GEN X Expat Tries to Live in France — Gets Ambushed

A survival guide for those who survived dial-up, metal slides, and now French bureaucracy

This morning, I had a full-throttle Gen X breakdown at the préfecture, and yes, it was deeply coded.

Stay with me. I swear it lands.

So I go to check on our carte de séjour because we’re still waiting on the physical cards even though we’ve got the paper version that says we’re legal. You know, that super-official printout that basically is the card... but like, in diet form. We need it to renew our daughter’s visa, which is now as expired as a Blockbuster membership.

I walk in, all papers in hand, practically laminated in my own anxiety. Madame Bureaucratie looks at me and goes, “Do you have proof your renewals were approved?” GIRL. Yes. You saw it. You touched it. We talked about it last time. She squints at me like I’m asking her to explain the ending of “Inception,” then deadpans, “You need an appointment.”

Excuse me what now?

Last time you told me I had to wait for a text. Which never came. So now I need an appointment? Can you make one? Mais non, of course not. That would be too... helpful. I have to go online, enter the digital Hunger Games, and book it myself. Fine. I ask, “Can I at least renew my daughter’s visa today?” Non.

“But this paper is the card while we wait!”
“Non, it’s not.”
“Literally yes it is.”

Her: [blinks slowly in French].

So we leave. Defeated. Drenched in dread and the scent of bureaucracy. I home to make the appointment, hit play on Spotify and what do I hear? “Hold On” by Wilson Phillips. A divine intervention. A spiritual slap in the face. Because yes, things might go your way... if you hold on for one more day.

Tell me that isn’t the most French outcome possible.

But let’s talk about what really happened at that desk: that woman looked at me the same way the animatronic band at Showbiz Pizza did when you were six, your slice of pizza was cold, your mom was ignoring you, and that one robotic gorilla was just a little too lifelike. I swear, she was internally singing a happy tune while her eyes said, “I’ve already buried a man for less.”

Showbiz Pizza or the Prefecture. Nobody knows.

And you know what? We were built for this.

Gen X was raised to stare fear in the face…fear that looked like a haunted bear in a leisure suit playing off-brand Bon Jovi on a keyboard while you clutched your paper plate and questioned all your life choices. You didn’t cry. You didn’t flinch. You shoved more tokens in the whack-a-mole and swore vengeance on the rat-faced demon that jumped out of the ball pit.

Honestly, I would’ve dominated whack-a-mole this morning. Let me line up a few French fonctionnaires and give me a foam mallet. Bet.

So yes, I may have left empty-handed, but I’m not broken. I’m Gen X. We ate lukewarm pizza next to haunted robot animals and called it a party. Bureaucracy? Please. We were raised by chaos, dial-up, and unsupervised summer vacations.

And if navigating French bureaucracy wasn’t enough, let’s talk about the real battlefield: the elementary school playground.

So, the girls at Sonia’s school? They’re obsessed with her hair. And honestly, same. Pink braids, beads that snap, crackle, and pop like cereal when she walks? She’s got the most fabulous head of hair in the class. Of course they find it interesting. Occasionally, though, that “interest” turns into tugging. Just a little tug here and there. And look, Sonia low-key loves the attention, but then she also loves coming home and dramatically reporting it like it’s breaking news on CNN Kids.

Now here’s where the Gen X parent in me starts glitching. Flashbacks to being bullied in a Taco John’s parking lot come flooding in, and suddenly I’m planning life lessons and street justice at the same time. Sure, I want her to be strong, independent, speak up for herself, we talk about all of that. Daily. But also? The little Gen X voice in my head wants to corner the parent of the Hair Puller and say, “Hey there, cool mom. Why are you raising a tiny Regina George with grabby hands?”

Like, don’t make me pull out my earrings and meet you and your kid at the school gate with a juice box and a warning. Keep your fingers outta my kid’s hair or we’re gonna have a real parent-teacher conference…with snacks and shade.

Okay okay, it's not that deep (yet), and the girls are mostly just being curious kids. But the Gen X in me? She stays ready. I was raised by playground politics and after-school specials. I will shake down a ten-year-old with a smile and a Capri Sun if I have to.

And life in France? No AC. It’s 100 degrees, and the kids are still in school, roasting in those hotbox classrooms like rotisserie chickens. Honestly, it’s giving full Gen X flashbacks. We didn’t get “heat days” or chilled water bottles. We went to school, we sweat through our Hypercolor shirts, and we survived on hose water like the feral little sunburnt legends we were.

And can we talk about those Hypercolor shirts for a second? Who thought it was a good idea to make clothing that changes color where your body heats up the most? We were just a bunch of 9-year-olds walking around with purple pit stains, mood-ring crotches, and shorts that screamed “Hi, I sweat from everywhere!” Some of y’all had full fuchsia pelvic zones and didn’t even know it. Childhood was wild.

Meanwhile, here in France, Sonia’s teacher won’t even put sunscreen on her. C’est pas grave, she shrugs, while the kids run laps on a black asphalt playground that radiates heat like a gas stove. No shade. No mercy. Just vibes and UV rays.

Honestly, all these French kids need is a garden hose on the playground and boom, they’d be living the full Gen X experience. One sip of that warm, slightly rubbery, dirt-kissed water straight from the spout and they’d know. You know the taste. It lives in your memory forever. That was hydration. That was character-building. That was summer.

So yes, once again, we Gen Xers remain a mystery wrapped in flannel, riding in the bed of a pickup, fueled by sarcasm and Capri Sun. We were stabbed by lawn darts, casually shot at with BB guns, and hydrated exclusively with Mad Dog 20/20 and hose water. Our parents? They had literal public service announcements reminding them we existed. “It’s 10 PM, do you know where your kids are?” Ma'am, we were three neighborhoods over building questionable rope swings and setting things on fire for science.

The sun would go down and you’d hear it: a mom’s voice echoing from the porch like a banshee on a mission: “RICH, GET YOUR ASS HOME, IT’S BEDTIME.” And me? I was like, “It’s cool, I built a fort in the woods out of old tarps and guilt. I’m good.”

We had ten channels if the antenna behaved, and we watched whatever came on. You didn’t get to “start from the beginning,” you just joined halfway through and figured it out. It built resilience.And speaking of The Facts of Life, here’s one for you, Mrs. Garrett: we survived metal slides, secondhand smoke, and every adult in our life saying ‘life isn’t fair’ and now we’re expected to validate feelings and pack organic snacks? Godspeed.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make an online appointment, scream into a croissant, and belt Wilson Phillips like it’s 1991.

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Follow on Instagram @Le_Simple_Sudiste for more tales of bureaucratic trauma, playground politics, and Gen X glory served with a side of SPF 5 and sarcasm. Because someone’s gotta document this chaos before we all melt. …and if you’d like to keep me hydrated off the hose you can buy me an iced latte cuz girl it is HOT!

Until next time, hold on for one more form, one more meltdown, and one more robotic Showbiz stare. You were built for this. Now go hydrate like it's 1987.