Flat Hunting in Paris: Part 3

The story continues exactly where it left off; fresh from the harrowing experience of the first viewing, I made my way directly to flat number two...

My criterion has been met!

Not wanting to repeat the same mistake of tardiness, I rushed to the metro to get to the next flat in plenty of time. The problem with arriving early however, is you're forced to wait with the other desperate flat hunters until the estate agent arrives. We were rounded up like cattle, literally penned into a small area just in front of the building, all of us (not so blissfully) unaware as to what lay beyond 'the beep'*. Would it be mass slaughter, or would one of us be lucky enough to be shepherded towards the light at the end of our house hunting tunnel? Standing around with the other beasts was unbearable; there was that awkward dynamic that you find in the waiting rooms for job interviews, what with all the small talk, false friendliness and smiles less genuine than a speech from David Cameron (the slimy little worm that he is).

*It's what the French call the little thingy-majiggy we use to hold up against something or other in order to unlock a door. An magical electric key sort of thing. Or more simply, 'The Beep'.

But this was a great flat and we all knew it and so our glorious desperation to be the future tenants of number 72 allowed us to temporarily ignore any shame or self-loathing we might feel as a result of schmoozing (is that a verb?) complete strangers in such a vile and public manner. I've never been happier to not be able to express myself freely, as I'm afraid of the levels I may have sunk to in order to gain some sort of upper hand in the whole charade. Sometimes it's best not to allow your inner "c" have its say. I was still able to clock some middle-aged boot's game immediately though, with her feigned interest in my accent, my job and reason to be in France etc. I could see her dissecting every answer I gave whilst stealing glances at the book I was reading, the bag I was carrying and the clothes I was wearing in a bid to determine how big a threat, if any, I would be to her application. Being on the wrong end of such meticulous inspection was all the more unnerving as it was done with a permanent smile and a menacingly gentle voice. She almost made me feel unclean. Almost. Little did she know my confidence was being buoyed by a pair of fresh-on boxer shorts from the delightfully safe Next. And where I come from, that practically makes you royalty! They inspired a bit of fight in me and I thought to myself, "Yeah, I may be younger and poorer than you, but my worm and bobbies are being housed by a brand favoured by middle aged men from the dizzying heights of middle class!" On a more sinister note, I also couldn't stop myself thinking, "We'll see who the real threat is when we get to that 8th floor balcony and find out if this decrepit old crow can still fly?" 

The pressure was obviously getting to me, but then it was getting to everyone. There aren't many things as despicable and sole destroying as artificial laughter (hearing and performing), but it still resonated coldly off the walls of our pen. There were about 8 of us in total. I almost felt like I was part of a line-up of whores; exposed and vulnerable, worrying about the type of person that would eventually lead me away. "Please be clean, please be clean" I begged. When the two agents finally got there (boasting a good hygiene rate of just 50%) silence fell, the tension tangible. We shuffled into the building in single file with a mutual understanding that we weren't to talk anymore. It was judgment time.

Thankfully there was no rickety, fun house staircase inside (as is often the case in Parisian apartment buildings) to cause me to trip like the clumsy buffoon I am and betray my as of yet cool exterior. The lift housed all of us which was another surprising bonus seeing as most Parisian apartments' lifts are either doll's house sized or non-existent. We were told we would be shown round the flat individually on a first come, first served basis. This was most welcome as sometimes it can be a melee of people milling around the same shoebox with no regards to your personal space. Just like the Metro in fact. That said it was rather unsettling to see how keen the others were to admit that I was the first to the cattle pen, as they could have easily taken advantage of my poor language skills and jumped ahead of me. It wasn't typically French behaviour and it certainly wasn't Parisian of them so I couldn't help but be a tad suspicious. Not quite sure if I was being shafted or not, I settled on giving the middle-aged woman a look that I hoped said, "If you've screwed me, woman, I can make it all look like a tragic accident" and followed the agent into the flat. I could only assume the others took this as their opportunity to conspire to sabotage my application.

Tu veux une biere?

The place turned out to be great. It had newly refurbished rooms, a huge living space (relatively speaking of course), a separate kitchen, a bathroom with bath, a separate toilet, built in wardrobes and a generously sized balcony. Also, as a man blessed cursed with copious amounts of hair in and around the nether regions, I was tremendously excited at the prospect of having a bidet on hand whenever I should need it. Skids in my finest Next's could finally be a thing of the past! And all this without even touching upon the cloth fact that there are a mouth-watering number of bars offering excellent Happy Hour rates in close proximity. I couldn't give the estate agents our file quick enough!

And thankfully for me and The Real Girlfriend, the estate agents seemed to take a liking to it. After just one week we were invited to have a meeting with the landlord and go for a second viewing so that The Real Girlfriend could see the place for herself (my pictures left a little to be desired). Now, the main estate agent's appearance could be a fountain of inspiration for nasty insults, but as he was very very nice to us, I won't stoop so low as to start throwing them around "willy nillily". Although, I should point out that he is a man that not only clings on to the last desperate wisps of hair on his head, he actually makes a futile attempt to arrange them in a cheeky little centre parting, a la Five's Ritchie Neville circa 1997. There were barely enough strands of hair left to make it visible, but they were parted, unmistakably, down the middle. Not even enough sense to choose a contemporary comb over! (To his credit though, it was straight as an arrow). I was worried that his envy of my thick head of hair might get in the way?

And well... All I can say is the devilish charms of an English man and the sumptuous looks of a French woman make for a deadly combination. Perhaps the pain staking organisation of our file may have also contributed slightly to our success. Either way, Mr Combover got over his hair envy and allowed us to sign for the flat there and then! Literally the 3rd flat we had seen, and already we had our names on the contract. Who was it said flat hunting in this city was difficult? Piece of proverbial piss!

Sooo... Just the small task of moving everything we own across one of the world's busiest, dog shit ridden cities to go then. Oh, and clearing away a dead lady's crockery and cutlery as well. Lovely.

On a brighter note, I imagine I'll be writing my next entry in my new surroundings! Until then, take it easy.