France vs Australia

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…

"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 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.

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

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

Ma Chambre

The Kitchen

Bathroom 1

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.

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

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. 

The Aussie baseball team at the World Police and Fire Games

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.

   

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: 

1. I didn't miss Paris (1 point Australia); 
2. I didn't miss the French language (another to Aus); and 
3. 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). 

How about them (big) apples for highlights?
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. 

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 

My first two weeks...

Two weeks in Paris and I'm sorted with a French bank account and a permanent place to live. I had a meeting with the bank, where one flash of my student visa resulted in a visa card, complete with overdraw facility (have I mentioned how much I love this country?); and I move into my new apartment in the 12th arrondissement in two days.

Celebrating with Carlos and Nicola.

If it all seemed too easy that's probably because it was, solely due to the efforts of two friends, neither of whom I had met a year ago. Carlos, a Peruvian product manager who has called Paris home for 10 years, and Nicola, a French-speaking Londoner whose 22 years on the planet have by far and away eclipsed my 34. That's really just my literary way of saying that she's much more mature than I. Just ask all the waiters who pour the first sip of wine into her glass for her go-ahead to pour it into mine. A nightly eating-out ritual that I love and she, understandably, doesn't.

My first two weeks were also spent... well, spending. And believe it or not, my first purchase wasn't a pair of Christian Louboutin heels (although those are definitely on the list), but a run-of-the-mill household toaster. It came as a surprise to me that a 'grille-pain' was not found in most French kitchens. I decided to invest in one after spending my first morning suspending a piece of bread on a knife over a gas hot plate in attempt to soothe my craving for Vegemite on toast. A doona (duvet, quilt, couette, whatever) to ease the chill of -5 degree winters was my next purchase, and then, yes, I simply had to compensate for all those clothes (and shoes) that were left behind. There were numerous items that couldn't be squeezed into my 28 kilogram suitcase (or subsequent 22 kilogram backpack), so of course had to be replaced. As you can imagine, in Paris, this can be quite the chore.

Luckily, I have found the most incredible apartment in which to house my new possessions. The hunt for an apartment in Paris is the subject of many a horror story. A friend is living in 12m2 apartment and paying a fortune for it. Others paid two months' rent to secure what they thought to be the perfect apartment, only to turn up on moving day to discover that the place was in fact a holiday rental and the people they paid were long-gone. Such stories were keeping me up at night, long after the jet lag had subsided. The hunt sounded hard enough without factoring my Franglais into the communications mix. After checking out many listings online, I contacted a couple of people to ask if I could view their advertised rooms. One guy turned out to be somewhat of a stalker who, to this day, continues to call and email me for a date (discount on the room perhaps?). The other guy was quite happy for me to see the room after I had transferred a 800€ deposit into 'his mother's' bank account. Not today, my dodgy friend, not today.

My new apartment building - third floor is me.

Alas, I started to panic until I found Philippe. A 40-something Parisian with the most impressive apartment I have seen in Paris (I haven't yet been invited to dinner at Nicolas Sarkozy's apartment, but I'm working on it). If you've ever been to Paris, you'll appreciate that there's not a lot of space. Most hotel room doors open into the beds, kitchens can be in bathrooms - that kinda thing. But my new apartment has two bathrooms, two bedrooms and a whopping great lounge room in which you can swing several cats (a past-time I've been meaning to start up again). My university is just a leisurely 10-minute walk across the Seine (woe is me), so student life probably doesn't get much better really. (The blue dots on the below map denote the location of my apartment, on the right bank of the river, and my university, on the left bank.) And whilst the rent is slightly more than I had budgeted (Mum and Dad, send money), I have a weekly cleaner and a housemate, or colocataire, who speaks only French. Parfait! My fear of living in France to learn the language was that I'd spend all my time speaking English. Problem solved. Merci Philippe.

And so with a refreshed wardrobe, a new address, and some household necessities, my adventures in Paris are set to continue and will be reported in this, my Frog Blog.

But before I sign off, I want to wrap up with a summary of, so far, what I love the most and the least about life in Paris:

J'aime:

• Children speaking in French... there is no better sound. Actually, this applies to the French language in general really. Yesterday, I witnessed a road rage incident between two guys on scooters, who (unless you understand some French expletives) sounded more like they were professing their undying love for each other than having a fight. I once asked my French-Moroccan friend, Younes, to tell me in French that he needed to do his laundry and then go to the drycleaners. Nothing sounded sexier. 
• Leaving the tap running while washing the dishes (no plugs) and while brushing my teeth... très liberating. 
• The bread, my God the bread. It comes complimentary with every meal in a big basket that is refilled if knead be. And it is the best bread that I've ever tasted. I have heard that this bread is leftover from previous diners, but I just don't care. French bread is the best thing since, well... sliced bread.
• You can park anywhere (as demonstrated below). Okay, so I no longer have a car, but if I did, I'd be taking the liberty of parking in the intersection also. And I'd probably drive a car just like this too.

• Buying wine in a supermarket along with the rest of my daily staples ;-)
• Buying wine in a service station. Again, I don't have a car, but you've got to love a country that provides a convenient way to grab wine on the way home from a hard day at the office. And, presumably, the cork keeps you from cracking it open on the way home... presumably ;-).
• The food. Avoid the tourist places (hot dogs and burgers are not French) and you will find the best food in the world. I don't know why, but everything tastes better in France. Yes, even the snails and frogs legs (and don't knock 'em until you've tried them).
• Oh, and have I mentioned this...? 

Je n'aime pas:

• The garbage truck that cleans my street no less than four times a day, every day. I don't want to hear anyone ever say that Paris is dirty - I eat dinner off the sidewalk outside my building every night. 

• Tourists. Yes, I may sound arrogantly French, but hear me out... The population of France is 67 million. The number of tourists visiting France each year? Also 67 million. So you can imagine how many annoying idiots with bumbags or 'fannypacks' and huge maps are in your way when you're trying to get somewhere. My guess is that 60 million of these tourists choose to visit Paris in July and August, which is when most of the French abandon their posts and holiday abroad or in the South. Those left behind charge the earth, presumably out of sheer bitterness and to punish tourists for being in their face, like all the time. For this reason, the Avenue des Champs-Élysées is to be avoided at all costs. I heard about a bar along there that charges 30€ for a vodka and orange. Now that's a screwdriver.
• The street vendors, who congregate around monuments to sell ridiculous items with no link to said monument. If you can tell me what a flying disc with a crappy light has to do with the Eiffel Tower, I'll take the guy up on his offer to buy 10 for 20€. 

Photographer unknown. 

• The number of French resources dedicated to protecting the US Embassy. What a waste of French funds. Walk past the Australian embassy (next to the Eiffel Tower) and there's not one guard. 1) Because we Aussies can look after ourselves; and 2) We haven't yet managed to piss off the entire world (although surely Nicole Kidman can't be helping our cause). But brave a walk down Rue Gabriel (parallel to the Champs-Élysées), home to the US Embassy, and you'll see a circus of Gendarmerie Officers, the French military police, lining the street that is blocked off to any traffic not holding a security clearance. I sincerely hope you appreciate the photographic evidence (to the right), because soon after it was taken, I was reprimanded and interrogated by one of the 30+ officers who demanded (in French) to know where I was from. While the word 'Afghanistan' played on my lips, I didn't fancy being deported so soon, so I meekly responded with 'Je suis Australienne' and he let me pass. Yes, yes, some might say he gave up, surrendered, etc, etc. Make all the war-related jibes you like, but I can tell you that after this altercation I wasn't game enough to touch my iPhone for another four blocks.
• The métro station Châtelet, fondly renamed Shitelet by Nicola and me. Clutch your possessions with all your might when you're around Shitelet, the busiest metro station in Paris. For it was here a year ago that we lost two phones in a matter of minutes. Ignore any cute looking children who approach your table with a survey, because they'll nick your phone in five seconds and you won't even see it coming (or going). They are good. One approached me the other day and I nearly punched her in the face. She might only be 9 years old, but she owes me an iPhone.

Bek x

Bienvenue à Paris

Breakfast in Paris

After six months of selling everything I owned in Australia (and billeting out the rest) and studying my derriere off to get my French to an intermediate (and Paris University-acceptable) level, I today passed through Customs at Charles de Gaulle with nothing more interrogative than a 'Bonjour' from the Guard and, voila, I was home.

The hours from 8am to 3pm were spent eating and drinking the finest of everything with my Peruvian-Parisian friend, Carlos, until we went to collect the keys to my apartment on rue Henri Poincaré in the 20th arrondissement...

The balcony view.

Enter Faina from stage left-of-centre: a German-Russian lesbian who was lovely (no boys, not that lovely), but proceeded to tell me EVERYTHING I needed to know to live in her apartment for the next seven weeks. And I mean everything. Go on, ask me which way to insert the key in the front door lock. For I have been informed of such things. (And for those of you playing at home, it might not surprise you to learn that keys in France open doors just like they do in Australia).

The street view

Oui, Faina was a character alright. I especially liked it when she, the staunch vegetarian, announced that she had removed all but one of her pots from the kitchen in fear that one might be used to (insert suspenseful horror music here) cook meat. Oh my lord, imagine using a pan to cook meat. I didn't have the heart or courage (she's German AND Russian remember) to explain to her that, whilst we Australians don't have a lot of water, we do use some of it to wash dishes on the odd occasion.

Alors, after the comprehensive briefing, I was given the keys and a Certificate IV in Housekeeping. After staying protectively fierce by my side throughout the hour-long induction, I think Carlos was secretly hoping to be given the Lesbian Erotica book that sat on Faina's suitcase, but alas, it was not to be. Let's just say, I'm glad I'm sleeping on the fold-out sofa and not in the master bedroom, a room off to the side of the lounge that is locked, no doubt  because it contains even more interesting 'bedtime' reads enjoyed by my landladies.

In an attempt to stave off jet lag, I went for a run to Buttes Chaumont at 8pm. A beautiful park, largely unknown to tourists, with stunning views of Paris, Buttes Chaumont is about 1km from my apartment.

As I weaved through the smokers standing alongside the table-lined streets of the quarter, I realised I was a world away from the quiet neighbourhoods of Adelaide. I had been running for about two streets when I crossed the street and looked left for oncoming traffic. And that was when I saw it... Down a street flanked by cafés, boulangeries and fromageries loomed the Eiffel Tower. Now, I've seen this structure probably 100 times before, but I am never prepared for the sight of its magnificence. My heart skips a beat every time, and a smile of 'I could die happy right now' dances on my lips. Nothing is more amazing in this world to me than the sight of that tower. It is beautiful. It is majestic. It is Paris.

It was at this exact moment that I realised how far I had come. All the planning, all the selling, all the studying, and all the goodbyes had led me here--the most beautiful city in the world (sorry Melbourne). Now, I don't know how long I'll feel this way or how long I'll be allowed the privilege of living in Paris, but try wiping the smile off my face right now. C'est impossible!

A dedication... 
I am writing this blog for me, because I want to remember every day of my new foreign life. But, I also write to share this experience with the people who made me the person I am today. Those who loved me, put their confidence in me, dried my tears, eased my fears, put a roof over my head, and supported my every step towards Paris. You know who you are and I couldn't have done it without you, so this dream belongs to you. My amazing friends back home in Australia, you are my family and this is for you, with so much love, Fraussie Bek. xx