New Apartment in Toulouse

After three solid days of panicked apartment hunting, I am happy to report that I have found a new chez moi! The new place is steps away from Place Capitole, and a two minute walk from the university where I will be working. The new place is tiny, but not without a certain charm, that comes mainly from the enormous window that provides a view of the tower of Saint Jacobin, a 13th century Dominican church that houses the mortal remains of Saint Thomas Aquinas.

I wanted to reserve the apartment on the spot, but the landlord said he had a few more interviews to conduct before he decided. My heart sank. I wondered if my being a foreigner made me an undesirable candidate...

Two days later, I hadn't heard from him, and worked up the nerve to call him. "Excusez-moi de vous déranger, Monsieur. I know you told me you would call me back when you made your decision, but I just wanted to know that I really really want the apartment, and I will take really good care of it, I promise!"

After a long pause, he responded "OK," with a trace of amusement in his voice. I wonder if he waiting this long to make me squirm!

I breathed a sigh of relief that was audible over the phone. "Oh, thank you! You have no idea how hard I have been searching!" I prattled on senselessly, and somehow he got a word in edgewise to make a date to sign the contract.

My appointment for the signing of the contract was August 10 at noon.

Two hours later was my Visa appointment at the Préfecture.

At my appointment, the clerk smirked when she saw the date of my apartment contract. "Just made it, eh?" she said.

I shudder to imagine what would have happened if I had no address for my visa appointment...

That major hurdle out of the way, I can now concentrate on my enjoyable things, like decorating. The Italians took me shopping in their Sidecar, and helped me move my luggage as well. I cannot begin to express my gratitude to them!

The apartment is a tiny studio, yet I have managed to make it my own with an Indian rug, posters, and decorations from my travels.

To celebrate, the Italians have proposed a day trip to Andorra, in the sidecar, of course!

Apartment Hunting and the Mysterious Italian Bikers

After a single night in the god-forsaken apartment from hell, things are looking up. I could not stay there another moment, and spent the entire day scouring the internet for potential places to live. I have quite a deadline, considering my visa appointment is in a few days, and I absolutely must have a permanent address to prove residency! I haven’t found a permanent apartment yet, but I’ve found temporary relief in an Italian couple who rents out a room in their beautiful Toulousain apartment on a short term basis. From the tranquility of their apartment, I can sleep insect-free, and also search for an apartment with use of their phone and WIFI connection.

I’ve been with them a few days. They are a lovely couple named Cetina and Luigi. They speak a very sing-song French, rolling all the R’s in typical Italian style. From what I’ve gathered, they do not work. I noticed they sleep quite late, and never seem to be going off to work. I asked what they did for a living, and Cetina replied, « We’re authors. We travel the world on our motorcycles and write about our adventures. » I asked them how many books they had published, and Cetina declared “This will be the first one, when it’s finished.” I did not want to push the issue of how they could afford to travel the world on their numerous expensive motorcycles, live in an affluent apartment in downtown Toulouse, and wear exquisite leather outfits... so I smiled and told her how much I admired them as a couple.... they are in their mid-forties, too young to be retired... Their income is a mystery.

They have shown me photos of their numerous trips. They have travelled throughout Europe exclusively on their motorcycle complete with sidecar. Not just your standard Western Europe. We’re talking far-flung places like Bulgaria, Latvia, and Serbia, and the Ukraine. They’ve been everywhere. They have even traveled to tip of Southern Spain, where they took their vehicle on the ferry to Morocco, and travelled throughout Africa. It’s really incredible.

They’ve been very lovely in helping me find a new place... I was too shy to phone my landlord of the hell-hole apartment to ask for my deposit, so Cetina took the phone from my hand, and very eloquently informed him that his residence was in shameful unhygienic conditions, and that HER CLIENT must be reimbursed for her deposit in a timely manner. I expected a protest from the landlord, but he really must have believed he was speaking to a lawyer, because he relented immediately and agreed to pay me back.

Additionally, as we all recall with my recent laptop disaster I was dealing with an 800 euro hole in my pocket due to the repair costs I had to shell out. Maurice was not returning my calls and I had lost all hope of getting my bill reimbursed. I had phoned his insurance company, who informed me that because I did not carry my own personal insurance, I had no possibility of recuperating the expenses, and that they could not help me. Cetina advised me to write a letter to his insurance company, and assisted me in the wording, ensuring I express candidly the emotional distress it had caused. I have no idea if anything will come from it, but I appreciate the effort she took to help me in so many ways. I adore her persistent attitude. She’s just relentless!

I’m channeling her energy as I hunt for my apartment.

I’ve been searching like mad. My strategy:

1. Search websites like www.crij.org and www.seloger.fr for apartment ads. Go to local Crous office and edge your way into the crowd of fellow apartment searchers copying down the newest ads on the bulletin board and hope no one else is writing down the same ones. Mark ones with potential.

2. Phone and make appointments to see the apartments. Only a small fraction of them will even answer, as this is a competitive time of year to be finding apartments, as students will be starting university this fall.

3. Circle the locations on map, and hit the streets.

4. Meet with various landlords who will show the apartment, which most of the time is a big disappointment.

5. Start back at step 1. Rinse, lather, repeat.

Naturally by now, I have a very good understanding of the layout of Toulouse, seeing how I’ve been everywhere on foot in my search. made a lot of progress, I’ve looked at 10 apartments the past few days, and they were either in a dangerous neighborhood, too far away from the city center, or their was an OCD roommate who reminded me of Hélène and her endless demands for neatness beyond human comprehension.

In the meantime, I’m staying in one of the most beautiful apartments I’ve ever seen with a fantastic couple that I get along swimmingly with. I keep fantasizing about living with them, but I know it’s only a short-term rental...

Sigh...

The clock is ticking, the date of my Visa Appointment is nearly here, and I absolutely must have an address....

Doubts in myself are rapidly returning.

Déjà vu...yet another housing disaster

A lonely, unliveable new room... A forlorn dinner in a fast food restaurant... crying my eyes out thinking I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life...

Sounds a lot like my first night in Metz nearly a year ago... But Hélas, this really is happening again.

This time, the city is Toulouse, about as far from Metz as humanly possible. The new language is French... with a Toulousan accent. The lonely apartment is really a studio infested with cockroaches, bedbugs (AGAIN !) and mysterious black hairs and a thick layer of dust blanketing every surface. I opened the fridge, greeted by a scurrying roach and the sight of mold. More friendly roaches are eager to make my acquaintance in the shared shower, which also boasts a mold laden shower curtain. The stench of urine dominates the alley where my apartment stands, looking more dilapidated than I remember only about a month ago. What was I thinking when i signed the contract to this dump ?

Oh yeah... 280 euros a month. Thisclose to down-town attractions and métro stop. And the biggest reason... MANDATORY address, copy of rent payment, and attestation of domicile in order to renew my visa to work in France this year... I had only two days in Toulouse to obtain my work approval and find residence... I did what I could.

Now my skin is crawling and I’m paying for it.

I scoured the internet (which of course is missing from my apartment despite my landlord’s promise.) for other apartments. Hours of searching and phone calls later, I have made no progress.

Everything is either already rented, too expensive, or the contact simply won’t respond.

Why am I sacrificing precious moments with my fiancé, family, and friends... to live here ?

My French Studio

I've been in the new place a month now, and I must say, my stress level has plummeted. I'm enjoying the new found freedoms of living on my own, the greatest of which is being back in the center of the action, Metz centre-ville.  I'm loving my workstation for painting, my two glorious windows which provide lovely natural light.  Outside, I step onto a beautiful medieval street, one of the oldest parts of the city.  Steps away are my favorite boulangerie, shopping, my other assistant friends and of course, my beloved Cathedral.  

Of course, the euphoria had hardly begun when darling France decided to throw yet another obstacle my way.  

A few days into my stay here, when the depression over the move was finally subsiding, I noticed mysterious bites appearing on my body, and as the weeks passed, they multiplied all over my arms, legs, and back.  Larger and more unbearable than mosquito bites, and curiously more numerous after a good night's sleep-- oh god, could it be?  A Google search quickly confirmed my worst fear: bedbugs (in French, punaises.)

The problem on its own was easily solved with a few chemical treatments of the room, but it seemed more terrible than it probably was since it was the latest in a succession of misfortunes to befall me in a short period of time. On second thought, no, it was pretty damn terrible even as an isolated incident!

At times, I liken France to the ultimate lover: beautiful, enveloping, and irresistible.  At the same time, she is aloof, out of my league, and delights in torturing me... It's like a game for her. Like a moth to the flame, I keep coming back for more, because the fact is, I love her so unconditionally, I would be honored to have her walk all over me for the rest of my life.  :-)

Joking aside, I wouldn't trade my experience in France for all the world.  The evolution of my strength of character, the friends I've made, my progression in the language, and the little unexpected details that pop up unexpectedly... all of this makes my life more complete.

I never would have imagined emerging from this devastating situation, but the fact is, I am enormously at peace now. It happened in a painful way, but each day that passes, I'm more and more convinced it's for the best. I may no longer have a view of the glorious cathedral, but now, I'm close enough to hear the bells.

I've converted the table into my art station.

The courtyard outside my window. 

Natural light in the evening has a lovely effect.

The Great Escape

While in Lourdes, I had managed to reserve myself a studio apartment by phone in the Metz centre-ville.

Now came the messy part: Extracting myself from the current apartment with as little confrontation as possible.  The idea of staying even one more night there was humiliating and intolerable to me.  The thought of a mere face-to-face conversation with her, her boyfriend, or her son caused my heart rate to quicken.  The last thing I wanted was to cry in front of her.  I would leave the same day as my arrival in Metz.  There was no other way.

After a sleepless overnight train from Lourdes to Paris, my anxiety began to mount on the brief ride from Paris to Metz. In my mind, I tried to retreat to the tranquility of Lourdes, but by the time the train arrived in Metz, I was sweating profusely.  I headed directly from the train station to the new apartment, where I dumped the contents of my suitcase, and of course paid my first bill for my studio.  Because I had to pay the first month's rent right away, plus the 200 Euro deposit, my paycheck for March was completely obliterated at the reception desk. Fighting back tears, I handed over my credit card, recalling my financial woes of only a few weeks ago.  Now that my rent is three times higher, what the hell was I going to do? 

After settling up at the reception desk, I caught a bus to the apartment I had called home since October.  

With a thudding heart, I climbed the stairs, and sighed with relief to find no one at home.  As quickly as possible, I carelessly hurled my belongings into my suitcases, racing up and down the three flights of stairs, stacking everything on the street level.  I hadn't realized how much I had accumulated in my time in France... books, shelving, art supplies, clothing, shoes... and of course my food in the pantry.  My hasty packing meant that I could fit less into my suitcases than normal.  I had to resort to filling garbage bags.  Seven or Eight trips later, I had evacuated my belongings.  I called a cab, requesting a large car to accommodate my things.  The entire time, my anxiety was affecting my breathing, I was positively petrified that she would return before I had finished.

I raced back upstairs one last time.  I scribbled out a note thanking her and her son for their kindness in taking me in, telling them that I would miss them, and that they could call me anytime.  I signed it with all my love... and then as an afterthought, left a tiny bottle of Lourdes water next to the note, along with my keys to the apartment.

It was the hardest thing I've ever done, taking the high road rather than expressing my hurt, my rage.  I could have sought revenge in a number of ways, quite easily, but even fantasizing about it made me feel queasy.  The spirit of Lourdes was inside of me, and to do anything less than honorable would have made my pilgrimage a lie. 

I kissed the cat goodbye, and left the apartment for the last time.

When I arrived downstairs, the cab driver had arrived in a station wagon.  He stared mournfully at the piles of things lined up on the sidewalk, and I apologized profusely and helped as much as I could. As we drove away, I sighed with relief, realizing I had gotten the worst over with, and had successfully avoided an encounter with her. Within minutes, we had unloaded my things in front of my new apartment building, and I was standing at the base of the stairwell, defeated, wondering how on earth I would survive the agonizing process of getting everything up three flights of stairs.  I couldn't lose momentum, I told myself, and trudged on, gasping and cursing up every step.  

I glanced at my watch.  I had arrived in Metz at 12:30pm.  It was now 3pm.  Impressive.  The confrontation I had feared was simply not to be.  I looked around my place.  I realized that this was my first apartment of my own.  No roommates.  No parents paying the bill.  It was small, but not without a certain charm.  There were two windows that filled the room with light.  A large table, which would be ideal for painting.  Lots of shelving and closet space... a desk, a bed... it was mine.  My own French apartment.  

I collapsed on the bed, overwhelmed by sleep deprivation and ragged emotions.  I thought I could finally breath a sigh of relief, but for some reason, all I could do was cry.  

Unexpected Obstacles

I've been blindsided by something I should have seen coming for over a month.  The only way to properly tell this story is to backtrack to the beginning of January, when I had just returned from my Christmas vacation in the states... 

Cue the flashback music and fog...

Hélène and I were preparing for a night out with her friends, when someone sounded the doorbell.  Thinking it was our friend, Yannick, who we'd been expecting to pick us up, I buzzed him up.  I opened the door to face Stéfan, her boyfriend, suitcase in hand.  He was trembling a bit. "Elle est toute nue," was all I could come up with, pointing to the bathroom door.  In my surprise to see him, I had just told Stéfan that Hélène was barenaked in the bathroom.  He stepped inside, closed the door, and they spoke in excited, hushed voices. When they exited the bathroom, I went in to finish my makeup.  Lying on the counter was his wedding ring. Now I understood, the ring, the suitcase.  He'd finally left his wife.  Transfixed, I stared at it, that simple gold band became the saddest thing I'd ever seen.  I imagined a wife tucking in her two daughters, holding back tears as she explained that Papa wouldn't be living at home any longer.

It had taken me awhile to understand the... intricacies... of their relationship.  I had asked too many questions, like "Why do you only see each other Friday afternoons? Why doesn't Stéfan go on your holiday to Tunisia with you? You're not planning to spend Christmas with him? Would you like to have a double date when Jim comes to visit me?"  Fed up with my naïve questions, Hélène finally revealed the truth, she had met the love of her life too young, and when they finally found one another again, he was married with two kids.  I supposed I was always programmed to automatically detest the "other woman," yet here I was living with her. I was her friend. I felt for her.  My perspective changed.  How could someone who had had the heart to take me in, who had shown me such kindness, truly be... bad? Not to say I agreed with her choices, but I was a supportive ear to her throughout, and did not judge.

Just as she had taken me into her home without a second thought, she prepared space in her closet for Stéfan's belongings.  In the space of three months, her household had grown from two to four inhabitants.  When she told me he'd be moving in with us, I had a sinking feeling inside. She asked me if it would bother me, and I assured her that it was fine, but within, I knew that the entire dynamic in the apartment was about to change. And change it did.  Nicolas's behavior plummeted, and Stéfan made no attempt to mask his disdain for his presence.  Hélène became a stranger to me. She was constantly occupied with Stéfan, whether it was arguing, cuddling, or discussing their new lives together.  The three started taking meals together.  I felt like an outsider.  I withdrew to my room often, because I felt uncomfortable, as though I was intruding on their new "family."  

I developed severe resentment toward Stéfan.  Now I had to wake up even earlier to have a prayer of getting into the bathroom before him.  I'd avert my eyes quickly if our paths crossed when he walked around in boxers, afraid he'd think I was checking him out.  Arrogant ass, he probably thought so anyway. He constantly mocked my accent whenever I spoke, causing me to become nearly mute in his presence.  He strode around with an air of entitlement, helped himself to my shelf in the fridge, walking into my room uninvited to check out the view of the cathedral.  He also took it upon himself to lecture Nicolas about his 'unacceptable behavior.'

Hélène seemed more anxious than ever.  She clearly would have preferred to have been able to openly date Stéfan as a normal couple after having to keep their relationship clandestine for over two years.  To go from hardly seeing him to living with him in a snap was taking its toll on her.  On our trip to the covered market, for the first time since knowing her, I watched Hélène purchase a gigantic slab of beef.  A self proclaimed disaster in the kitchen, Hélène normally only prepared very simple meals, but now Stéfan was here, and he demanded MEAT.  He did not help with the preparation or the cleanup of the meals, nor did he compliment the chef.

I digress. I could go on for hours about the discomfort of the past two months, but it simply doesn't matter.  The fact is, I was hiding inside my own home.  I was an outsider. Still, could I complain about the great location, cheap rent, and unlimited exposure to French language? Plus, the fact that she asked if I was okay with Stéfan's moving in implied that I was safe... right?

Wrong.

Fast forward to last week.  One of my best friends and I were three days into a two week whirlwind tour of five European countries. It was a dream trip we had been planning for years.  We had just enjoyed a fantastic day in Bruges when a text message from Hélène popped up.  "Hello Jamie, sorry to have to tell you this now, but you'll have to find a new place to live.  I need to recover your room as soon as possible. The sooner the better. Thank you. Have a nice vacation despite all."

I was already on an expensive trip I couldn't afford with tons of unforeseen expenses. I burst into tears.  I would never find another place with such affordable rent, and with the bulk of the trip ahead of me, I wondered if I should cancel and go back.  What really struck me was the cold tone of the text message. Why notify me by text, and why tell me when I'm on vacation, powerless to do something about it?  Trembling, I called her immediately, despite the obscene charges on my cell phone. I began in French, but after a few shaky sentences, I had to switch to English.  Over and over again, I asked her what I did wrong and apologized for whatever it was.

She remained completely expressionless, and quietly replied that there were too many people in the apartment now, that she needed to focus on her new life, and that it was too much for her.  It was so unlike her to be so cold, so heartless, that I wonder if Stéfan might have been sitting beside her as she received my phone call.  She said that there was a chance that Stéfan's children would be staying in the apartment as well, and that the situation was too stressful.  

Needless to say, the prospect of not knowing where I would live and if I would have enough money cast a shadow over the rest of my trip with Genna.  Not only the physical problem of housing, but the emotional aspect of knowing that I would not be seeing my supposed best friend in France, her lovely parents, her friends, and most of all, her son, Nicolas, again. To just disappear out of their lives like this, made me feel so... divorced.   

Genna was clearly distressed by my reaction to this situation, which she had a right to be. After all, she had spent a great deal on this extravagant trip as well, and my tearful anxiety attack definitely put a damper on it for her, and probably sparked one of her own. But at the end of the trip, she knew where she'd be living, she had a reliable income, she would go back to the states where she had loved ones around her.  What would I be returning to?  I tried to keep the pain and panic inside, for fear of upsetting her more.  But she definitely noticed when I became quiet and withdrawn for extended periods of time, or when I snapped.  Overall, I resolved to make the trip as enjoyable as possible, and succeeded most of the time, but I cried into my pillow every night, yearning to be able to talk about it with someone.  Limited contact with Jim and my family made me feel that much more alone.  

Just a few days earlier, I had wanted desperately to renew my contract for another year, but suddenly I've lost the will to stay in France altogether.  I know the actions of one person don't represent the will of an entire country, but I feel as though France herself has rejected me.  

So much for my "Miracle in the Cathedral." I guess the circumstances of our meeting weren't miraculous at all.  Visions flash through my mind of our weekend with her parents in the countryside, our long walks, our movie nights, the Christmas markets in Germany, our intimate conversations over Belgian beer, our shopping trips... it's over, our little international family.  I'm confounded. I don't get it. 

I'm feeling more alone than ever.

Out with the foyer, in with the chic French apartment!

This is a glimpse of the dreary room I endured at Foyer Carrefour up until now. Combined with the antics of my fellow residents (who engaged in 2am soccer matches in the hallway, bloody fist fights in front of my door that required the intervention of police and medics, and ear splitting French rap music at all hours), the questionable food in the cantine, and overall unfriendly vibes that permeated the foyer, it's clear to see why I could never bring myself to unpack my suitcases and call this place "home." 

Sunday, Hélène and her boyfriend Stéphan came to my rescue in his car to help me move my massive suitcases to the apartment from the foyer.  I felt bad for poor Stéphan, who was obliged to hoist my suitcases into his car, then carry them up three flights of stairs. They seemed to find it amusing that I had to ask him repeat himself whenever he spoke, since he has a distinctive accent from the south of France.  Just like the US, France has a variety of accents and dialects that vary by region.  Hélène and Stéphan make a gorgeous couple, as they are both very stylish, attractive and physically fit.  They just exude elegance... and well, France!

The apartment is charming, and Hélène did all the painting, remodeling, and decorating herself. Being French, she is interested in the tiny details that really contribute to the overall effect of the living space. Those 'petits détails" are found all over the apartment; for example, a lovely pattern of mosaic tiles carried throughout the bathroom, shower, and sink. The walls are bold, unexpected colors like purple, yellow, blue, and red, but they are done very tastefully, and harmonize beautifully with one another.  She has wonderful taste in art, and understands the importance of spacing pieces to let them truly shine.  The apartment has an abundance of unique light fixtures, mirrors, and curtains.  She seemed very flattered when I told her she could be a professional decorator. Even the cat, Dorine, is impossibly beautiful. She has the clearest blue eyes I've ever seen, and she's my favorite type of cat, since she behaves as affectionately as a dog.

I picked up a beautiful orchid plant as a thank you to Hélène for taking me in.  She has spent so much effort to make me feel comfortable, and I keep wondering why she's doing this! Obviously she has little to gain by the living arrangements, as the rent is low, and she's losing an entire room in her apartment.  I slow her down with my limited French, but she remains patient. Rather than switching to English when I don't understand something, she rephrases it in French.  She helped me locate the texts I need for my French class and leant me her library card to pick them up. She's taken me on tours of the neighborhood to help me locate the bus stops, supermarkets, post office, and shops.  I am so grateful and lucky to have met such a lovely person, and while I don't yet know how I will accomplish this, it is my sincere hope that I can make this experience as meaningful to her and Nicolas as it is to me.

Front room with multicolored walls

Kitchen

My room

Another view of my room, with Dorine the cat investigating my bed

The view of the Cathédrale Saint-Etienne from my bedroom window

The living room and dining room

Dorine the beautiful siamese cat

Breakfast nook