Trying to rent an apartment in Paris is one of the ultimate tests of resilience, good humor, and skin thickness. Perhaps most unfortunately for some, it is also a terrifying game of luck. When I first looked for an apartment here in early February 2010, I visited four apartments in three days, and was lucky enough to nab the first one I saw, which was also the one I liked the most. But I've watched many suffer from the inefficient, cheaters-take-all system here, and get agitated just thinking about moving again.
To be fair: it is difficult to evict someone from an apartment in Paris; in winter it is actually illegal to kick someone out -- this is socially responsible, but it can mean that those who don't cheat, but who can actually pay their rent even if their dossier suggests otherwise, may suffer.
When people ask what it's like to live in Paris, or when friends come to visit, I warn them sternly: it's difficult to live here. From the metro tickets that get de-magnetized to the clerks at the post office who won't ring you up because they are only working as agents d' accueil (''welcomers'') -- even though they clearly have the skills and ability to help you make your purchase -- there are many opportunities to lose your cool throughout the day in gay Paree.
Side note: I'm still bitter about the post office drama that befell me today. There was a long line waiting to check out, and so I asked the agent d'accueil if I could pay him, but he refused. When I acted confused (considering that on a recent trip, his colleague at the same post was able to take my money), he said he only used the register when the line got backed up; his job was accueil. Meanwhile, the customer at the main register had a giant stack of envelopes to stamp, plus certified and registered letters to prepare, and a package or two to collect; I sensed she would be a while, and I simply wanted to ship a small birthday package to my mom. I did my Frenchly duty, letting out exhausted sighs, puffing hot hair
through my lips, and most certainly rolling my eyes a few times as well.
As I waited impatiently, I considered reverting to an old trick. Over
the years, I have observed that it is easy to rip off the French post
office. All the packaging materials (envelopes and packages) are
essentially pre-stamped and put on display. The assumption is that you
will pay for the packaging material before leaving the post
office; but, this is in fact not required. For the record, you can pick up a Chronopost puffy envelope
or box, stick your items inside, address and seal the package, and then
slip it into any nearby mailbox or bin. (I may or may not have done this
in the past.) It was certainly tempting to try today as the minutes
ticked by, and I was in a hurry to get to work. (Well, not such a
hurry. I was headed to the Musée d'Orsay and had no official start
time, but the sun was shining and that is a commodity I am loathe to
waste).
Needless to say, eight or nine long minutes ticked by before the agent d'accueil realized that the line was not moving. Finally, he offered to ring me up at his station. I tried to hide my snarky ''I-told-you-so'' face.
But back to the issue at hand, which is perhaps even more frustrating than going to La Poste: finding a place to live in Paris. Typically, you need to supply the owner or landlord with a dossier, which is an assortment of financial paperwork showing your salary, the financial information of the person who will pay your rent in case you default (notarized, of course), and for foreigners, any paperwork related to your visa. And your dossier must be convincing. As I've since learned, many people falsify their financial documents, showing a monthly salary of upwards of ten thousand euros. Were I better at Photoshop, I'm sure I'd try it too. At that time, I was earning less than a thousand euros a month, I only had a ten-month visa (with only three months left), and I had no guarantor. My dossier was refused by real estate agents, and was quickly moved to the bottom of the pile by two of the apartment owners I met.
As part of my search, I visited a Miss Havisham-esque apartment in the 17th, minutes from the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs-Elysées. The wallpaper was peeling off, the ceiling paint was yellowed, the plaster molding needed some TLC, and the rugs were nearing threadbare. The woman warned me that I was merely renting a bedroom in the apartment, which meant that I would be able to use the kitchen, assuming I did so respectfully, and without disrupting her meal rituals. She had a yapping dachschund, and though I was tempted by the small balcony in the available bedroom, I was not convinced I would ever feel at home there. She told me that her current renter often joined her on the Champs for a Sunday evening movie; I had trouble imagining myself filling that role.
Next I made an appointment to visit a studio on the chic Avenue de Suffren, steps from the the Champs de Mars and the Eiffel Tower. This apartment was on the sixth floor. First you walked up five flights on the main (indoor) staircase; then you went outside and took the exterior steps to the sixth floor, which had five or six apartments. There was a separate key for the WC because it was shared among the inhabitants of the floor. The studio's owner, who lived in a posh 1,000 sq. ft. apartment in the connecting building, suggested that I keep my toilet paper in my room, otherwise I'd be subsidizing the TP needs of my floormates.
I later learned that I had visited a chambre de bonne, or a small apartment connected to a luxury apartment building; in the past, the chambre de bonne was typically given to the family maid or nanny, though now these apartments often provide some of the cheapest housing in Paris (and provide their owners with a small rental income). The room is usually a 90 - 100 sq. ft. box, with one small window, hot plate, shower (if lucky), and a clic-clac (cot). I couldn't imagine myself living with so little sunlight, and left feeling overwhelmed and disappointed.
''Easy,'' you might be thinking. ''Use Craigslist.'' Sure, the idea is a good one (I recently bought myself a lovely houseplant and juicer that way), but just this afternoon I nearly got embroiled in an apartment scam on that site. While looking for an apartment for an American student arriving in February, I was told I could secure the apartment by wiring my security deposit to a UK account, and then the owner would come meet me in Paris with the keys. Next I was given the contact information of a former renter, Mr. Wayne Thibault (the name raised some concern, but in the melting pot of the US, such a name seemed plausible), apparently an American student from Mesa, Arizona. This ''American'' had some vocabulary issues. In an email, he told me that the apartment was ''a neat and homely place.'' He added that the owner ''took him out to dinner'' when they first met and that ''he is always checking on my welfare by calling during my stay.'' Clearly his notion of time was suspect, since he later said he was back in the US, and therefore, wasn't available to let me see the apartment.
I wrote them both back, stating that I knew they were trying to scam me, and bid them good day. Now I'm back home, in my own 8th floor shoebox -- it is made up of three chambres de bonnes which have been joined into one cohesive, homey whole. Here, radiator heat blasts uncontrollably, meaning that I often sleep with the windows open, but I don't have to unlock a door to get into the bathroom. I have plentiful sunlight and direct access to my apartment from an indoor staircase (when I'm feeling sporty) and elevators (when I'm not).
After all that, do you want my advice about moving to Paris? Don't move to Paris; come for a visit and find yourself a nice hotel (as for the post office: you're on your own).
