We arrive in Paris

Thursday didn't start well.  Peter set the alarm for 4.15am but wasn't wearing his glasses and didn't remember that his clock was still on Brussels time from the day before.  I'm not sure how that affects the alarm, but we were woken up at 3.15am.  Peter can go back to sleep at any time, but I was wide awake and fuming.   I stared at the ceiling for 45 minutes and then got up.  Peter eventually roused himself and had breakfast and got into the shower 10 minutes before the taxi was due!  I don't know why cutting it so fine like this is seen as a virtue.  I know what it does to my sang froid.  (Spelling?)

Once underway the journey was fine.  Norwich to Amsterdam, quick bite of breakfast in the lounge and then on to Paris.  Straight into a taxi and to the apartment, arriving at noon.  We were met by the owner Ariane.  Delightful, bubbly lady.  Actress and artist who is having a hard time financially and has moved in with two other friends so that she can let out her apartment.  By the time we had finished getting the instructions and handing over wads of cash we realised how hungry we were so we set off in search of food.  We turned into the first cafe we saw and had pate de compagne (with the obligatory cornichon), followed by steak and frites and terrible haricots vert that had been cooked and reheated or from a tin.  The steak was tasty but not brilliant, but the chips were great!   Cheese afterwards and a stiff coffee to counteract the half carafe of wine (which we did not finish you may be surprised to learn).   All for €13 each.

Thus fortified we set off for our nearest branch of HSBC to open an account so that Peter can receive his salary in Euros.  We thought that as our UK bank is a subsidiary of HSBC that would give us an immediate entré.   Ha!  First of all we had to talk our way into being seen by anyone.  You have an appointment?  We can make you an appointment for next week...etc.  Eventually we persuaded someone to see us (a charming lady who was clearly not doing anything else).  After much questioning and perusal of the paperwork we had taken and consultation with her superior the answer was no.  We won't give you an account if you are only here for 6 months.  So on to the next bank.  Very helpful man at the desk, but no, we can't open an account for you, even after consultation with his superior, as you don't have a utility bill with your name on it.  He suggested two other options where they might not be too fussy and we opted for the post office bank (Banque Postale) where we waited to be seen.  And waited.  And waited.  We finally fell into conversation with a young Vietnamese woman who explained that France is all about making an appointment or waiting in line.  She complained that nothing can be done online.  You have to turn up at the office.   She described a wait of 8 hours in one office for some permit or other.  Incidentally, it transpired that she had spent last Christmas in Norwich with the family of another young woman with whom she had worked as a tour guide in Vietnam and she raved about the city.   She was only at the post office to inform them of a change of address and was very philosophical about the fact that we were ahead of her and were obviously going to take a long time to open an account with the man dealing with the queue of utterly foolish people without appointments.

While we were engaged in this cultural exchange a woman in one of the many offices off the corridor kept coming and going.  We asked if she could help us, but we didn't have an appointment!  Eventually, after the third plea from us,  she relented and let us in to her dingy box.  Narrow, windowless, featureless and with a photocopier on her shoulder that seemed to be in operation the whole time and is probably doing her some damage.   She was very helpful and didn't make a fuss about our lack of a bill in our name.   However, it was a long process punctuated by period of silence while she stared at her screen and tapped away and then rattled something off.  In addition to speaking super fast she was a mumbler and it was sometimes very hard to follow.  I think we got there in the end.  Not that we walked out with an account!  Oh no!  I have to return on Monday at 10.30 (yes, I have an appointment!) with a copy of Peter's contract signed.  Then our papers are sent off (having been copied once for her to keep and once for a superior bureaucrat elsewhere) and then we will get a stream of correspondence which might end up with a bank account number and two debit cards.   We had left the cafe at about 2.15 and finished at the bank at 5.15!  It did cross my mind to take photos of the Gallic shrug of which we had seen several fine examples in the last three hours, but decided against. 

Peter was due to meet the Chairman of his new organisation for dinner at 6.0 so we parted at the nearest metro and I went back to the flat to collect my shopping trolley!

Yes, shopping trolley.  No, not just for old ladies!  People of all genders and ages use them here.   I haven't quite got the hang of how to manage it in the supermarket though.  It didn't hang off the back of the trolley so I was dragging both.  However, on the way out I noticed that some people had left theirs by the wire trolleys on the way in....

The entire kitchen in Paris!

Half my Norwich kitchen

Back at the flat with the essentials (milk, butter, cornflakes etc.) I set about exploring cupboards and unpacking my two cases.   The flat is on two floors at the top of the building.  A door code to get into the entrance hall, a key to get past the lobby and into the area near the lift and then multiple bolts on the front door.  I think we'll be safe up here.  On the lower floor we have a small lobby for coats and shoes and  a bright sunny living/dining room with two large double windows. 

Off the dining area is the kitchen, which is tiny!  It is also not the kitchen of a serious cook.  No casserole for example and I use my Le Creuset all the time at home.  I shall have to invent new ways of cooking.   And no plastic containers.  So not a person who has leftovers.  I might learn something from that too!   Last night Rupert Skyped from our kitchen at home and I thought of what I had left behind!  Above is a picture of my French kitchen.  It's taken through the hatch in the lobby.  Just out of sight below left is the fridge under the counter and a little microwave.  The oven you can see is deceptive.  The top part (what I initially thought was the grill) is the entire oven, the lower half is the dishwasher but you can only operate one at a time!  Upstairs we have a large bedroom complete with grand piano (very useful) and bathroom with washing machine.    No pictures of the rest is of the apartment yet as it littered with half unpacked suitcases (Peter's).

I had a lonely and indifferent pizza for supper (ah!) and Peter returned later having got on very well with the Chairman and shortly after we fell into bed.  Or should I say fell ONTO the bed which is two mattresses piled on top of each other on the floor.  So rather low, but very wide and it turned out to be very comfortable for which we were grateful, having at that stage been up for 20 hours!!!!