Yes, it's a competition. One founded by my closest Australian friends who share a major dislike for the French if only out of sheer bitterness at the prospect of permanently losing a friend to the ‘Frogs’. In my mind? No contest. I had given Australia 33 good years, yet still I was searching for something more... something that would stop me searching for something more.Therefore, moving to France to learn the most beautiful language in the world was a challenge too enticing to refuse. Undoubtedly, France has the upper hand in the categories of food, history and architecture. So, to me, France had already won. But I like a bit of healthy competition as much as the next person (Napoléon aside) so, in the interests of fair play, I’ve kept a scorecard of my key experiences abroad so far. And I think even my most anti-French friends (you know who you are) will find the scoring to be more than balanced.
Round 1 – The Bank Account
I now realise that my previous post citing my ease at getting a French bank account was rather ambitious. True, I do have a French bank account (into which I’ve transferred a lot of Euros). The problem stems from my desire to withdraw funds from the account (outrageous, I know).
This tale of woe and no-dough started after I received advice that my Visa card and cheque book had arrived for my collection at my bank. So, I promptly presented myself to the local branch, eager to collect the tools that would allow me to withdraw the two months’ rent I needed to secure my new apartment that day. I feel it important to note at this point, that the following conversation was conducted in French (1 point to Australia) and it went a little something like this…
And so the bank retains my money for another day. But, don't for a second think that I am not prepared to name and shame this financial institution (1 point Australia): BNP Paribas, je l'adore. I've included this picture if only to demonstrate why they need my money so badly... I can only imagine how awful it must be to service clientèle from such hideous branch offices.
My apartment is incredible (France, 2 points), see photographic evidence below. However, a good policeman 'friend' of mine has advised me to refrain from publicising too much info on my apartment and location, so I'll reveal no more. Although it needs to be said that the very same policeman subjected me to such movies as Taken (girls abducted in Paris) and Irreversible (girl raped in Paris) before I left Australia, so consider me now suitably scared and cautious of this French capital in which I reside. I suspect that an ulterior motive may have guided the movie selections of this friend of 13 years, but more on that later.
Round 2 score: France 2, Australia 2
Round 4 – New York
Luckily, my Air France flight arrived just 20 hours prior to the shutdown of JFK Airport due to 'Hurricane' Irene. And, yes, the use of inverted commas is intended to mock, denoting that some wind and rain does not a hurricane make. But tell this to CNN and you'll surely be placed on the terrorist list. I would like to say that bigger gusts of wind came from my hairdryer but, because of the voltage difference between the US and the rest of the western world, this really wasn't the case.
The Games attracted 17,000 worldwide competitors, whose sporting prowess was only temporarily hampered by the force of Hurricane Irene. And not the force of the hurricane, mind you, but more-so the force of Mayor Bloomberg who ordered the cancellation of public transport and sporting matches in all five boroughs of New York because of Irene.
Round 4 score: France 0, Australia 103
It is one week later and I have returned to Paris to continue my studies—engaged and ridiculously happy—when suddenly, during a Skype call with a friend, the piercing sound of an air-raid siren fills the air. We both panic. I peer out my window and notice the streets are empty. Of course, at this point I suspect that World World 3 has commenced and that a neighbouring country (wouldn’t dare point a finger in any particular direction) has declared war on France. Seriously, this could happen and I would be none the wiser, given the speed at which French newsreaders deliver the news over here. I like to just look at the pictures. ;-)
I quickly contact my Northern Hemisphere bestie, Nicola, who confirms that Paris tests its air-raid sirens at midday on the first Wednesday of every month—a practice that has been in effect since the end of World War 2 in 1945. With a sigh of relief, I end my Skype call and go and change my underpants. But it does leave me wondering... with such a rigid testing regime, surely any would-be invader worth his (or her, Julia?) salt would plan their Paris attack around midday on say, oooh I dunno, the first Wednesday of the month? Then, by the time the city realises it's not a drill, it would all be over for France (without the need for white flags). Just sayin'.
Yes, the French are arrogant, but justifiably so... In my opinion (and theirs), their country has the best language, the greatest-tasting food, and unrivalled architectural beauty. But Australia, well Australia has my heart.
Game over.
And be sure to enjoy the irony that is me moving to the other side of the world only to realise that what I was searching for had been in front of me at home for the past 13 years.
This tale of woe and no-dough started after I received advice that my Visa card and cheque book had arrived for my collection at my bank. So, I promptly presented myself to the local branch, eager to collect the tools that would allow me to withdraw the two months’ rent I needed to secure my new apartment that day. I feel it important to note at this point, that the following conversation was conducted in French (1 point to Australia) and it went a little something like this…
"I’m sorry Mademoiselle, but after keeping you waiting for 10 minutes while I pretend to search for your Visa card and cheque book in every drawer of my bureau, I have now built up the courage to tell you that I do have them, I just can't give them to you." (Okay so, yes, I'm paraphrasing.)
"Pourquoi?" I ask, only to be bewildered by the girl's response of, "I don't know."
"You don't know?" I repeat (yep, getting really good at this French thing).
"No, I don't know. But when my screen shows the letters 'ERN', I can't give you your card."Oooooh, thanks for clarifying, that makes perfect sense. ‘ERN’ must be an abbreviation for Euros Returned to No-one. Well, not today, Frenchie. I politely teller (heehee) that I have transferred a lot of money into that account and I need to withdraw some of it today to pay a deposit for an apartment.
"I'm sorry, you can't."
Now, as much as I was enjoying this informative tête a tête, the end of my tether had arrived. I reverted to English (1 point to France, dammit), demanding to see the manager and saying that I wouldn't be leaving without my money. Friends, it may surprise and disappoint you to learn that I didn't see the manager and I left the bank without any of my money (2 points to France)—an outcome that would never happen in Australia.
[While in the bank, I called my Peruvian friend Carlos and he contacted the bank manager who explained that the 59 utility bills which Carlos had already provided to confirm his address (under which my bank account is listed) were not sufficient for a bank that he's been with for ten years. No, they need another electricity bill. When I ask why, Carlos simply says, "Because they are French, Bek." And I guess that's another point to France.]
And after this altercation with the French, I was relieved to call Westpac, who immediately increased my daily withdrawal limit to enable me to pay my bond. (1 point Australia.) There's no place like home.
Round 1 score: France 4, Australia 3
Round 2 – The Apartment
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| Surely the world's smallest elevator? |
In my last post, I reported finding the perfect apartment. All I had to do was move in. No stranger to moving, I was up for the challenge but, my God, how I now appreciate the value of a car. Even having a wheelbarrow would have been an improvement on two petite femmes wrestling to transport a toaster, a doona, three suitcases, 26 pairs of shoes (yes, I'm an addict, back off), six shopping bags and a partridge in a pear tree down the world's smallest elevator (pictured right), into a taxi, then up three spiral flights of stairs to my new apartment. At this point, I want to give a special shout-out to my friend, April from Perth, who I am sure never dreamed that befriending me on a Trek America tour throughout North-Eastern US would render her liable to help me move across central Paris in a taxi some seven months later. Thanks April, you've earned your country a point!
With my worldly-belongings packed into as many shopping bags as we could find, I ordered the taxi and listened intently to the automated French answering service. I hung up and proudly announced to April that,
"I think I've ordered a taxi to this address. I think it will be here in 50 minutes and I think it will cost 60 euros."One out of three ain't bad... I had ordered a taxi, but it arrived in 12 minutes (panic stations) and cost 32 euros. Pas de problème. 1 point Australia.
My apartment is incredible (France, 2 points), see photographic evidence below. However, a good policeman 'friend' of mine has advised me to refrain from publicising too much info on my apartment and location, so I'll reveal no more. Although it needs to be said that the very same policeman subjected me to such movies as Taken (girls abducted in Paris) and Irreversible (girl raped in Paris) before I left Australia, so consider me now suitably scared and cautious of this French capital in which I reside. I suspect that an ulterior motive may have guided the movie selections of this friend of 13 years, but more on that later.
Round 2 score: France 2, Australia 2
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| Ma Chambre |
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| The Kitchen |
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| Bathroom 1 |
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| Lounge Room |
Round 3 – The Airport Pick-Up
As it was difficult to pack my life (all right, the shoes, it was the shoes!) into one 23 kilogram suitcase, I decided to freight another bag over to Paris. My ever-patient Polish friend, Lara, seemed the best person for this job, and I can attest first-hand to just how much she loved every minute of managing this task for me. Collecting the bag at the Paris end rivalled in difficulty to Lara's three separate trips to the freight office in Adelaide.
When the 20kg bag arrived, I was asked to report to Charles de Gaulle Airport, where I soon learned that I needed to catch a bus for 30 minutes, and then walk for two kilometres to locate the international freight delivery office. I reported to the office only to receive paperwork that needed to be stamped by French Customs (one kilometre back) and returned to the freight office (are you counting the kms?) before I could collect my bag.
As it was difficult to pack my life (all right, the shoes, it was the shoes!) into one 23 kilogram suitcase, I decided to freight another bag over to Paris. My ever-patient Polish friend, Lara, seemed the best person for this job, and I can attest first-hand to just how much she loved every minute of managing this task for me. Collecting the bag at the Paris end rivalled in difficulty to Lara's three separate trips to the freight office in Adelaide.
When the 20kg bag arrived, I was asked to report to Charles de Gaulle Airport, where I soon learned that I needed to catch a bus for 30 minutes, and then walk for two kilometres to locate the international freight delivery office. I reported to the office only to receive paperwork that needed to be stamped by French Customs (one kilometre back) and returned to the freight office (are you counting the kms?) before I could collect my bag.
By the time I'd finished this return journey to Customs, you can imagine how pleased I was to be engaged in a ten-minute conversation with the forklift operator about whether I was married or had a boyfriend; clearly information that was going to determine whether I was getting only my bag, or a French-Algerian husband as well. Ahh, the French - they never miss an opportunity.
As this overall exercise represented 4.5 hours of my life that I'm never getting back, the French won this Round of the battle hands down.
Round 3 score: France 4, Australia 0
As this overall exercise represented 4.5 hours of my life that I'm never getting back, the French won this Round of the battle hands down.
Round 3 score: France 4, Australia 0
Round 4 – New York
Since many have likened me to Carrie Bradshaw for writing this Blog, it would have been incomplete without a token trip to New York City. So, from an apartment in downtown New York I write the summary of this Round. I am here to visit my policeman 'friend' (okay, you got me, he's my boyfriend) who is representing Australia in baseball for the World Police and Fire Games.
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| The Aussie baseball team at the World Police and Fire Games |
The Games attracted 17,000 worldwide competitors, whose sporting prowess was only temporarily hampered by the force of Hurricane Irene. And not the force of the hurricane, mind you, but more-so the force of Mayor Bloomberg who ordered the cancellation of public transport and sporting matches in all five boroughs of New York because of Irene.
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| Clearly concerned about the hurricane |
Now, because this Blog is about life in Paris, I'm going to skim over what were probably the ten best days of my life and give you these most pertinent highlights of my trip to New York City:
- I didn't miss Paris (1 point Australia);
- I didn't miss the French language (another to Aus); and
- the only French I spoke was an ecstatic "oui" when my boyfriend asked me to marry him on our last night together in New York (100 points to Australia—infinite points really, but I promised a fair fight)—and even then he demanded a response in English (another point for the tenacious Australian).
Round 4 score: France 0, Australia 103
It is one week later and I have returned to Paris to continue my studies—engaged and ridiculously happy—when suddenly, during a Skype call with a friend, the piercing sound of an air-raid siren fills the air. We both panic. I peer out my window and notice the streets are empty. Of course, at this point I suspect that World World 3 has commenced and that a neighbouring country (wouldn’t dare point a finger in any particular direction) has declared war on France. Seriously, this could happen and I would be none the wiser, given the speed at which French newsreaders deliver the news over here. I like to just look at the pictures. ;-)
I quickly contact my Northern Hemisphere bestie, Nicola, who confirms that Paris tests its air-raid sirens at midday on the first Wednesday of every month—a practice that has been in effect since the end of World War 2 in 1945. With a sigh of relief, I end my Skype call and go and change my underpants. But it does leave me wondering... with such a rigid testing regime, surely any would-be invader worth his (or her, Julia?) salt would plan their Paris attack around midday on say, oooh I dunno, the first Wednesday of the month? Then, by the time the city realises it's not a drill, it would all be over for France (without the need for white flags). Just sayin'.
Yes, the French are arrogant, but justifiably so... In my opinion (and theirs), their country has the best language, the greatest-tasting food, and unrivalled architectural beauty. But Australia, well Australia has my heart.
And be sure to enjoy the irony that is me moving to the other side of the world only to realise that what I was searching for had been in front of me at home for the past 13 years.
I will remain in Paris to continue my studies as planned and return to Adelaide in 2012. And thus, this Frog Blog will continue.
So, as prepared for war as they may be, the French have lost again. But, they’ll always have pétanque (1 point to France? Why not).
FINAL SCORE: France 8, Australia 108.
I was right. No contest ;-)
Bx
