changed now. I am counted as an actual physical human being living in France who can get payback on medical costs! (said like that it doesn’t sound so great). This battle is over.

However in a cruel reversal of fate I still don’t have a student card. I was going to write a whole post about adjusting to my new university but I looked at the draft I had saved and frankly I feel like it sums up the state of bewilderment when confronted with a new environment better than anything else I could write:

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