My housing crisis #1

As of next Monday, I am ecstatic to announce that I will no longer be a sad and homeless Assistant de Langue. The housing search has come to an end. Like every other small or large frustration that I have had to face in orchestrating the success of this position here, the French rental market is no exception. First of all, I spent my first two days of this search (separated by three days due to the crazy orientation madness) looking in Aix-en-Provence. I have always considered myself a city girl, and Aix is a big city, whereas Pertuis is a petit village of 20,000 people. Actually, by French standards that’s not even that small… As it turns out, Aix is the second most expensive city in France. Damn tourists and Americans buying property and boosting the housing rates! A list – a piece of paper with more value than a 100 euro bill – comes out every Wednesday morning with the latest rental options. By the time I got the list at 11 am, most of the listings had already been taken. Seriously.

The first place I went to look a, the apartment owned by the old lady who wants people in by 9 pm, which I mentioned in my last letter. It was outside the city center in an ugly clump of apartment buildings constructed in the 1960’s. Yeah, not my wild ideal of a quaint French studio with a view of some buildings from the 17th century with mountains in the background. There was a view of a parking lot, though, and a very depressing kiddie playground that looked all bent out of shape. The next (and last available room on the infamous list) claimed to be in the city center. I bought one map to find it, and then had to buy another because my first map wasn’t good enough. Strangely, the street wasn’t on that map either. After speaking to at least 10 French people on the streets, and walking almost two hours up a mountain side in my silver shoes, I came to an area of government subsidized housing. You can image the dilapidation, the laundry everywhere, the stray dogs and children. While I am happy that this housing can help put a roof over the head of some under-privileged folks, I was not willing to pay 325 euros a month to share one of these apartments at the top of a huge mountain next to an enormous hospital with a large family. I was on the verge of tears when I headed back down the mountain. And that was the end of the first day.

Before I move on the second day of adventure in Aix, I should put things in perspective. The language assistants are getting paid 750 euros a month. It is indeed below the poverty level (or so I was told). And we aren’t even getting paid until the end of November. So imagine finding housing options which range from 320-420 euros a month being the absolute least expensive. How on earth do they expect me to pay for my trip to Morocco and eat everyday?

I used this internet sight – seloger.com – to get another angle into the rental options, now looking in both Aix and Pertuis. Based solely on prices, Aix and Pertuis actually looked comparable. Again, I thought I might start to cry and then throw a tantrum. I made some appointments in Aix, but didn’t manage to in Pertuis because NO ONE in Pertuis works either Saturday OR Monday. Not even on freaking Monday! Where’s the service, people? Jen (the lovely young lady who has taken me in this last week and a half) came with me to Aix. I had a meeting with an agent from a rental agency at 10 am. We stood outside his agency until half past ten and then I called him. I thought for sure that by 10, he’d be able to make it to work on time. Turns out, he was there but working on finishing “a thing” and he’d be down in two minutes. That turned into another 15 and then we rang the bell for entry, and marched our way up to his weird burgundy colored tiny office which he shared with two other large men, and sat in front of his desk and stared until he was ready to leave. He led us to the first studio, up three flights of stairs, and it dawned on me that an appropriate question to ask these rental people would have been whether or not the room had a window. This one did not. Or more accurately, it has a window that faced the dark and dingy and smelly stairwell. No 17th century charm there. Plus, the electricity had been turned off, so we had to look at the pathetic hole of a studio in near pitch darkness. I could make out a futon couch (this place was meublé – or furnished), and an image of the sad soul who likely committed suicide on that very futon flashed before my eyes.

The next studio was across a square from the Palais de la Justice of Aix. This building was laden with charm… we climbed to the 4th floor, and arrived at what once had surely been the attic. The studio had low ceilings, carpeting, a small kitchenette with rotting food in the mini fridge and a toilet missing a toilet seat. But, there were three little windows that looked out onto the beautiful square lined with sycamore trees (I think that’s what they are??) and plentiful sunshine flooded into the room. My heart ached with sadness – no assistant would be able to furnish this attic space and then pay the 500 euros a month on top of that.

So thus far, my choices were either a windowless studio in an unacceptable state of decrepitude, or a decent apartment with windows that was far out of my price range. Oh sea of misery….