My housing crisis #2

After the anti-climactic morning, Jen and I ran to an internet café to collect more numbers from seloger.com, and pertuis.com and sat down to make some phone calls to rental agencies. One must never call before the hour of 10, or between the hours of 12 and 2 pm, and even then, a response on the other end proved few and far between. How in the world France gets anything done is beyond me. A couple of the Pertuis agencies answered my calls and despite my stilted French, we made appointments for the following afternoon. Of course, nothing could be done today, that would be too hasty, too sudden, too impulsive. Instead I’d have time to eat four meals, buy a new sweater at H&M, start my blog at Flunch the Internet Café, meet up with Pascale for a quick driving tour of Pertuis, lie sleeplessly in bed for 8 hours, and take a shower – not in that order.
At last, I arrived at M. Lallande’s office, promptly at 4 o’clock. I didn’t have much choice but to go through a rental agent to find an apartment, and I went ready to impress. If it was anything like the Bay Area, I’d be competing against a gaggle of eager young couples with a list of references as long as my arm. M. Lallande’s office was a cramped room, two small desks, a typewriter and a telephone. His papers were jumbled on the desks, the floor and also the chair he offered to me, sort of like a storm had suddenly happened upon the room. His facial expression conveyed a similar sense of surprise and agitation. Other than that, we were alone in the room - no competition. “Mademoiselle!” He cried.
He drove me to the first apartment in his tiny beaten French car. During the drive, he found out my financial limitations and also my lack of furniture, and began convincing me that this studio would do me no good before we had even see it. He then told me that another was would be opening up in a few days, and it was meublé (furnished). Not only that but much more in my price range. Then, suddenly, he shook his head no. No, no, it would never do for a single young woman. And this was not the first time a person had told me this. No, no, the neighborhood is just not right for a young woman… You could never go out at night…etc. etc. I told M. Lallande to let me be the judge. After all, what could he possibly be referring to in a French village of 20,000 with no crime rate to speak of?
The studio was totally barren, not even hotplates or a refrigerator. He said he’d contact the current tenant of the other place and set up a rendez-vous as soon as possible. He understood that I was pressed for time. Honestly, he was a very kind and generous man. Instead of impressing him, I think he was struck by my homeless desperation. He is perhaps a metaphor for many of the things in France – completely disorganized and in a state of disarray, but very kind and willing to help. We set something up for the following afternoon at 5 pm.
I walked from M. Lallande’s office to the next rental agency, Votre Maison. This place was much more organized and professional looking. Auréllie stood up to greet me. She gestured to a young man sitting across the desk from her with a helmet in his lap. I had competition now. Damn. He didn’t look especially well off, more like a poor student, so I didn’t worry too much. She showed us two apartments. One, a bit cheaper, had a loft platform for a bed and the entrance to the building’s cave (in English we might call it a basement but that word just isn’t appropriate). The young man and I tiptoed down there and it was scary! I have no doubt that corpses from the 18th century were hidden between the stones in the walls. There’s NO WAY I would sleep so near that Poe phantasmagoria! Plus, there really wasn’t a proper window in the apartment.
Then we climbed up to the third floor (that’s the American third, not the French third) of the same building. Far enough away from the cave – good. We stepped in and I let out a sigh of relief. Nothing immediately amiss. The tenant was still there, and he seemed like a nice guy. I always feel like a snoop when I am inspecting someone’s apartment, especially when they are standing there looking at you. The bathroom was a decent size. The toilet did have a toilet seat. There was a stand up shower – now that’s really rare for France. You know they usually prefer the masochistic wash technique – to start: bathtub with no shower curtain, a shower head connected to the bathtub spout by a long hose, and weak water pressure. You are on your knees, with one hand operating the long necked shower head and the other hand trying to apply soap to your goose bumpy skin, all the while just wishing it would end. Ah, I’ve digressed. This apartment had a real shower.
At this point, I can’t say a whole lot more about the apartment because I don’t remember much about it, except for the view. I walked over to the window and saw a slice of Pertuis’ Vieux Village, and in the distance a beautiful mountain. At last, I’d found my true French charm and I knew that the apartment was mine. Thank goodness the young man preferred the price tag of the one downstairs.
M. Lallande was very disappointed to hear the news the next day. I did look at his other studio just in case, and I was sure that I had made the right decision.