More on the bureaucracy!

As part of our immigration process, we are required to get visited by the local police officer of our neighborhood every six months. This is to make sure that we really live here. We had our first visit the other night just before dinner. I glanced out the window and saw a uniformed man walking down the walkway. We had been warned that it might not go well, so tensions were high. Howard and I open the door together and simultaneously gasped as we see the most gorgeous man we've both ever laid eyes on in our lives, standing right on our front porch. Really, Howard gasped also...maybe more than I did. A Jean Claude Van Damme look alike dressed in a crisp, well fitting uniform! He asked if we spoke French and we said no. He looked sternly at us and said, "well, I guess I'll have to practice my English". "I need your passports and a table". Howard scurried upstairs to get the passports. The officer sat at the table and filled out the paperwork, then glanced up and said "what is your phone number?" We knew this was some sort of test so we nervously recited (carefully) it in unison. If we got it wrong, would he think we don't live here? When we finished, a feeling of relief flooded the room until, with a straight face he said, "now in French please!" Howard and I stared at each other in disbelief but did our best. He corrected our few mistakes and then his face lit up and with a little twinkle in his eye he said "see, you do speak French". Welcome to the commune!