"Chômage": Officially Unemployed

My husband always seems to need something in his life that causes him stress. One day it might be his health. Next day, the finances. Day after that, our two-year-old son's oddly concentric scribble patterns. One recurring stress is his job security. Sure, job security is a common worry because of the economic crisis. But it's all the more precarious since we've pulled up roots and moved to another country, using up most of our savings, and also since Hubbie pulled a career change out of his hat, in the middle of it all.

So in my effort to alleviate some of Hubbie's stress, or at least one of the excuses for it, and to offer a bit more financial security -- and let's face it, I have to go back to work eventually, as no one is going to pay me to write -- I resolved myself to finding a job. I started with English language institutes and universities. Then I tried Catholic schools. My lack of teaching experience/credentials wasn't helping. After a month or two of not-very-committed jobhunting, I also enrolled in the government unemployment program (aka the Pôle Emploi).

When I met another American woman who told me the Pôle Emploi gave her free French courses at a local university, I realized it would be a wonderful opportunity to fill in the gaps in my French (which were many) before I got back into the working world. I actually started to see the bright side in declaring myself unemployed.

After enrolling online, I received in the mail a convocation, or an appointment, at the Pôle Emploi. In preparation for the appointment, Hubbie ran through all the most horrible scenarios that could occur on that day, starting from a long wait to the arrogance stereotypically inherent to government workers, to blatant racism. So the big day came when I had to present myself. I did my hair and actually ironed a shirt for it. Hubbie dropped me off in front of the office on his way to work because it was in the middle of nowhere. Lulu in the meantime stayed with a neighbour.

Upon meeting the first consultant, which was only after a 5-minute wait, I was told I could not claim unemployment benefits (ie., I didn't have the right to get government payments) because I had never worked in France. The man who was telling me this was young and appeared very bored. He made it clear that if I could find a job for EVEN ONE DAY in France, I could "touch" money from the state, as I was made redundant in another European Union country. I would have to work only one day in France to get paid a portion of what I was paid in England? Well that was still good news in my book. God bless la France! I envisioned a one-day assignment at my local 8A8 (like a Seven-11 in so-Cal, or a Costcutter in London) and smiled.

Then he sent me back to the waiting room and I waited another 5 minutes for the next consultant, who would deal with the jobhunt -- eg., which job I wanted, where and for what pay. It turned out to be a woman who liked to make jokes. The problem was, I understood all of her jokes, or at least I laughed at the right times, which made her think I had a satisfactory level of French. So all my hopes and dreams of getting a free French course out of the government were literally laughed out of the equation. I couldn't even object, because my French was not good enough to.

So she gave me another convocation to meet with a career counselor-type person. After two weeks (there are a lot of holidays in May) came the appointment. I put Lulu in the garderie, took the metro, crossed a cemetery and walked up a very steep hill until I found the shoddy gray apartment building, on the ground floor of which, between bushes of weeds, peeked the office of the career counselor. I wondered if it was worth putting on my high heels, which I had carried in my bag for the whole journey.

I did, and I opened the door and walked into a shoebox.

Thankfully, this career counselor saw right away that I understood nothing she was saying. Maybe my constant look of bewilderment helped. One thing I did understand: I had achieved a good level in my career and my French would hinder me from getting a comparable position, or anywhere near it -- is what I think she said. She emailed the person I spoke to at the Pôle Emploi, saying that I had not mastered the language and that I needed to be put on a course. She gave me the email address of the person I spoke to, and told me to chase her as soon as I got home. What a relief! I have a chance to get my French in order after all! I have not heard back from anyone yet. But I do have an email address, and if I have to, I will abuse it.