There is always one more form. Always. Once, I submitted every required document only to be asked for a notarized copy of the same document, signed in blue ink by someone who died in 1993. You return the next day and the form has changed. No one knows why. The person behind the desk shrugs in perfect, national harmony. Bureaucracy in France isn’t red tape. It’s red velvet. Thick. Lush. Endless.