This morning I was disconcerted to see a cat slink out a window across the courtyard from me - 8 stories up. Tonight at sunset, the neighbours' cat was romping across the roof in the gathering dusk. I caught a flash of reflective eyes before it agily dropped back into the apartment.
It's been a stunning sunset tonight. Photos below, as well as Edinburgh this weekend:
They say you can’t choose your family. Well it turns out you can’t choose your neighbours either. This is important when you are in a large building which is built around a courtyard, up which sound resonates like a canyon. The only way to bear the heat last week was to have all the windows wide open, which is a bit like tuning into a dozen radio channels at once.
Last weekend I was still starry-eyed with the thrill of moving, in fact we hadn’t even unpacked the van and were just picnicking on the floor, when I heard a strange sound coming from outside. It was a man yelling one repeated syllable, a bit like a call to prayer but more strident, and with less meaning. Caught up in the move, I didn’t give it much thought beyond thinking it was a football match or something like that.
Pretty sure they weren’t screening football the next morning at 7am, when it was the first thing I heard. The yelling would get louder and more insistent, and reach a crescendo which went on for several minutes. I leaned out the window, turning my head this way or that, to try and locate the source, but apart from figuring out that it comes from the next-door building, I didn’t get any further in locating the mysterious Monsieur Holler.
Over the rest of the week I got used to these occasional performances, day or night, but it’s a relief when they stop. However, I have located Monsieur Hoick – so named because his party piece is prolonged, wet coughing. He is either training for the world gobbing record, or is determined to rid himself of a bothersome lung. He has the apartment just across from me, but as far as I can tell, he never opens the shutters, day or night. I actually don’t mind the coughing, but am quite happy for the visual privacy, as I can lounge on my windowsill without worrying about the shapeless dress or baggy shorts I am wearing.
Have been doing a bit of lounging, too. The view might be good for the morale but it’s detrimental to blogging. Instead of imagining the outside world on my screen, I can sit and gaze for hours at the clouds, and lose myself in the details of life at rooftop level. The other night, two pigeons were perched on a set of five chimneys – the mouths protected from gravity’s caprices by little flat roofs. The male pigeon was hopping from chimneypot to chimneypot, making a little bow on each one which threw his tail up in the air, ostensibly a humble gesture towards the female, but actually saying “look how splendid my tail feathers are”. Just as he hopped to the nearest chimneypot, she flew off, and he stood there and started preening for all the world as if he had gone to that particular chimneypot expressly for that purpose. Watching the swallows swooping in the dusk is such a cliché – but not without reason.
These long evenings are magnificent. I’ve been getting home at 8 this week, and there are still a good two hours of light left to do things. I’ve been having a hard time going to bed before 11.30, as the sky is still a bit light, and the colours are just marvellous. It’s better than TV.
I haven’t met both of my next-door neighbours yet. Apparently they are two single women, one on either side. One woman I met in the courtyard the day I signed the lease. She seemed very nice, a bit on the quiet side so I hope I’m not too noisy for her. There has been a certain amount of bumping into things as I figure out the line to take to get around corners, or into the bathroom. My shins and arms are covered in bruises, I have been getting some strange looks and am a bit worried that someone is going to try and do an intervention to get me away from an abusive partner. Will they believe me when I tell them I actually just walked into a door? While carrying a box of kitchen stuff, what’s more.
I was thanking my lucky stars last week for such quiet neighbours, when the second girl got home from holiday somewhere. She has a habit of arriving home at midnight, but gets up at 7 and puts on music so loud it wakes me up. It comes straight off her balcony and in my window. I have thought about introducing myself, and asking politely if perhaps she could keep it down, but then I realized that she was playing some really good stuff, so maybe I’ll just introduce myself and ask for the band names. I don’t recognize anything, but so far it’s been some sort of trip-hop, groove, afro-beat mix. Feels terribly bohemian, student-flat-ish among the rooftops. Could be worse. I quite like having a soundtrack to my mornings, and maybe I’ll happily forgo volume control in exchange for not choosing the music myself.
Oh god, where to start. The move went well. I have fantastic friends. Josh especially is a legend, staying the full course on a hot and sticky afternoon. The guys didn't even complain when I lost the beer (turned up later in the laundry hamper - as you do).
Unpacking: am down to the last few boxes. Apartment is slowly taking shape - delayed by having to sit in the window and stare at the view every 20 minutes. I have the world's smallest fridge, so bought a second fridge and lugged it home by myself last night.
Why did I move from the ground floor to the eighth floor at the start of a heatwave? Apartment is an oven, but then everywhere in Paris is hot right now. Rang Darty (home electronics store) on Monday night to ask if they had any fans left. They said yes I should come in and have a look. When I got to the store, the snarky shop assistant said oh we sold out at 3pm, you got our call centre. I said, that's not my problem, they told me you have fans, I want a fan. why can't I have that one?, pointing to small model for 30 euros whirring away in the corner. Oh, it's broken. Doesn't look broken to me. No, it's got a screw loose, and would be a hazard to children. Am rapidly begininning to empathise with fan. Uh-huh. I don't have any children, I just want that fan. I have to have a fan!
Shop assistant suddenly transformed into Super-Helpful-Girl and proceeds to sell me the fan. I get it home and get out my Swiss Army knife, and fix the fan... I swear, I spent the last 30-odd years believing that there was no need to throw a tantrum, and that all problems could be solved if people were just nice to eachother. I don't want to find out that tantrums work!
Still no internet at home. Going to Edinburgh this weekend, hoping to be online at airports.
In other news: Depeche Mode played Stade de France on Saturday night. Epic. See this thundering version of Personal Jesus. Vocals by Dave Gann... and Cat. Videography by Philippe.
Getting the phone (and more importantly, internet) transferred can take up to three weeks here. So am taking my last gulp of oxygen before I get cut off... will still have email at work, but not much blogging will be going on. On the other hand, I'll probably get more sleep.
What you've all been waiting for: Apartment Photos
There’s an expression in French, “le coup de foudre”, for when you fall madly in love with someone (or something). Translates as thunderbolt (Do we say that ourselves? Sometimes I can barely speak English anymore). And so it was love at first sight today when I walked into my new Paris apartment, in the 7th arrondissement, up 8 floors (with a lift thank goodness), painted white, facing south-west, small but perfectly-formed. Oh, and did I mention it has a view of the Eiffel tower!!!
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Photos coming soon, I didn’t have the presence of mind to take any on the spot.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I didn’t even explain half of why my last post referred to scams.
So, I started out trawling the site pap.fr for apartments, who has never let me down in the past. But then I strayed… yes, I had a bit of a thing on the side with Craigslist, the San Francisco internet phenomenon that never went all dotcom, but is still resolutely old-fashioned – Times New Roman, 12 point font, classic blue hyperlinks etc.
I thought at first I had hit a goldmine. At least a hundred apartment listings a day, all over Paris. But then I started digging. There’s no ability to filter by area, or price range, or indeed anything else. Just a huge list of apartments. Craigslist is very popular in the States, naturally, and so a lot of listings are short-term apartments. Some list the price per month, others per week, and some others even per day – but they don’t distinguish, so some seem like a very good deal indeed!
You can lose hours trawling through all the different listings. The first evening I found three which looked reasonable, so I sent off emails asking for more information. The next day I got back three replies. One informing me that the apartment was up 6 floors, no lift or washing machine (instant fail in my book), and two as follows:
Hello, We are Mr & Mrs. G*****. We are looking for a responsible person that will take good care of the apartment we are not after the money for the rent but want the aparment to be properly taken care of. We are here in Nigeria enjoying my stay here and doing our daily activities of spreading the kingdom and we are with the keys of the apartment, I tried to look for an agent that i can give the documents before leaving for Nigeria but could not see a responsible agent and i dont want the apartment to be in an unsecured hand during my absence that is why i took the keys along with me down here….
But wait, there's more
Thanks for your lovely email and interest in my Apartment. i am Pastor B*** J*** , since i am not residing there for now.I left behind some Facilities and electronics which include the rent,DVD player, I pod,airconditioning,alarm system. The kitchen is fullyequipped with all necessary cooking utensils, refrigerator-freezer,four-hob and oven, microwave, dishwasher and washing machine, mycomputer connected with Internet access also the keys and document of the apartment are right here with us in (united kingdom) london and the lease document. Which i can send to you after all necessary agreement has be accepted. Also i will like you to know that the rent charges is not really the issue, hope you are okay with the price of EUR900 per monthly including utilities like hydro, heat laundry facilities, air condition and so on, but your absolute maintenance of my apartment is most important thing, if you are ready interested renting this apartment fill the application below and get back to me with the answers.
9)What is your religion __ ____________________________ ______________ 13) Pictures of all the Occupant that will stay in my apartment
Thanks And God Bless You All. Pastor Bent Josh
Riiiiiiiiiight. Now if that isn’t taking God’s name in vain, I don’t know what is. So, I gave up forthwith on Craigslist. Waste of time, sadly, because I support the kind of opensource ethos it has. \
I dabbled briefly with seloger.fr, but that is mostly agency listings, and I didn’t want to pay fees. So, back to good old PAP, and today it came through for me.
I saw the listing on the site yesterday just as I was about to leave work. I rang up and did my best charming job over the phone. Being a New Zealander always helps, it intrigues people. It’s partly the novelty value, and generally what they do know about us, they like. The earliest I could visit was the next day at 6.30, and I spent an uncomfortable 24 hours alternately dreaming and worrying about the apartment. I swear, I’m not looking again for the *longest* time, as I tend to get obsessive.
So today I was so anxious to make a good impression, but I was running a few minutes late and spent the first half of the visit in a flap, worried I had blown my chances from the word go. Monsieur was waiting out on the street for me, a delightful old-fashioned French gentleman, truly from another era. When I said “So sorry I am late”, with all the sincerity I could muster, he said “ah no, but it is I who am early”.
The building is 1930s, marble hallway and good proportions, solid bones. Portuguese concierge, which apparently is de rigeur in Paris. All the cleaners and concierges are Portuguese. There was a time in Portugal when old people spoke more French than English, because they all came here to work for 40 years and then retired to the Algarve.
Walked into the apartment and was instantly smitten. Hallway, tiny kitchen with two hotplates, a minute fridge and a sink, and room for an oven (which luckily I have). Bright and clean living room (and, let’s face it, bedroom) with a fold out sofa, and a single bed, which is nice and soft – so I may end up sleeping on a single bed for the first time in over a decade. Huge windows with a view south-west, straight to the Eiffel tower. Fold out round table, television and TV table, and wall-to-wall cupboards and shelves… and then what looked like a walk-in wardrobe turned out to be the bathroom, with shower, basin and brand new WC. Oh, and even the bathroom has a view of the Eiffel tower…
I was in agonies that I might miss out on the apartment, but I had to wait politely while Monsieur explained every stick of furniture and every cupboard. Then I poured on the charm and told him how much I loved the place. He said, are you sure you don’t want to think about it? Oh no, I assured him. He said, will you excuse me five minutes, as I have someone else coming to visit the apartment and I need to go and meet her. EEK! Then he said “if you are sure, then I will tell her that it is gone, and I’m sorry for the bother”. Yes please, oh yes please. Then I was alone, in my almost-apartment, just the Eiffel tower and me. I may have let out a jouful yawp. Just a little one, mind you.
He came back and we started signing the paperwork. The heavy weather that had covered Paris all day finally turned to furious rain. I couldn’t make this up – there was a dramatic roll of thunder just as I signed the contract. Officially it is mine from 1 July, but when I handed over the bond cheque, he presented me with a set of keys with a flourish.
The rain had stopped by the time we left, but even so Monsieur insisted on giving me a lift to the nearest metro station – in his immaculately maintained, tomato-red Fiat Bambina (original, not the cover version). So I am now the proud renter of a real gem of an apartment – and I feel like I’m falling in love with Paris all over again…
Rue Monsieur is five kilometres from work, 2 kilometres from the Eiffel tower, and just a stone’s throw from one of the best Saturday markets in Paris. It’s just down the road from Invalides and the Rodin Museum, and the Pagode, the only cinema in Paris in a Japanese pagoda, is at the end of the street. It’s close to several great restaurants that I know, and many more that I have yet to discover…
Apologies for rambling on, my inner editor goes on holiday when I'm this buzzed. Drinks at my place soon! And if you don't live in Paris, I promise it's worth making the trip!!
Apartment hunting is proving more than usually dramatic this time around – and I’ve only just started!
A bit of background – I’ve been living in the 6th for nine months now. The location is fantastic, and there’s nothing really wrong with the apartment either – 25 square metres, wooden beams, everything works. But it doesn’t get one single ray of sunlight, and when I got back from Spain my subconscious rebelled. Before I knew it I was surfing PAP looking at listings.
PAP is short for Particulier a Particulier, meaning Person to Person. As you would expect, landlords list their apartments on the site, and you can ring them directly, avoiding agency fees. Real estate agencies hate it, to the point where they barely list apartments for rent any more (as I am finding). It is the site everyone goes to when they are looking for an apartment. But it is not without its pitfalls.
On Monday night last week, I went to see my first apartment, in the posh 16th arrondissement. Now, I am devotedly a Left Bank kind of person, preferring intellectual and artistic snobbery to the flashy success of Right Bank. But I was ready to sell out my principles at the first whiff of an apartment on the banks of the Seine…
Incidentally, Google Maps Street View is brilliant for flat hunting, as you can zoom in on the building and see at a glance if it is Haussmanian or ugly modern, check out what kind of shops there are in the street, etc. It is also fabulous for fleshing out the fantasy of the new apartment. Apartment shopping is really another great way to experience Paris – for 24 hours I can dream about living in a certain location, walking down this street, looking at these views.
The fantasy of living on the Seine was particularly vivid, so I didn’t mind waiting for the landlord to turn up, throwing awkward looks at the competition – three other prospective tenants. 20 minutes went by and one young woman walked off in a huff, throwing her hands in the air and saying “C’est un manque de respect!”. We tried calling the mobile number, but no answer. Still, this is Paris. She could be stuck in traffic, or having childcare problems… after 30 minutes, the slightly older Asian woman left. It was just down to me and a young guy in a suit. Brief conversation about the slackness of landlords led to the inevitable “so, where is your accent from”, and for once I was glad that the All Blacks had lost the rugby, as that gave us plenty to talk about for another 15 minutes.
No matter how pleasant the conversation, it was a miserable night. I decided I deserved a peek at the apartment, so we followed a resident inside and went up five floors – but all we could see was large wooden doors. Back out on the street, Mr Prospective Tenant (Dimitri) revealed himself to be in the market for something else, by asking for my phone number. Well, it was the least I could do! But as for the flat… the landlord never called back.
Thursday night, I went to visit a large studio in an ugly modern building in Montparnasse. The area wasn’t exactly charming, but 31 sqm, sunny, with a balcony, deserved at least a look.
Standing outside waiting for the landlord, and another young guy in a suit rolls up. No, he’s not the landlord, but another prospective tenant. Cue conversation “Are you here to see the apartment? Where’s your accent from?” etc. I’m thinking, oh no, not again! The landlord arrives and prepares to show us both the apartment – misunderstanding, he thinks we’re a couple. I clarify – but I say “well, the rent would be cheaper for two people”. But no rent is cheap enough to live in this apartment. The carpet is stained, the kitchen is ugly, and the furniture is cheap and nasty. I give my card to the landlord, but maybe I should have given it to Augustin instead.
Saturday is a different story. At 1pm I am standing on the rue Notre Dame des Champs, near rue de Rennes. There are five other girls, all under 25. I guess there aren’t too many grown-ups looking for a 20 metre square studio, even with a view of the rooftops, which was the hook that dragged me in.
The landlady arrives – a young slip of a thing, with an Eastern European accent and dressed like a flapper, complete with cloche hat and silent gangster boyfriend. She breezes in and leads us through the impressing main doors, across an old-fashioned courtyard, and over to the service entrance. This is a bad sign. Six flights of poorly lit and badly ventilated stairs later, I have already decided I’m not taking the place. But I stay in the queue out of curiosity. Once inside, I am charmed by the view out over the rooftops, with no other apartment opposite. I am convincingly enthusiastic about the place, and when I pull out my business card, she offers me the apartment on the spot. Eek. I make some excuse about my knee - actually completely true – how could I possibly manage 6 flights every day, and I notice at the last minute it doesn’t even have a washing machine! I escape, nerves jangling, and go to the corner café for a noisette and to calm down. I made the right decision, but I will always regret walking away from that view.
Sunday is a day of rest, thank goodness. Monday night one viewing falls through, but I pick up another one at the last minute. Hmmm, this should have been a bad sign. A fairly bland main street in my old stomping ground, the 15th, but this time a bit closer to the Eiffel tower. I am running late and so am more than usually ingratiating to the landlord, a tiny man with long hair and a combover. The building is modern and solid-looking, but the apartment is grotty – a tiny box, no light, and the balcony looks onto the busy main road. To make it even more awkward, the tenant and his parents are all in the place when we arrive, and make no show of leaving. I exit as soon as possible, narrowily escaping the landlord's conversation about how he once lived in Tasmania (!) and walk past the address for the next two visits, to feed my fantasies about those neighbourhoods before cold reality hits.
Tuesday night I am running late for salsa, so keen am I to see something on the 7th floor of an old building, with sun and a lift. Oh goodness me. Well, the décor wasn’t too bad. I could have tolerated it, even the ugly carpet. And while having a separate kitchen is pleasant, it’s not the end of the world if I have to stop making curries. But oh dear lord. The bathroom seemed to be missing that vital component - a door. I have never seen that in all my life, someone asking over 700 euros a month for a bamboo curtain the only shred of privacy. I left feeling remarkably discouraged.
Apartment hunting is a lot like blind dating. You ring up and hope to make a good impression. You have to be compatible with the landlord’s aspirations, and then there really has to be that spark of attraction, that “yes! I do want to live here”. You build castles in the air (or in my case, bijou pied a terres). Then comes the first meeting, with butterflies… and almost inevitably, disappointment. But hope spring eternal, and before you know it, you’re ringing up trying your chances on the next man, um, I mean apartment.
Today was a severe case of “it’s not you, it’s me – but we can still be friends?”. Charming little studio near Sevres-Babylone, very well decorated, with beams and big windows, but no washing machine, no lift and the clincher, no SUN. I almost wish someone I know would move in, so I could visit. But it gave me hope to see that there are half-decent apartments out there.
