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.

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...

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.