Read Stuff in English in Paris

I wrote another article about Paris. This one took a lot more legwork and skype calls across the Atlantic. It's about English language bookstores in Paris. You can find it here. Or click the link below.

http://www.bootsnall.com/articles/09-12/a-guide-to-english-language-bookstores-in-paris.html

Hot Journalism Job!

Love this job description for the A.V. Club D.C. Opens like this:

Are you desperately clinging to a career in journalism while the newspaper industry goes up in flames? Want to work for a fast-paced news organization staffed by gruff copy editors—relics of a bygone era—who constantly bitch about the slow death of print media while simultaneously contributing to it? Tired of trying to make a living as a freelance writer, and finally coming to the realization that an extra part-time job or three is the only way you're going to make rent this month? If so, The A.V. Club is for you!

Getting Back on My Feet

If you asked me how my job hunt was going, I would say not very well. I spend hours on cover letters, delete them, and rewrite them again. I ask everyone and anyone I know or meet if they've heard of any openings. I work my network to try to get ins at jobs I'm applying for. And on and on. Thus far, none of it has done me any good.

I checked out the unemployment rate and was both encouraged and discouraged to see that Illinois has one of the higher percentiles in the nation. Encouraged because it's not just me. Discouraged because I still don't have a job.

So a couple of days ago, I decided to do something. There's nothing I can do about this. I am convinced that I am doing everything in my power to land a job and can't possibly do any more. But since it causes me so much stress, worry and hopelessness, I thought I should throw myself into doing something more positive.

So I started training for a half marathon. At this point, I am not sure I am even going to physically make it to the race. The registration and travel will cost money I don't necessarily have. But that isn't really the point right now. The point is more doing something that makes me feel good about myself. This is about working towards a goal I know without a doubt I can accomplish with dedication and work. And I really need to think less about job hunting for a few minutes a day. Now I can think about how much I really don't want to go running, which is what happens when you have to do it every single day.

And so, I bring to you yet another photo of running shoes. Guess which ones have run a marathon on top of a couple hundred miles and which ones have run three.

Betsy Learns About Bikes

The minute CTA anounced a fare hike, I decided right then and there I would ride my bike through winter. Pay $6 a day to ride the train? No. Pay nothing to get some good excerise? Yes.

Although CTA has now announced they won't increase fares, I'm already commited — to something I am not prepared to do. I really don't know how to take care of my bike. I don't know how to change a flat. I don't even know how to grease my chain. Winter in Chicago means dirty snow and slush, potholes, salt, and whole bunch of other things that can hurt and rust and do other mean things to bikes.

So last night I took advantage of West Town Bike's Women's Night. As long as you're a girl, you're free to come work on your bike under the helpful eye of female mechanics. Dudes tend to dominate the world of bikes, so this was an opportunity for me to learn a thing or two in a low-pressure environment.

As I predicted, I was not a fast learner. I couldn't even get my wheel off at first. But with some good old-fashioned elbow grease and some patient guidance from the mechanics, I successfully removed both tires, took them apart, and put everything back together. Two and a half hours later, I was coated with a thin layer of bike grease, my thumbs felt like putty, (27-inch tires are TIGHT) and I had broken a nail. It was a good night.

Unfortunately, I must have tightened my brake pads or one of my wheels too tight, because I then rode home against some sort of resistance, which kept worsening by the block. Those five miles were tough. But hey, I made it. And now, I know which tool to take to my bike to fix the problem. Thanks, West Town Bikes.

Yep, That's How It Goes

A message from a friend I haven't talked to in a few months:

What are you up to? Do you have a job in journalism? A friend of mine has a masters from Medill and just got an internship at Huffpost and my sister graduated from NYU in journalism and is working at JCrew. So good luck, it must be tough.

When I Get a Job…

I am creating a list of things I shall do once I am employed. And I WILL become employed… some day. So I better make a list of what how to spend all this money once I have it.

- Make my first donation to This American Life
- Buy a bottle of wine that is more than $8. And some nice jeans. And some other material possessions.
- Move into a sweet one-bedroom apartment with my cat
- Register for yoga classes. And maybe a triathlon, too
- Create a Zipcar account
- Open a high-yield savings account
- Take my mom to dinner and a show

I can't wait. It's gonna be great.

Betsy Gets Another Byline

Months and months ago, I asked Rolph Potts for some tips about breaking into travel writing. He suggested that I pitch a story about something in Paris I knew better than anyone else. Something in which I was an "expert."

As an American who had only spent a year in Paris, I felt like I had nothing to unique to write about. Could there possible be some aspect of Paris I knew better than my Parisian friends? Well, I was the only person I knew who spent hours upon hours upon more hours running in Paris. A pitch was born.

I emailed an editor at a travel website with my idea. He bought it — not for much, but he bought it nonetheless. And so, Running in Paris: A Guide to Scenic Trails and Special Advice for the City was born.

(Grandma and Grandpa: Click on THIS to read it.)

A Grave Chicago Sin

You say Chicago, I say hot dog. Chicago. Hot. Dog. A real one looks like this (notice the lack of ketchup):

Yesterday I had two above-par hot dogs from America's Dog. This was first Chicago hot dog experience since before I left for France over a year ago. Needless to say, I was excited.

There was a problem though: too much dog. I was foolish to think I could eat two of these things. I made it through about a third of the second one when I went to grab a knife and fork so I could pick through the tasiest bits.

Wait, did you catch that? Because it took me about three minutes to realize what I was doing, get really embarrassed, and look around to see if anyone noticed. I was eating a Chicago hot dog with a KNIFE AND FORK.

I obviously looked like a tourist. I'm blaming France. France taught me to eat everything with cutlery, (French) fries included. I definitely did not look like someone who is, um, from Chicago. Where hot dogs are made to be eaten with your hands.

What I did wasn't just a mistake. It was a sin. I am so ashamed, and the best I can do it promise it will never happen again.

To whom it may concern,

The above phrase is dominating my life right now. I apologize to all my loyal blog readers - all fourish of them - for Reve Rouge's MIA-ness lately. Instead of writing blog posts, I have been writing cover letters. I feel like I have written a gazillion of them.

My life is consumed by working or trying to find work right now. I take every snippit of freelancing I can get. And when I am not doing that, I am job hunting in every way I know how: stalking online job boards, writing those cover letters, reformatting my resume, sending handwritten thank you cards, calling my friend's mom's friend's friend who said he might be looking for someone, rewriting cover letters because the first drafts were horrible, donning my lucky green interview shirt every once in awhile, following up, etc. etc. etc. etc. There is so much etc. I can never do enough. There is always more work to be done in my search to find work. If I don't do everything I can to get offered job X, someone else will. And that person will get it. I don't want that to happen.

So right now, I have seven events on my Google calendar this week that are labeled "job shiznit." And it's only Monday. I need to write two cover letters and research a company where I am being interviewed tomorrow. I have to go. Sorry blog and its readers. Maybe I will get a job soon and subsequently have more time to write.

From the Job Hunting Trenches

The other day I went to a group interview for a job I desperately did not want. I don't know why I went. I don't even know why I applied.

Okay, that's a lie. I do know why. It was a job to work with children. I have fun with kids, and we usually hit it off pretty well. I have plenty of references who will speak highly of my experience and creativity. And since I'm jobless at the moment, a small part of my job hunt has me looking at jobs involving kids. Basically because I interact well with children, and because I think it's likely that I will be able to find something.

And that's what led me to this interview. I had to do some activities with other job candidates, almost all of them my age and female and overly peppy — in other words, the type of people who usually work with kids (and the type of people I tend not to get along with). The interview didn't go so well. I hated being there. I didn't even try to make them want to hire me.

I left feeling frustrated and dejected. What was I doing at this interview? I do not want to persue a career with children. I have a million other skills that fit my professional goals. I have the whole city at my fingertips in regards to finding a job that is a good fit for me. Why was I going through the motions of seeking a kid-centric job if I don't even want one?

This situation reminds me of a bartender back at a bar I frequented in Paris. I don't know his whole story, but I do know he is some sort of crazy genuis math wiz. But he's been bartending for six or seven years now. Even though he's good at math, and could probably make some good cash with those skills, I guess that doesn't make him happy.

So the moral of the story is just because you are good at something doesn't mean you have to work in that field. If I don't want a full-time kid job, well… then I shouldn't be looking for them. So I am going to stop. And if they call me back for this job, I will politely turn them down.

October 2 - 5

Have you ever been anticipating one single weekend for months? Maybe you'll be visiting a new city. Maybe you're planning a grand reunion with old friends. Maybe it's finally!!! time to run that race you have been working towards for the past 18 weeks. Or, maybe it's all of the above.

So the weekend comes. Naturally, your camera comes along with you. After all, this weekend has been in the making for months and months and everyone in your life knows it. You've got to have something to show for it when you get back.

You arrive. It is everything you hoped it would be and more. There is cooking. There is eating. There is sitting around the table reminiscing about this and that until who knows when. There is wine. You try to show of your France skillz by volunteering to open said wine, then embarrassedly realize several minutes later it's a twist-off bottle. Everyone laughs. Because you haven't changed. Even after what seems like ages, after your lives have veered in different directions since the last time you were together, everyone is still the same.

Then there's the big race. That 26.2 miles you have been thinking a lot about lately. You run it. It's hard. It's really much harder than any of these you've done before. Somewhere between miles 19 and 26, you wonder what you are trying to prove and who you are trying to prove it to. You think this is a very stupid thing you're doing. You think it would be nice to slow down your pace a notch or two or ten. But you know that would also a stupid thing, because that would be too easy. So you keep going and cross the finish line with your fastest time ever, and that makes it worth it.

Later, there is dinner with another old friend. More reminiscing. More laughing about the past, present, and future. And afterwards, beer. You have a Blue Moon, your first since returning to America. You leave the orange slice until the end, just like always. It tastes better that way.

Too soon, you are catching your $1* Megabus back to Chicago. You feel very sore and very content. And you realize you forgot to take pictures. No snapshots of the dinner making or of old friends or of sightseeing in the new city. No marathon-related photos. The problem is that you were having too much fun over the course of the weekend to feel obligated to document it. Your memories will have to suffice. And that is just fine. You don't mind one bit. You'll take living life over taking pictures of it any day.

*plus 50¢ reservation fee.

I Get It. And I Like It.

On Tuesday, night, Jake and I went to the Chicago premiere of Where The Wild Things Are.

(See the trailer HERE. I'm not sure how to embed it without everything looking silly.)

It was great. The Music Box was packed head to toe with hipsters — good people watching. Dave Eggers brought Max Records, who plays Max, for a hysterical Q & A before the screening. Afterwards, Spike Jonez and Catherine Keener answered questions, too. I'm bad at reviewing movies, so you can read Jake's review on Chicagoist. But it was good. There was laughter. There were tears. And it didn't ruin the book. I liked it a lot.

We walked home afterwards, me in a fake gold crown they handed out at the door, and I felt so content. For once in a very, very long time, I didn't have to furrow my brow and try to understand any part of that experience.

I hated not understanding things in France. This isn't about language. That is only a teeny part of what I'm talking about. Just because you speak a language does not mean you understand the many cultural layers behind what's going on.

What was there to understand about Where The Wild Things Are? The whole audience grew up reading this book that was originally deemed inappropriate for children. We understood how the book make us feel as kids. We understood what a huge and delicate undertaking it was to translate this iconic piece of literature to the screen. We understood what it meant to have Dave Eggers and Spike Jonez on board for the project. We understood why Spike Jonez was so anti-CGI in creating the wild things. And when some moron asked if wild thing Ira was named after Ira Glass, we understood what an idiotic question that was.

The best part of understanding all these things was that I didn't have to think about them. I simply understood them. Just like that (picture me snapping my fingers). This, my friends, is something I missed dearly about America. It feels good to get it. It feels good to be back.

Sad Panda at Starbucks

I am at Starbucks. I am upset with myself. I don't want to be at Starbucks. I want to be at a café that a. has its own personality b. has a legitimate cozy feel, not a fake cozy feel c. isn't a multi-gazillion dollar business.

But Starbucks is the only café with wifi within 3.5 miles of my parents' house. And I have work to do. So I am at Starbucks.

There was one thing I used to like at Starbucks. They used to write your order and name directly on your cup. This reminds me of a story a professor's sister told my Advanced Writing class in college. Her name is Regina. Confused Starbucks baristas mis-wrote, then mis-read her name. I'm not going to be able to tell the story as well as she did. It's her story. You'll have to ask her to tell it to you sometime.

But no more writing on cups. Now they print out a label and slap it on your cup. It's so much less personal.

Sorry this post is so gloomy. I feel so gloomy being here. Please don't tell anyone I am here. It can just be our little secret. I will hurry to get my work done, and then I will stealthily slip out. It will be like I never came to Starbucks in the first place.

Let's Buy Some Food

The true "Yup. I am definitely in America now" moment came during one of the most monotonous pinnacles of everyday life: the grocery market. Or, as we say in these parts "the store," or simply "Jewel." First off, mom and I roll into Jewel in our running clothes, ready to do a week's worth of shopping. I like that in America, you can where whatever the flip you want to buy your groceries. In France, this doesn't fly. You need to wear real clothes.

Okay, so we're in our running clothes. We enter Jewel. Jewel is huge. It would be safe to say five times the size of my regular grocery store in Paris. And since it is so huge you can buy MORE FOOD!!! I am excited about the hugeness of it all. I can buy anything and everything. I feel like I have the world at my fingertips. That is, until I decide I want some peaches.

The peaches are huge. Like way, way too huge. I don't remember peaches being this huge. The tomatoes are also huge. And so are the bananas. Every piece of produce is overwhelmingly huge. I don't like huge anymore. I can't eat a peach or tomato or banana that huge. Why aren't they normal sized? Wait, what is normal sized? Mom says she can get better peaches at the farmer's market. Peaches this huge? Yep, they are the same size. Dang.

Okay let's move on from the peaches. That's a dead topic.

Next I see a whole slew of 100 calorie pack snack packs. Come on America. I knew you had these, but I forgot. You do not need to pay Nabisco extra $$ to put 100 calories worth of mini Chips Ahoy in a little bag. Just don't be a dum dum and don't eat so many cookies.

And a bit farther down that aisle, I see about 600 new varieties of Oreos. Double Delight Chocolate Mint'N Creme? Gross, who is going to buy that? There is some nasty peanut butter creme variety as well. Even I, proud devourer of gallons of PB, would not buy that. Everyone knows the best kind of Oreo is the original kind. Why bother with anything else? Cuz we're in America, that's why.

I am not going to ramble on too much more about all this, just one more thing. The manager of the store bags our groceries. We chat through the whole bagging process, and it feels so strange. I can bag my own groceries just fine. But it would be very odd if I lent a hand. We just don't bag our own groceries here. Because we're in America.

Breakup Letter To My Bike

Dear Bike,

You probably noticed sometime last week I was acting strangely. You might have found it a bit odd when I took a screwdriver to your handlebars to remove the bell. Maybe you saw the girl who came last week and fiddled with your gears a bit. You probably tried to shrug it all off as just a phase.

It’s not. You have no idea how much it pains me to have to tell you this. You and I are finished. She bought you. I’m sorry.

You deserve honesty, so here it goes. I have a bike back home. I won’t hurt you further with details. But it is a bike I love very, very much. I sold you because I am going back to it.

Maybe you already figured there was someone else waiting for me. I never really brought it up, because we were having so much fun. Mentioning it would have just ruined our relationship. And really, the other bike never concerned you and me. Just because I’m going back to it doesn’t mean the moments we spent together in Paris weren’t meaningful.

Bike, I cannot image Paris without you. We saw everything in the city together. We got lost together. We found our way home together. We received a stern warning together when the police caught us riding the wrong way down a one-way street. When you were sick, I was so worried. I took you to the bike doctor not caring how much it would cost. Sometimes I thought someone had stolen you from me. Realizing that made my tummy really hurt. But it was just always me being silly and forgetting where I parked you. You know I can be silly. Thanks for putting up with me during those times — like when I broke too hard on wet pavement, and we both fell. Thanks for not letting me get hurt.

Things weren’t always easy for us. The upward incline on Rue de Belleville always tested us. But we always made it to the top together. And afterwards, after a few — or many — beers or glasses of wine, it was always so much fun to cruise downhill together to home. During those 60 seconds, with the Eiffel Tower in the distance and then the cobblestones that went BUMP BUMP BUMP, I was always the happiest I have ever been in my life.

There are so many other memories like that. Without you, bike, Paris would not be Paris. I can't even remember what Paris was like before you. You were the key to my happiness and to cheap transportation and to exercise.

Maybe someday I will come back to Paris and get a new bike. But no bike will ever be the same. I hope you will never forget me, because I will never forget you.

Love and Kisses,
Betsy

Allô?

Today I had a ginourmous Eureaka moment. I can have telephone conversations in French. NO WAY.

Phone conversing in another langauge is hard. You can't see the other person, thus can't see his or her facial expressions or gestures. Oftentimes, my ears decide to be hard of hearing or I just mix up words*, so this complicates things futher for me.

I experienced a horrible horrible telephone catastrophe back in March. I was ordering a pizza. The pizzeria dude wanted me to order two pizzas, but I only wanted one. Later I discovered it was a 2-for-1 deal, but I didn't understand that at the time. After the awkward convo ended, I wasn't exactly sure how many pizzas I had just ordered. On my way to pick it/them up, I sniffled a little bit and shed a few tears. I was really embarrassed and upset, because I had been studying French forever and had all this trouble ordering a frickin pizza.

But I guess there's been a veeeerrry gradual improvement in the success of my telephone conversations. My 75% comprehension became 80%. And 80% became 85%. And so on.

And today, when I was talking to someone about getting my newish purse replaced because it developed a mysterious hole, I started to actually whine a bit. But it's not my fault! I whined. I swear the hole just came out of nowhere. NO it's not from a lighter, I don't even smoke! I didn't get my way. They won't give me a new purse. I was grumpy when I hung up. But a second later, I realized that this was progress. Before I couldn't order a pizza on the phone. Now I can grump someone out on the phone. Go me.

* I recently was very confused when my roommate and her boyfriend were telling me about this delicious chocolate mousse that comes in a glass jar (un pot en verre). I understood it was delicious chocolate mousse that comes in a green jar (un pot vert). Just trust me, my brain hurt really hard after this conversion. I make mistakes like this all the time.

Flea Market Comeback

My last non-Parisian adventure was to be a trip to Lille for one of Europe's largest flea markets. It didn't work out due to driver's license complications of my friend's cousin's boyfriend (I told you it was complicated). So I decided to dedicate my Sunday to do a bit of flea marketing here in Paris on my own. I've been once to Le Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen, but we were filming a movie. So I didn't really look for stuff to buy.

So I leave my apartment this morning, ready for my adventure, and surprise surprise, there is a flea market right outside my front door. It's more like a neighborhood-wide garage sale. Here I accumulate:

- a multi-plug thinger. One exploded in the kitchen about a month ago, and we have been making do by juggling plugs and cords around. That works out okay except when I accidentally unplug the fridge and stove (while I am trying to use the stove), as I did last night.
- a retroish looking pair of sunglasses that are probably from H&M.
- a French-English picture dictionary. I especially like this purchase, because I bought it from a little girl. I don't even mind that it is in yucky British English, because now the little girl has €1.50 more to buy a pony or whatever.
- A neato scarf. I am planning on chopping off a ton of my hair on my return to the states, and I plan on accessorizing with scarves.

Then I go to the real flea market, which is a bit of a disappointment because here you can either buy only giant pieces of furniture or cool small things that are way too expensive. I was interested in a pair of opera glasses until I realized they were €150. Still, I manage to find:

- some pens. Those ones that have little windows with a little picture that floats up and down. I am OBSESSED with these pens and try to find one every time I visit a new place. When I saw a whole bunch at the flea market, I am pretty sure I started muttering excitedly to myself in French. I got three, and was very careful not to break my rule of only buying a pen if I have been to the place.
- a wine bottle opener. Nothing fancy, just one retired from some French restaurant. But I have been trying to learn how to open a bottle of wine without breaking the cork for months and months. I think I finally have the hang of it, so bought my own to celebrate.
- 10 really old Paris postcards.

In the end, not that much stuff, nothing particularly interesting and not that much money spent. But I either really wanted or needed or liked each thing, so I am content. Maybe I will go open a bottle of wine, or tie my hair in a scarf, or read a dictionary now.

Four Weeks To Go

Well folks, race day is coming up fast. I can't believe that I will be at the starting line for yet another marathon only four weeks from today. And on American soil nonetheless. Yikes.

How is training going? I will share this bit I entered in our training calendar post an 8-mile run on August 26: "hobble hobble hobble. Not as bad as yesterday, but felt hobbley." Here's one Kelly wrote recently: "Why do we do this to ourselves? Remind me."

August was really, really hard. We've ramped up our mileage a ton. I've pretty much gotten used to the non-stop throbbing of a calf or a hamstring or a knee or all of the above. A coworker the other day asked me why I was limping, and I was like what? huh? I'm not limping? Well, do your legs hurt? she asked me. I had to think about it. Yes, well I guess they do. They always do. I don't even notice it anymore, because I'm considering it normal.

Now I feel like I'm trying to make people pity me, but I'm not. The only one forcing me to run 40 miles a week is me. I do it because I know, or hope at least, that I'm doing enough to be 100% prepared for the upcoming race. Kelly and I both know that what really counts are the 18 hobbley and tired weeks we put in before toeing the starting line. The miles are long, and it hurts, and I spend a lot of time feeling sorry for my legs and trying to make them feel better with ice packs. I guess I just keep telling myself the harder it is now, the easier the actual race will be. That could be totally false.

Well. At least I'm in the best shape I've been in a few years (I guess since I trained for my last marathon) and can still drink as much beer/wine and eat as many croissants as I please. And I can beat almost anyone I know in a foot race — as long as it is a long distance one. Also, my toes are pretty good looking. And by good looking I mean they are gross, do not look at them.

French vs. American Dudes

Anyone who talks to me for more than five seconds will learn I don’t like French dudes. I like to generalize them all as creeps.

I could go on and on about this, but instead I will present to you two completely isolated case studies. Your task, my dear blog reader, is to figure out which guy is French and which is American.

1. My bike and I are idling at a red light by République. A guy wearing a bright green tee and nametag – which means he collects money for some charity/scam – frantically starts signaling to me. He has noticed that I have a flat tire, and I need to get out of the street asap. I become calmly frantic and get outta there fast to the safety of the sidewalk, where I start to inspect my bike. Actually, he tells me, you don’t have a flat tire. I just said that to get your attention. Then he proceeds to spin his spiel on the charity/scam he works for by trying to be very very flirtatious.

I am not buying any of it, because he has already proved himself to be a LIAR. I don’t like liars, particularly when it concerns my safety and my bike. Furthermore, he commits an error even more grave than assuming I am a student, which is one of my hugest pet peeves. Instead, he assumes I have quit school. Yes. Naturally. I am young and not enrolled in a university, so that must mean I am a quitter. I am magnificently unimpressed by this guy’s game. I escape back to the street with my bike, whose tires are just as un-flat as they were prior to this waste of 5 minutes of my life, whose name may or may not have been Guillaume.

2. I am taking pictures of an artsy alley in Belleville. A guy approaches me and asks me what model of camera I have. I have a Nikon D80. Oh, I have a D60, he says. This is a good move. He has found a way to talk to me by approaching a common interest of ours. He asks my name, I ask his. We chat for a few minutes. Did you hear about the party tonight? He asks. No, what party? Well, he says, there are going to be a ton of people at this bar in Buttes Chamont. It was a lot of fun last night, and I’m going back tonight. I happen to know exactly what bar he is talking about, because it is one of my favorites. More bonus points, because we enjoy the same bars.

He finishes the conversation by telling me it would be great to see me there later. Then he goes his merry little way, and I go mine. He doesn’t insist on taking my phone number, but still expressed interest in getting to know me better. I have an open invitation to accept the offer or not. If I was looking to meet guys, I would have. Especially because he did not immediately lead me to believe he was a LIAR.

So, who’s who? And what fine example of his culture tastefully and properly knew how to hit on a girl?*

*I feel as though I must add a disclaimer explaining I understand all French or American males are not equal to their respective case studies. I know that. That’s not the point of this exercise.

Easy Peasy

I want to keep my bank account open after I leave, but my branch is really far away, where I first lived when I arrived. I decided it would be more practical to have my account based in Paris proper. So I mentally and physically prepared myself for the process of transferring my account from one branch to another.

Mentally: I figured I would have to go to the bank an average of three times before successfully completing the branch transfer. This is because in France, you must try something an average of three times to ever accomplish it.

Physically: I stuffed a folder full of useless papers the French seem to require for even the most of insignificant of transactions. To prove I had the right to transfer my account to this branch, documents in my folder included, but were no limited to, a letter from my landlord to confirm I in fact live at my current address, an electric bill to confirm that he is in fact the landlord, a copy of his passport to confirm that the landlord is in fact a real person, my check book, a random assortment of important looking papers from the bank with my name and account number plastered all over them, some government documents to verify my address even further, my passport, etc.

All this, and I am not even inside the bank yet.

But by this part of the story, I am. I deal with a poo-pooey woman at reception who says well I really should have made an appointment for something like this, didn’t I know? She guesses she will see if her colleague can see me. Whatever lady. The bank opened 30 seconds ago, and I know I am the only non-employee in it.

So now I am in an office with her colleague, with my bulging folder of useless documents. I am mentally ready for her to tell me I don’t have the right ones.

Instead she doesn’t even look at them. She takes my account number, flips through my passport, prints off a single document. As I sign it she says the transfer will take a few days, and that’s it. Goodbye, and have a nice day.

And I’m like what? What? WHAT?! Never in my year in France has anything ever been this simple. I cannot get over how NORMAL this transaction was. I still can’t. I have wasted entire days, probably even months trying to do stuff like this in France. And here it took 5 minutes. I did not know that was even possible in this country.