An estate agent in France

In France, the profession of estate agency is strictly regulated by law. You should never deal with unregistered agents, who may not have the requisite insurances and financial guarantees. If in doubt, ask to see the "Carte Professionelle" which is issued by the departmental Prefecture. The story below outlines how I managed to earn mine.

It's easy to dream of a change of life and an escape to calmer and warmer climes, but the fact remains that we all need to earn a living somehow. Many British people operate without the qualifications required by French law, and this generates a lot of ill will. When my husband Paul and I decided to move to France, we were determined to do things properly.

In May 2002, we visited the préfecture to check out exactly what was required by way of formal qualification. The lady in charge of issuing the carte professionnelle, although a little perplexed, agreed my English law degree should suffice. I needed professional assurance and a guarantee for any clients' funds left in my care. We were told that the professional association for estate agents in France - the FNAIM - could arrange these things for members and so trotted off to see the charming M. Brunet, our local FNAIM president. M. Brunet was going to turn out to be a valuable ally in my quest and always managed to make things seem straightforward. For my preliminary application to join the FNAIM, he first had to confirm that no other member had any objection. That done, he assisted me with completion of the application to the head office in Paris.

Back at the préfecture, I was informed that no progress could be made until I had a carte de séjour (residence permit), but the person in charge of cartes de séjour (seated in the chair next to Madame Carte Professionnelle) insisted that we make our applications via our local mairie. As this opens only three afternoons a week and we needed to return to London the next day, there was little more we could do immediately. In England, I gathered together all the various pieces of paper required - degree, birth and marriage certificates. In July we returned, and went as soon as possible to the mairie. After some social chit-chat about how we were settling in and forthcoming village events, the lady there opened our cartes de séjour files. She wondered why we hadn't made our applications directly to the préfecture, as all she does is gather the information and forward it to them. We refrained from comment!

At the préfecture the following day, we were told my degree certificate needed to be translated by an official translator. We spent the next couple of days trying in vain to contact one nearby. Eventually, we got a response from one in Limoges. Again pressed for time before returning to the UK, we delivered the certificates to the translator, who demanded the extortionate sum of 30 euros per page (three sheets of paper, each with no more that two dozen words on them). Stressing the urgency, we handed over our money and left.

In August, we were back at the préfecture. The certificates had finally arrived from the translator, after several reminders. The carte de séjour application was held up in a backlog. Madame Carte Professionnelle informed me I would need my SIRET (company registration) number before she could proceed. Off we went to the chamber of commerce. No dice. The lady there refused to do anything until I could produce my carte de séjour.

Throughout September we kept popping into the mairie to ask about the carte de séjour but always in vain. In October, we decided to hound the préfecture again. Amazingly, when we walked in, the woman in question had our files open in front of her. She explained that Paul's card would be sent out within a few days. For me, however, there was a problem as I had no source of income in France.

"But this is why I need a carte de séjour," I explained. "Your colleague in the next seat won't give me a carte professionnelle and the chamber of commerce won't register me until I have one!"

There was much Gallic shrugging and puffing. I appealed to the rather more sympathetic Madame Carte Professionnelle. They huddled for a while. Finally, Madame Carte de Séjour conceded that she could give me a card by virtue of my being a member of my husband's family. Eureka! She then went on to query my national insurance status in France. As Paul was fully paid up, I was automatically covered, but this wasn't good enough - our eagle-eyed illegal alien spotter demanded proof. Off we went to contact the national insurance authorities to ask for written confirmation that I was covered.

Fearing that nothing would ever move forward without one of us in attendance to force the issue, Paul volunteered to remain in France until we got a result. For the next three weeks, he regaled me with daily tales of tortuous circular conversations. I did my best to stay optimistic. Late in October, the dominoes finally began to tumble. First, the mythical carte de séjour was agreed. The chamber of commerce gave way next and gave me a SIRET number. We had jumped through every hoop - surely the price was in sight?

Back at the préfecture, Madame Carte Professionnelle went through it all once again - all present and correct everything in order, until "I need some evidence that Madame Holt can speak French." I was dumbfounded - the woman had met me and conversed with me on countless occasions, why throw this up at the eleventh hour? By a stroke of luck, I had just attended a revision course at the Institut Français in London. My very sympathetic teacher wrote me a glowing report. The message was that this would be good enough. However, by December there was still no sign of the carte, so I called in once again. It turned out that some higher authority had deemed the letter from my teacher insufficient. Alarmingly, no-one seemed able to tell me exactly what sort of evidence of my language proficiency was needed. Mention of degrees and diplomas crept in to the conversation. I began to despair, as clearly I couldn't achieve this within a sensible time frame.

Once again, M. Brunet from the FNAIM came to our rescue. When I explained the problem to him, he agreed it made no sense and immediately telephoned the préfecture to plead my case. Exercising his political clout to great effect, he convinced them that another couple of weeks' tuition with a local teacher was all that I needed.

As we started 2003, I allowed myself to believe that the end was in sight. It was agreed that my carte professionnelle would be issued shortly. I made the permanent move to France. Finally, the future was in my own hands! I even took a lease on a shop premises. A little premature, as in one last Kafka-esque twist, my next visit to enquire why I hadn't yet received the card was met with the news that my file had been forwarded to "the Minister" in Paris. No information was forthcoming about exactly who this person was or the extent of his influence. It was apparently impossible to contact him or to say how long his deliberations might take. Even the urbane M. Brunet had never heard of this person and professed himself unable to help in any way. I began to have nightmares of a further 9-month wait.

As it turned out, this last hurdle was not such a large one after all. It took a mere couple more months before I heard that my file had been approved. My carte professionnelle was issued at the beginning of April 2003 and I was finally able to start trading.