Flat Hunting in Paris: Part 2

So it was time to take to the streets and start visiting new flats...

No. 33 22: Kitchen with a view...

First up, I had to meet Carvalho, the estate agent who was to show me around the first of our shortlisted properties. I like the word properties as I think it makes me sound like a real grown up, as opposed to my actual gangly, overgrown-12-year-old self. After being stood outside number 33 rue Jevais pasdire for some time, I was beginning to wonder if he'd even show up. To pass the time I enjoyed a bit of people watching where, over a period of only 20 minutes or so, I saw the following:

• A 50-something year old bloke dribbling profusely as he walked, leaving a spattering of spittle on both his coat and the pavement; 
• A young guy walking with that bizarre gangster bounce that saw him hop/skip with every second step as though a metronome was knocking on the door of his prostate. Might also explain his aggressive rapping at a volume just short of shouting. I felt it was unfair the way his behaviour sent the messages, "Everybody look at me" and "Don't you dare fucking look at me" at the same time. It made me uncomfortable;
• A family laden with what looked to be their year's worth of food shopping. The mother and daughter seemed to be mercilessly taking the piss out of the teenage son as he carried what looked like twice his weight in groceries. I witnessed him burst into tears and strop off in a bid to escape their taunts. As the devil women passed me, they casually stopped to laugh about it like I was in on the joke. Of course, I nodded and smiled to maintain the pretense that I both understood them, and wholly agreed with the way they'd laid the foundations for the boy's inevitable emotional breakdown in the future.

The only person I saw that looked remotely normal was a bloke that was mincing up and down the street as he muttered into his phone. He came complete with baby shit brown brogues, a purple file-o-fax (who knew they were still in use?) and an overly fussy scarf that flailed in the wind as he went about his business. I wasn't sure if my short time people watching had exposed me to a fair sample of the local population, so remembering where it is I come from, I kept an open mind [Exhibit A, Exhibit B, and Exhibit C. On the up side, Corby's facilities have actually been compared to those of Paris in the national news].

Burly French man chucking a baby in the bin.

As I pondered the circus I found myself in, a burly French bloke (they do exist) emerged from the lobby of number 33. He approached in that lumbering manner that all needlessly muscular people seem to, scowling and eyeing me suspiciously as he did so. There was no 'Bonjour, ça va?' Instead, some quiet but ferocious sounding words seethed from the chiseled piece of granite that was his face. I couldn't make them out and so decided to gamble by responding to his opening gambit with a cheery shout of "Carvalho!" as though we were all friends that hadn't seen each other in a while. I offered my hand to cement the greeting, but he looked at me like I'd just come in his mouth. When, after a painfully long awkward pause, he still didn't shake my hand, I guessed this probably wasn't Carvalho (turns out he was the gardien of the building). I tried to explain in the minutes that followed just what on Earth I was doing there, but the size of his forearms and his immovable frame rendered my French even more hopeless than usual. He didn't even bother trying to make sense of my rambling, choosing to return to his lair without so much as another grunt! The shrug of his shoulders as he turned away suggested that all I'd manage to communicate was that I was a useless English wimp that couldn't cause any trouble even if I wanted to. A couple of hundred years ago, I'd definitely be the sort of child they put in the bin for having no possible use in battle. 

Minutes later the real Carvalho called me on my mobile wondering where I was (by this time I was severely late); turns out I should have been at number 22 and not number 33 (The Real Girlfriend isn't perfect after all!). So I hurriedly made my way down to 22, and was delighted to see who was waiting for me; it was only the guy with the puppy-shit brown brogues, the purple file-o-fax and the rather fussy looking scarf. Up close, he had a 14 year old girl's moustache and an appearance akin to an underfed, bronzed Tim Henman drowning in wet look gel. And so, feeling some masculine pride return, I shot him a cheery "Carvalho!" like we were old friends, shook his hand and followed him in to the flat. It wasn't awful but it wasn't a particularly nice place either; there was a building site view, horrendous mirrored kitchen cupboards and a uselessly small lift - Carvalho practically had his head up my arse on the way back down to street level. Even though I wasn't bowled over by the place, I was a beggar not a chooser, so I left him our file, shook his moisturised hand again and said my Saluts. All in all, I was glad to be leaving number 22. I hoped the next viewing would be more up my street with a few less nutters.

    

...and 'original' features.

One thing that did occur to me as I handed over our however, was that it really did contain all manner of personal and financial information. All the sensitive stuff was in there; copies of passports; bank details; wage slips - pretty much everything but a stool sample! Should I, or anyone else for that matter, hand such things over so willingly? Carvalho seemed nice enough but was a suit and a set of flimsy business cards really enough to warrant total trust and confidence in him not being a crook? Shouldn't there at least be more admin to go through? Sure, it's a nuisance, but there is some comfort to be had when dealing with paperwork, terms & conditions and the like. I would like to see an office, some filing cabinets, maybe a potted plant, cheap company biros, a computer, a desk tidy and the mandatory jobsworth that looks like boredom personified sitting behind the desk. But no no, here in Paris there is none of that: no record of them taking your information; no receipts; no data protection disclaimers; no identification. Not a sausage. And I've since been told I won't even get the file back whether my application is successful or not. If I had any money for them to pilfer, I'd be slightly concerned about it. With my level of student debt, you'd be better off breaking into the five year olds of this world's piggy banks if you want to make a quick buck. Honestly though, if you want to run an identity theft racket or be a professional con artist, forget silly emails from Nigeria, just come to Paris and say you're an estate agent. Desperate mugs like me will be more than happy to give over all the information you need so long as I get a 5 minute viewing of a poor-to-mediocre flat. Madness.

Anyway - one down and God knows how many to go. Hopefully the second viewing will be better...