This is the “Part II” to my “finding an apartment in Paris” article, though it’s really more of an appendix. Future parts will discuss what to bring with you when moving here.
They say that whether you are a native of France or a lovestruck visitor of Paris (comme moi) your first apartment in the City of Light will always be the worst. It gets better from there. There are a number of reasons why. You don’t know the arrondissements. You don’t know how you will feel about your commute. You won’t know how you feel about your space.
One thing I did know, three months into my stay, as my landlady tried to charge me more for my already too-small space, was that I was done paying 800 euros a month for a studio (between $1000-$1100, depending on the state of the world economy at any given time). In a week I had settled on a very cool art studio to which the resident artist had added a number of bedrooms. It was very cool and the price — 650 euros — was great.
She, Sophie, my new potential landlord, was a bit flaky in setting up the appointment to see the place but I chalked it up to the “artiste” in her. A writer and teacher at heart, I’m able to shush my inner businessman who (rightfully) whispers “accountability!” at necessary times. But we got along okay at the first meeting and we shook hands on a move.
It was 30 days before my move when I gave notice to my then-current landlady. I didn’t tell her all my grievances. They had been kind and I was determined to leave on good terms. I found out, in drips and drabs, just how much had been missed in the handshake agreement that had sealed the deal. Each new discovery, via email or text, was not in itself a dealbreaker but cumulatively it worried me a lot. I think I was too excited about moving to the 11th and so close to Père Lachaise, as well as saving almost $225 a month, so I didn’t really blink as I discovered:
1) I would need a security deposit equal to one month’s rent (pretty standard here).
2) I would need to do one hour of chores per week or pay the cleaning lady 15 euros each week (no big).
3) I was not allowed to receive bills or bank statements — what??? So I could get personal mail but not bills? This would also complicate the immigration process — but the concierge of my current place agreed to — for 30 days — collect my mail while I figured out an alternative.
4) I was to sign a contract and agreement, seven pages long, all in French. I figured I would just have to hash that out with her after moving in. I wasn’t going to pay for a translation nor was I going to sign something without fully understanding it. But all of these (what should have been blatantly waving red flags) paled in comparison to what I dealt with on February 28th, my worst day in Paris and the beginning of a tough week. Please keep in mind that I use “worst” and “tough” purely in the First World sense. At no time was I without the basic necessities of life nor was I being waterboarded, and incidents like these do great wonders for one’s sense of gratefulness.
I had asked two friends to help me. I had four suitcases and two backpacks to take literally across town (17th to the 11th). We would be able to stay on the (mostly for locals) Line 3 and just have one change at the very end. Additionally, the metro stations at the starts and ends of the journey were roughly 500 meters or less from where we needed to be and all the bags had roller wheels.
The day started auspiciously enough. I had woken up on time and lugged the bags down to the fourth floor where my landlady generously allowed me to use the building’s elevator to get down the final four floors. My friends arrived on time and were treated to some excellent pastries and coffee from my soon-to-be-former landlord. We made our way in and out of the Métro — up and down quite a few steps — huffing and puffing and laughing — and grateful for the assistance of the (always polite) Parisians around us.
We arrived at my new place-to-be. One of Sophie’s employees answered the door and she came out. She had a look of surprise on her face. “Well, you come tomorrow!” she said. It was February 28th. “Well, that’s fine,” I said. “I’m not going to sleep here tonight, I just need to drop off these bags. I’ll come back tomorrow.” “Non, non, it’s just not possible,” she replied with the typical French shrug which said, “I don’t care” about your situation.
I kept my composure. My colleagues very astutely just kept silent. She was going to be a landlady for at least the next 6 months, so handle this well, I thought to myself. I explained that we had come across town — that these bags were not light — that my friends were able to help me today and not necessarily tomorrow — and that I was due to be out of my old apartment first thing tomorrow morning. I also referenced a text I sent her last week saying I was coming Friday. To my chagrin she pulled it up and pointed out that I said I was coming to drop off money on Friday, not drop bags.
Now, as an American I would have proffered one of two responses, in my experience as an erstwhile landlord:
a) Okay, you’re here a day early, but you’re going to be here the next six months and you’ve got 1300 euros in your pocket, so I can do a favor for you this one time.
b) If your stuff is here I must charge you rent for today, pro-rated. Is that okay?
Either of these would have been acceptable, but instead I got the French “sorry, I cannot do anything.” She said she was in the middle of a photo shoot, she had no room, people always take advantage of her, etc. But what you need to understand is that I picked this place precisely because it was ENORMOUS by Parisian standards. If she had room in one place, surely it was in my room which anyone could reasonably expect was cleared out less than 24 hours before my arrival. It was unoccupied when I had previously seen it. After 5 minutes of fruitless back-and-forth we agreed I would arrive at 09h00 the next day. The door closed and the man not usually at a loss for words was.
Josh immediately and kindly offered storage at her place, about 14 blocks away. A wheel had kindly broken off on one of the pieces — cobblestones are murder on cheap luggage, and while I did have three Samsonites, that was not one of them — which made the trudge just a bit more challenging. Two of the three in our party were American and while we tried not to see this incident through the “customer is always right” lens, I was still shocked at such unaccommodating behavior. “I’m not,” said Danyell, who was married to a Frenchman. “My mother-in-law is the same. Typical French.”
We agreed, in between huffs, puffs, and stops, that if I could not even leave my luggage there the day before I moved in that all that awaited me was more unpleasant surprises. We got to Josh’s, where four more stories and the corresponding stairs awaited us. I laughed bitterly as I lugged the luggage up those flights, marveling that what I imagined would be such an easy day instead had gone wrong in every conceivable way.
Danyell had to run off to another job, so I didn’t get to take her to lunch for all her troubles. We parted and Josh and I grabbed some lunch and discussed the problem further. She had some room and very kindly consented to let me leave my luggage there for a week while I scrambled to find a new place. I swung into action and had a place the following morning, for one week.
It was in Le Pré San Gervais, which is at the very edge of the 19th Arrondissement. When I say edge, I mean outside of. It was outside Paris city limits by about one km. Good, I thought. Let me find out what it’s like to live in the burbs for a week. Gk, who owned the room, wanted 700 euros per month for a very sunny and lovely room — but for someone living and working in Paris — it wasn’t tenable, by my standards, for a long stay. I paid for one week. It was at the edge of Paris transport, and door-to-door, with Vélib, bus, and metro, it would take at least 30 minutes to get to one of the “center” stations of Paris, like Châtelet, Opéra, or République (see, even right there in my list I can see how Right-Bank biased I am).
I loved the size of the room and the quiet of the building, as well as being on the 1st, not the 7th, floor, but I wasn’t going to pay that much and not even live inside Paris proper. Still, in my week “in exile” I came to appreciate just how spoiled I had become (and would remain — my new apartment was in the same neighborhood as my old one — 20 minutes by foot, or ten minutes by Vélib, or five minutes by Métro to the Arc de Triomphe, a beating heart of the city).
The happy ending to my alleged “worst week”? I picked up my keys that Thursday and moved in over the next three days. I had plenty of time to adjust to my new views. Danyell and Josh valiantly joined me to “finish what they had started” a week ago. I avoided moving into a place that had featured numerous warning signs and a disastrous move-in day. I found out I had friends who were more kind and generous than I could have imagined or even deserve. But most importantly, I had upgraded my housing while decreasing my cost of living — which is a feat in any city, not just this one.
The photo is a view from the northeastern edge of Paris.
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