Flat Hunting in Paris: Part 1

My moving to Paris a little over 6 months ago was quite sudden and spontaneous. Very little thought went into the logistics and planning of the move and I think I grossly underestimated just how big a change it would be. But having found a job and a basic, but not insignificant grasp of the language, things are a little easier; I haven't exactly steadied the ship, but at least the seasickness has subsided... for now. Things could be better however, and that is why myself and The Real Girlfriend* have decided it's time to look for a new flat that will improve our general day to day lives (I wanted to say 'time to jump ship and look for a new flat', but I didn't want this to become an entry laden with nautical analogies). You see, unfortunately for m'lady, she was burdened with my arrival and was practically forced to take me in. Come to think of it, I'm not sure we ever actually discussed where I would live if I decided to move to France; it was more a case of me assuming that was the plan as I turned up on day one with a case full of my crap clothes and a stupid look on my face. I wonder if she ever regrets that...? Either way, I have been living in her flat ever since it's been lovely...

All in a day's work for Mezza**.

... Except for the fact it's not really a flat. Strictly speaking, it's a studio apartment for one, but what that really means is it's a glorified cupboard that happens to have a 'shower' fit for a contortionist's act and a kitchen that could pack away into your average rucksack (Which reminds me - bloody marvellous). It's barely big enough for one person, so it's lucky all I arrived with was a guitar and some clothes - the majority of which have to live in a box under the bed (in filthy piles in the corner). My dignity is intact however, as a carrier bag has been kindly reserved for all my delicates (skid-stained ball rags), to be shoved lovingly to the bottom of a wardrobe. The toilet squeezes itself in next to the shower, but despite the bathroom door's best efforts to make it seem like an entirely separate space, it is still only a mere 6 or 7 feet from the bed we sleep in. One can well imagine that the phrase, "You might want to open the patio door dear" is heard quite frequently. In fact, if there's a hell, I may well be on my way for subjecting another human being to the sounds and smells of my body ridding itself of the digested remains of 8 pints of weak, pissy lager and a cheap kebab. The stench can make the living quarters less than pleasant (As a side note, since when has hair around the arse been a valuable evolutionary trait?). That said it's probably going to take a whole lot more than an extra 15 or so square metres to spare the nostrils of anyone unlucky enough to share a place with a bloke - after all James 'Mezza' Meyrick has been known to poison the air of whole houses before. Maybe The Real Girlfriend will have to get used to that side of things...

Scatological issues aside, the fact that we have only one room in our current place throws up a few additional 'difficulties'. For example, if The Real Girlfriend wishes to watch one of 'her shows' (I refuse to name them as I don't want fans of these shows stumbling across my blog with a keyword search and potentially littering the place with their defence of such tripe. I know that would require a little more notoriety on my part, but I'm taking no chances). You see, like any other human being I would rather not partake in something that is likely to make me claw my own face off in an attempt to mush the insides of my head to deactivate my brain. And sometimes this is how 'her shows make me feel' so I have limited options. I either: leave; sit on the balcony; sit on the toilet; or have something blaring through some earphones for the duration of the nonsense. In today's society, cosmopolitan though it may be, leaving the flat generally requires putting some clothes on so I'm not a fan of that option. Sitting on the balcony in winter is mental, and as much as I like going to the toilet, it's a difficult place to be if I've made a recent deposit to the Banque de la Jobby. But then the earphones aren't a perfect solution either: there is always going to be a quiet moment in whatever I'm listening to that allows the odd punch line/morsel of canned laughter/interminable singing to weasel their way in through my sonic barrier and subsequently defile my ears. Of course, there are always two sides to these things, and I'm quite sure listening to me watch numerous football matches at the weekend (where the only thing more brain dead than the 60,000 thugs banging and hooting incessantly, is the deranged pair of monkey spastics they've let loose in the commentary box) isn't her favourite thing in the world either. Trying to resolve the issues seems futile as we'll never see eye to eye on the matters; and besides we don't even have the space to let any passionate and explosive (aka French) argument culminate in one of those dramatic door slamming finale it deserves. Instead we'd have to get up, stomp the feet and sigh a hell of a lot before taking our place at the end of the very same bed with the maximum amount of disruption caused to the other. Doesn't really give the desired effect and makes it hardly worth fighting in the first place. If you think

So I'm sure you agree the need for a bigger flat is obvious - just for the bath alone (watch above video now if you haven't already, and do things in the correct order next time - it's there for a reason). Unfortunately, that means flat hunting in Paris, which I'm told is more than just your average pain in the arse; seems this is a proper sphincter-stretching-with-sharp-edges type pain in the arse. The demand for accommodation here is so high, the landlords can be as choosy as they like when it comes to their future tenants, which leaves desperate clowns like myself jumping through hoops to meet their approval (or rather The Real Girlfriend being forced to do the hoop jumping for two people as I am an idiot). I don't wish to be quoted on it, but I was told that there are up to 60,000 empty flats in Paris just because the landlords can wait for prices to rise that little bit more before selecting the tenants they will be fleecing for the foreseeable future. Even then it's ridiculously judgmental; having the wrong name, nationality, sexuality or even job can be held against you - whether you can afford the place or not. It would make colouring in your own scrotum with a tattooist's needle seem like a quick and easy procedure. It almost feels like you're seen as shit throwing, fire starting maniacs until you prove otherwise, so we're left to scrape together every last piece of evidence to show that we're worthwhile citizens. Thankfully The Real Girlfriend has meticulously prepared a file containing all manner of items in order to make us seem like the perfect tenants and not the aforementioned defecating pyros. We also managed to shortlist some flats that matched both our criteria: For me, a balcony so that I can sit out in the sun in the summer months wearing nothing but a guitar and some sunscreen for my tattooed ball bag; for The Real Girlfriend, enough space to be able to accommodate friends and host parties - which I guess we would be nice. And so last week, armed with our file and my infallible English charm, I was sent to view them a couple of places.

I don't want to drag on too much, so you'll have to wait to find out how I got on.

Cheery bye.

*I wanted to abbreviate this to TRG, but read aloud, it could sound too much like the word 'trog'.
** This is a genuine photograph from the man's toilet, and this was on a relatively clean day. A real man's man one could say.