Les Colocs!

Left to right: Lucy, Tom, Daniel, Irene, Fia, Xavier and our adopted housemate Hannah. Oh, and Pierre-Henri, but he left.  

Mexico's Independence Day Party. With Gazpacho Juan-Armando, the Watermelon. 

About Us: What we think of each other...

So we've been toying with the idea of an 'About Us' section for a while. Unfortunately whenever we tried to describe ourselves in writing it always sounded pretentious (Tom) or boring (Fia). Therefore we decided to write humorous descriptions of each other instead!

Fia according to Tom:

Fia - short for Sofia, but apparently that's two letters too many - is from Woking near London (even though she sounds a lot like she's from Essex). She's Italian but always specifies that she's from Sicily. No, I don't know the difference either. Her interests are: Art (painting, drawing, designing, anything really), cooking, nails, bitching, going out, shopping, making me do stuff and fashion. And to be fair, she's pretty good at all of them.

Like all the best people, she's studying French and Spanish at the University of Bath. She doesn't really know why, as all she actually wants to do is paint and open a tea room/cake shop and you obviously don't need a degree for that. Still, if she wasn't studying languages then she would probably have never come to live in Paris and then where would we be? Blogless, I tell you, blogless.

Earl Grey tea. Fia brews it regularly. 
Moses probably didn't.

She has one good(ish) joke which she tells everyone. To save her the trouble and time, here it is:

How does Moses make his tea?

Hebrews it.

Hilarious. I've tried telling her Moses probably never had tea, but she doesn't seem to care...

Lastly, and I'd better put this or she'll kill me (so consider it a sort of self-preserving disclaimer, if you will), she's (mostly) intelligent, (occasionally) funny and very sweet (when she wants to be).

For an Essex girl that i-

Tom According to Fia:

Tom Ash, wittily nicknamed ‘Tash,’ is originally from Leamington Spa and having attended an All Boy’s School all his life, Tom still hasn’t quite adjusted to the novelty of having females around, and still thinks it’s okay to make inappropriate jokes about boobs –usually the boobs of the girl he’s talking to. 

Nowadays he spends the majority of the year at Bath, and his holidays with his family in Brittany – trying out his charms on Breton girls. Tom’s main interests and activities revolve around fencing and polishing his sword but he also enjoys being awkward and singing along to his complete Classic Disney Songs albums on Itunes. 

Italian Olympic fencing champion, Matteo Tagliariol.
Tom's totally better than this guy.

Tom aims high in life, he works hard at Bath University, where he studies French, Spanish & European Studies and was last year’s Fencing Club Chair. Tom’s other interests include cooking and baking brownies that taste like a party in your mouth, alongside being the ultimate dancing/fending-off-creepy-dance-floor-guys dancer when we go out. 

It’s fair to say that ideally he’d like to be Prime Minister one day – potentially the next Silvio Berlusconi…but taller and less greasy –but he’ll probably reside his days living abroad (France or Spain would make sense), being posh, fine dining and drinking himself into a cultured, alcohol-induced oblivion, surrounded by his many offspring and his hopefully 9/10 wife.

Day 3: Yes, the mouldy flat will be fine

And so it begins, the third and final day of our search in Paris. All our efforts up until this point were in vain. Our only lifeline, our one hope of salvation is a mardy sounding estate agent called Roxanne and her equally whipped sounding husband/business partner Francis.

We bid a fond farewell to our cell/room in Parc des Expositions and promise to return someday (lying through our teeth, of course). The train journey down to Gare du Nord is sadly devoid of hilarious Frenchmen who could brighten up our mood, but full of moody ones grunting and sweating in their cheap, itchy suits. Shouldn't have gone to Primark then should you? Or at least the French equivalent, whatever it may be (potential candidates include Gémo and Distri-Centre).

From the now familiar northern station (where, despite its reputation, we have not been mugged, murdered or kidnapped in the past three days) we make our way across Paris on the Metro for the final time. The automaton that is the Parisian underground has served us well(ish) over the course of our stay and, as if bestowing upon us a parting gift, it is mercifully air-conditioned (the air still smells of unwashed feet, but you can't have everything I suppose). On arriving in the 5^th arrondissement we set a leisurely pace towards Roxanne's apartment, occasionally catching ourselves humming the eponymous track by The Police. Hopefully we won't have to resort to the red light district in order to find ourselves a place to live.

The information we received from Roxanne (Roxaaaaaanneeee) is that the apartment is in the basement of the building and needs some work before we can live in it. We should meet her husband Francis there at 11 am. We might not like it, she warns. We will, we think, we're tough. And certainly we don't want to have to sell our bodies to the night, which is looking like the only viable alternative. Therefore at 11am sharp we are there, gazing with trepidation through a small vent at what we fear might be the flat.

When Francis arrives he ticks all the boxes of your typical, hen-pecked French husband. There is a lot of stuff that Roxanne hasn't told him about the flat; it appears that conversation between the two is limited after a minor falling-out. One supposes he may have made a comment on the appropriateness of her dress one evening, or something in that vein. He looks sufficiently haggard/ bedraggled that we feel safe in assuming he came off worse from the exchange. He looks less like a landlord and more like someone who might walk the streets searching for money.

Whether we are wrong or right in our extrapolations we don't care, as he is very polite and apologetic to us. The entrance to the flat is not, as we feared, through the small drain-cum-vent, instead it is the door to the building on the left. Phew. Unfortunately this is to be the end of our relief as upon entering we realise the flat is... well, fairly normal actually, in need of a good clean but otherwise serviceable.

That's the upstairs though (consisting of a kitchen/sitting room combo). Downstairs is a whole different kettle of fish. In fact, there is a faint smell of fish coming from the bathroom. That is not the worst of it though, oh no, there is more yet to come. Aside from the three rooms having no natural light, peeling paint, cracked ceilings, bare bulbs and wires, broken mattresses, dirty floors and creaky doors, they could be also be described thusly:

Mouldy.

Mouldier.

Mouldiest.

The walls should be white but are instead black with the stuff. The worst thing is that we are still willing to believe Francis' blandishments and promises to clean, and seriously considering taking it as at least it's a place to live. Fia's life philosophy is that anywhere becomes habitable with the addition of fairy lights and bunting and so we leave, promising to be in touch soon about the contract.

Mould. Saves on decorating, costs you your lungs. 

Now, dear reader, before you concern yourself overly that we might currently be living in a Parisian underground mould box, let us assure you that this is not the case. After walking a hundred metres or so it dawned on us exactly how many fairy lights we would need to make this mushroom grotto habitable. Even popping over to Disneyland in order to recruit Tinkerbell et al. would not be enough; we'd need more than it would take to deck out the Rockefeller Christmas tree and then some.

Tom offers to console Fia by taking her for a classy Chinese/Japanese meal, but then realises he doesn't have his debit card so chivalrously lets Fia pay for it and knock it off what she already owes him. After he spills noodle soup all over his shirt and has to strip off in the middle of the street to change, we decide to make haste back to Montparnasse before any other major incidents can occur. Alas, and much to Tom's delight, a fly decides to make a kamikaze beeline for her pupil and ends up crushing itself between her eyelids ('it's literally the grossest thing ever'). If you've never had to extract fly organs from your cornea, it's not funny. If you've ever watched someone else trying to extract fly organs from their cornea, it's hilarious. In fact, it almost makes up for them laughing at you spilling ramen all over your shirt. Once Fia's eye has been fully irrigated of its fly juice, we finally reach the spiritual home of the Muses.

Eh? Where do Greek mythological songstresses come into this? Well, as the more educated among you (Oh shut up Tom) will know, Montparnasse draws its name from Mount Parnassus in Greece, where said goddesses of learning and the arts were supposed to reside. According to Wikipedia (because we all know how reliable that is) in the 17^th century pretentious Parisian students used to come to the area to recite pretentious poetry, ponder pretentious thoughts and deliver pretentious speeches and pretentious debates and thus the place gained the pretentious nickname 'Montparnasse'. Tom would have been right at home.

After coughing up an extortionate amount to Starbucks Corporation for two plastic cups of cold water and lime juice, we get back on the train to sunny Britanny, unfortunately travelling in 2^nd class with the plebs this time (oh shut up Tom you posh tosser). Once back at Tom's parents' House In France (told you he's posh) we bite the bullet and buy an Appartager.com account. Almost immediately we have contact from a landlord offering rooms in the southern suburbs, however by this point we are convinced that every person we meet online is a dastardly swindler, con artist or trying to sell us a mouldy cellar.

Surprisingly however, the guy seems to be straight up. Fia begs (orders) our friend Hannah who is already working in Paris to go and visit and she does, bless her cotton socks. Within a week we have an apartment.

Now, you're going to think we're total idiots for going all the way to Paris to look for houses, only to end up finding a place online anyway. But our trip was so much more than that, we learned so much about each other, Paris, Parisians, Denzel Washington, con artists, building sites in Chelles, mouldy bedrooms... Ok, who's kidding, it was a total failure, unmitigated disaster in its purest form.

Makes a good story though.

Day 2: How to react when you find out you've been conned.

by Fia 

Day 2: The sun does not love black people

We awake not-so-early the next morning – Fia from a restless night spent pondering the prospect of homelessness, Tom after a more agreeable slumber filled with Penelope Cruz-inspired thoughts. Mmm, Penelope Cruz.

Ahem. Having missed breakfast, Tom heads down for a drink from the vending machine and a verbal altercation with the hotel staff after the dispenser swallows his money but fails to come up with the promised goods. While he does so, Fia starts looking online for a phone number for THE FLAT OF OUR DREAMS. Success, a man called Ray ('Daddy Ray'!?) appears to own the flat and his number is listed. Positively ecstatic at the prospect of bona fide verbal contact, she dials the number.

Daddy Ray answers. They exchange pleasantries. Fia mentions Claire-Geoffrey. Daddy Ray sounds confused. He doesn't have a daughter called Claire, much less Claire-Geoffrey. Boulay? His surname isn't Boulay and never has been. Then everything clicks together as he explains that he put the apartment up for rent some time ago online and that someone has taken the photos and is using them to attempt to scam innocent, moon eyed young house-hunters like ourselves. He gets these sorts of phone calls, emails and letters under the door all the time he says. No, the apartment is no longer available for rent.

Oh bugger.

Tom wanders back in, still feeling somewhat miffed over the loss of his Evian, but equally pleased that his French was still good enough to let that slag of a receptionist have it over the counter (make of that what you will). Naively he sits down and waits for Fia to finish her phone call to Ray, blissfully unaware that a Sicilian volcano is about to erupt with fiery, molten ire within the small confines of our room.

Cue a lovely email to Claire-Geoffrey (on second thoughts, definitely just Geoffrey now). Fia makes clear her surprise at Geoffrey's lack of planning, offers some soundly-reasoned advice on how the business could be improved and expresses her heartfelt desire that Geoffrey 'get AIDS and die', before signing off 'Best wishes, Sofia.' One can't help but think Geoffrey might not take her message entirely to heart, but it was cathartic nevertheless.

We sit down for a few moments, not speaking. Then we try to look at the positives. Geoffrey didn't get any money from us, nor photos and personal details to clone our identities. Who are we kidding though, coming to see THE FLAT OF OUR DREAMS was a major reason for our trip and we cannot help but feel we've wasted our time and money.

After a call to Fia's mother, who on loudspeaker plays a dulcet Vesuvius to her daughter's Etna, we decide to start scouring FUSAC with pen, phone and laptop at the ready until we find a place. A number of potential leads come to nothing as they have already been taken or want to find tenants who will stay longer than we. Finally we come across an ad for a place in Chelles (to the east of Paris itself). 400 euros/month. Wow, not bad. A quick phone call and we have a viewing for that very afternoon.

Now we just have to get there. Train into Paris, train out again and we're in the right town at least, after a minor incident at Gare de l'Est where Fia gets stuck on the wrong side of the barrier without a ticket. Now to find the place. We traipse off down the leafy boulevards, most of them named for famous French people in true pretentious Parisian style. It's all very pretty though. Yes, we could definitely see ourselves living here, in a spacious stone villa with shutters and an outdoor pool. We'll sip Chablis by the water's edge in the blazing sun, recite poetry and debate the finer points of fine dining. It'll all be so distinguished, so cultured.

We find the road (sorry, the boulevard) without trouble, but the house numbers confuse us a bit. Searching for house 36, we pass 34 and 35, followed by a construction site, but the houses from then on don't seem to be numbered properly. All the buildings have high surrounding walls so you can't see in. Flummoxed, we give the landlady a ring to confirm her location; she says she'll come out to meet us. So we wait. We can almost taste the Chablis. Then the gate in front of the building site opens.

Oh dear.

Out comes a little, middle-aged Frenchwoman. As she ushers us through, the sound of drills does little to alleviate our concerns. We are taken around the side of the building works to a small house at the back; well at least the rooms aren't still to be completed. Oh but they are. The first room is a poky converted living room without enough space to swing the cat which has just followed us in (not that you'd want to, she's adorable). No curtains, paint peeling, cupboard doors looking like they want to fall off. Not promising. The second room is still to be decorated, still to have the dining table removed and still to have a corridor built in one half of it so that the Korean girl living upstairs can access the only staircase in the house. We briefly spot said girl, timid and wide-eyed, before she legs it off back to her lair. We can't decide if she was just in a rush or terrified of the demon landlady.

Actually, that's unfair, the owner is lovely.

But her house is still shit.

We walk away, promising that we'll consider it carefully. Like hell we will. Off we go to shelter from the heat and to grab a hideously expensive drink in the restaurant opposite the station. Fia pays because Tom cleverly forgot to bring his debit card (twat). As penance, once back at Gare de l'Est he is once more forced to participate in some retail therapy, this time far less tolerable as Fia doesn't actually buy anything, instead just gazing at the shiny stuff. At least Tom gets the fruit off her cake (no euphemism intended) in the little eatery place attached to the station because, according to Fia, fruit is gross. Still dejected, we stretch our legs a bit and walk to Gare du Nord. The train back is roastingly, blisteringly hot. Fortunately we are in a carriage that doesn't have too many people in it.

Other people have clearly observed this too and in race two black (this isn't bigotry, the colour of their skin is pertinent) men, panting for air. One pronounces loudly to the carriage 'C'est du génocide là-bas, ça tue les noirs.'

Stunned silence. Race killings on a suburban Parisian train? A bit much to believe perhaps, even if racism is purportedly rife amongst the francilian police; shock and disbelief show on several faces. Turning to us, the people closest to him, he explains 'la chaleur, c'est trop.' After hearing the accent in our reply, he elaborates in English, 'the sun does not love black people.'

Phew, no mass murder, just a spot of sunstroke.

Still not sure if this guy is for real and not on drugs as he seems MENTAL, we keep the conversation going. Not that he needs much help, proclaiming loudly his love for Manchester United and carnivals in London. Then his phone rings, he picks up and suddenly his voice drops to a seductive purr as he murmurs 'Salut mon bébé. Oui ma pouce, j'arrive.' The other guy (his cousin) notes how he speaks more softly when he's talking to his girlfriend and sex is on the cards.

After offering us a few more thoughts on football, Manchester United and the general decline of Paris, he spots a Brazilian man with a fold-up fan sat nearby. He kneels down in front of the guy and begs that he fan him a little lest he expire from the heat. In exchange for the personal air con service he offers his wisdom on how Brazil should go about winning the World Cup. You have to beat Germany, he says, beat Germany and you win.

Suddenly it's his stop and it's time to go. Off he and his cousin jump, then he turns and alternately mimes and shouts for us to call him to meet up some time. A look of realisation dawns on his face as he realises he didn't give us his number. He briefly considers jumping back on to give it to us, but clearly decides that his pouce would not want him to be late for their appointment, and so with a shrug that says 'tant pi, c'est la vie' he lopes off into the sunset.

We get off a couple of stops later, still laughing, Tom struggling to get a well-known collaboration between Jay-Z and Kanye out of his head (in his defence, we are in Paris). 'The sun does not love black people.' Honestly. Hurray for multi-cultural France and humorous errors in translation.

We still didn't have a house though.

Fia's Guide to House Hunting Online

Heed my wisdom. Seriously. 

So Tom's on his way to Paris right now :D He hasn't got any internet on le train so meanwhile I thought I'd add another post. 

When you get over the task of working out what you're going to do on your Year Abroad,  (uni, work placement, or teaching assistant) you'll find yourself staring up a huge, overwhelming mountain called 'ACCOMMODATION.' Get your hiking gear ready. 

Me and Tom are going to Université Sorbonne-Nouvelle Paris III  (sounds class). What isn't so 'class' is the fact that in France, Paris especially, student accommodation is rather, well...grim. So the best thing to do is find a quaint and chic Parisian apartment where you can spend your semester looking out onto the visual delights of Parisian life. 

NAWT.

Well, you probably maybe could. Central Paris prices are EXTORTIONATE. Cheaper than London, but still really pricey. So if your budget is, say €700-€1000 per month, then by all means, carry on as you will.  

If you're a true student and life is just a miserable economic struggle, then you need to find more realistic options. A handful of the hundreds of sites we must have scoured were: 

www.centralparisrentals.com

www.seloger.com

www.acheterlouer.com

www.etudiantdeparis.fr

www.parisetudiant.com

www.capcampus.com

www.mapiaule.com

www.pap.fr

www.parisattitude.com

These sites are ideal for finding studios or flats. Get in there early enough (try March, April, May, June-time, heck, maybe earlier) and you'll hopefully find yourself living in a Parisian dream apartment. 

But realistically, most people will leave it to the last minute because they are delusional and think that life is an easy ride. WELL IT'S NOT. When looking online, that's all you are doing. LOOKING. No buying, no agreeing to contracts and exchanging sweet dream wishes to some bitch called Claire. 

Seriously.  

If you find a credible agency that you can google their website and google map stalk them, exchange some reserved emails with them (they're Parisian, they probably won't be nice anyway. LOL JK...) and arrange to go see the appartment, then you're on your way to finding a place that actually exists.  

Yes. You're going on a mini Paris-break, kiddies. 

Never give over any details, no matter how promising or genuine the person on the other end seems. If they ask you to send over any kind of details (passport, bank) or 'just sign the contract enclosed in the email' I can pretty much 99.99% confirm that it is a con. When we received genuine housing offers, the first thing they want you to do is view the property.

Another thing to look out for is that the con artist will usually be a woman, because people seem to trust women more online (the fuck?) and they'll share some heart-wrenching info about their families to appeal to your sensitive side, to try and get your guard down and get you to trust them. Natalie had a 'sick mother' in London whereas Claire had her parents and fiancé living in London. HOW CONVENIENT. They always have some sort of excuse which prevents them from being able to meet you in person. Sigh. They even go to the lengths of saying you can visit the place, probably hoping that you'll blag your way in somehow. Or probably because they want to waste your time and money because they are shitty low lives.

It's painfully obvious, talking about the emails, that they were cons, but at the time, when you haven't even been to Paris, you're so desperate to find a place that you'll trust in anyone and anything. But to be honest, even if you have to get to Paris and stay in a hostel for a week or two, it's better to do that and find yourself a place that you can actually view and get a guarantee for, than get conned or end up in a shit-hole. Also, you might find yourself other people in Paris who are in the same boat and bag yourself some roomies!

So if you don't want to be a loner and live on your larry, then you want to consider a house share. This is an equally difficult task, and again you will want to not only see the property, but if there are existing housemates in the place you're gona view, then you want to meet them too...you know, to make sure they aren't homicidal rapey pervs. I JOKE. But seriously, how do you know? Don't go alone either, unless you're a muscly tank with a black belt in Karate. 

I mean it. Didn't you watch Taken? My Dad is shitting himself at the fact I'm going to live in Paris. He's getting his gun (he doesn't really have a gun) and his, 'I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don't have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career of being a tree surgeon and landscape gardener. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you and you're shitty overgrown back yards. If you let my daughter go now, that'll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don't, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will kill you.' speech ready. 

It's also worth considering living in the southern Parisian suburbs. NOT the 17-20th arrondissements, because they are, like, Rape Central and mega dodgy. *SPOILER ALERT* We found our beautiful 6 bedroom house, complete with 2 other French and 1 Spanish housemate in Vitry-sur-Seine, which is in the south of Paris, just a short RER train journey to our Uni and the rent is pretty decent too (€610 per month, bills included).

As a student living/studying/working abroad, you might be able to recieve APL (Aide Personalisée au Logement), which is a housing benefit scheme run by the Caisse d’Allocations Familiales (CAF). Depending on various factors, you should be able to get between 20-30% off your rent! BOOM. You can apply online at http://www.caf.fr. 

So always think safe and be safe. Regardless of whether you're sat comfortably in front of your laptop or wandering the streets of Paris. Always ask for help and advice if you're unsure. I emailed several friends I have in Paris for their opinions and suggestions. But at the end of the day, you should really just believe what you can see with your own eyes and touch with your hands...unless the landlord doesn't want you to touch anything. And don't touch people, that's creepy...you know what I mean. 

The best site, in my opinion, is http://www.appartager.com/. Although you have to pay a fee to join, I think it's pretty worth it. Me and Tom shared the £15 subscription fee for 10 days and got a reply from our landlord the day after! Again, we didn't accept anything without seeing the place first, but by this time we'd gotten our train back to Brittany so we weren't in Paris anymore. THANK GOD our angel friend Hannah was, so we begged her to go visit for us, so she took her boyf Andy and they travelled for a whole hour and met the landlord and viewed the property for us :) THANKS GUYS!

So if you can't see the place for yourself, it's good to have contacts in France who can do that for you.
* Inbetweeners "OOOOOH FWEND"*

It's kind of a journey you can only really work out for yourself. I know some people who already had a friend in Paris or might have family or just know SOMEONE who helped them out with accommodation.

My parting advice is never, ever trust Claire Boulay or that chick Natalie. Never part with money until you've seen the place, met the landlord and seen the contract. And, if like Tom and myself, you catch out the con artist before they catch you out, divulge in some light entertainment and revenge time. I sent 'Claire' this email when I found out about the con: (you'll understand when Tom posts his post.)

If you're going to con people you should probably cover your tracks better. You're fucking stupid. 

http://www.rothray.com/apartment_list.html At least I was able to speak to the man who ACTUALLY LIVES IN THE APARTMENT. 

You're a disgusting person and I hope someone fucks you over just like you obviously fuck people over every single day.

I hope you get AIDS and die.  

BEST WISHES

* Apologies for the swearing. Teehee. 

Day 1: Living the Parisian Dream...even if it was short lived. IN PHOTOS!

Everything was promising and sunny and wonderful on Day 1. Look at my happy face. But again, ALL TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE. (Depression to one side, it was a stunning day and we love you Paris really.)