The Apartment

Last Saturday, I signed the lease for an apartment. While in most cities, including New York, this event would not warrant any fanfare, everyone in Paris to whom I reported this fact has exclaimed, "Congratulations!" In Paris, you see, getting an apartment does not merely indicate that you are able to afford an apartment, but also that someone (i.e., a Parisian) has adjudged you worthy to live in theirs.

The beginning of the end of my search began on Friday afternoon at 1pm as a small crowd gathered in front of an immeuble ancien (i.e., old building, which is more desirable) in the 15th arrondissement to see a one bedroom apartment. Nothing in the ad had suggested anything out of the ordinary: one bedroom, one living room, one kitchen, one bathroom, and there weren't even pictures. I knew before I even entered the apartment, however, that if I could imagine living there, I had to put in my dossier or it would be gone.

After the broker showed up, a contingent of us climbed the stairs to the second floor and searched for the apartment "on the right hand side to the left side of the elevator." (Apartments in Paris do not have apartment numbers and are designated by their position in relation to the staircase.) We entered the apartment and it was in most respects, well, typique:

• Double vitrage French windows, so the movers could fit my things through the window
• Shutters, so I could keep out the light while leaving the windows open during the hot summers
• A kitchen that fit more than one person
• A bathroom I could actually walk into
• And, the pièce de la résistance, MOULURES (French moldings)

In other words, I had to get it, and I had to move fast. My relocation expert handed over my dossier to the broker and began explaining the "eccentricities" in my file. Upon seeing my passport, the broker asked, "So... is he American? Or Malaysian?"

"I am completely American," I interjected. It seemed like everyone (including the occupants' dog) was looking at me skeptically. "I grew up in San Francisco and worked in New York as an attorney," I explained.

The broker nodded knowingly. "So you were just born in Malaysia..."

"Yes," I answered, setting aside my complex multiculturalism in the hopes of getting the apartment.

"And you worked at a firm in New York?" he asked, flipping through my file.

"Yes, in fact, an international law firm with a branch office in Paris right on the Champs Élysées," I shot back.

He nodded again, figuring out his next move. "And now you work in Paris?"

"Yes, as an attorney," I said matter-of-factly.

My relocation expert could not decide whether she believed half of what I said. The broker seemed satisfied, for the moment. "Very well, we will let you know. Should be tonight or tomorrow morning."

We showed ourselves out. Upon exiting the building, my relocation expert observed, "See how differently the French treat you when you're in a suit and tie!" That was not what I took away from that interaction, but I'm sure it didn't hurt.

Around 11pm that evening, while processing several bottles of wine and frites, I received the following text message (translated from French): "Sir, you have been chosen for the apartment on [address omitted]. Please come to my office at 11:45 am tomorrow morning [Saturday] to sign the lease. Bring your checks." I was ecstatic -- my new friends and I ordered a round of drinks to celebrate.

The next day, I showed up at the broker's office, checks in hand. He spent the next two hours discussing all manner of French culture, my personal history, and his love of Asian culture and language. He asked, for instance, how I ended up with a French name -- "Clément." When I mentioned that the etymology of my "French" name was connected to the specific dialect of my family, he proceeded to discuss his admittedly extensive knowledge of Chinese history. At the end of the lease signing, he explained the following to me:

"You should understand that, for foreigners, usually we require a security deposit equal to 6 times the monthly rent. There are three reasons that I am not requiring such a security deposit in this case: (1) I have had excellent experiences with people from Malaysia and Singapore, (2) your represented by a respected relocation expert, and (3) I am interested in economics and you work for an organization that studies economics."

Then, he gave me a bottle of wine.

* * * *

At the end of the day, did it bother me that two of the three reasons he gave were actually based on false premises? Or, did it bother me that I had betrayed my self-assured multiculturalism only to have my protestations of Americanism ignored anyways? What about the fact that I wasn't crazy about the apartment anyways?

Hey, we all do what we have to do to get an apartment in Paris.

Unrequited Love

I have concluded that I have an unrequited love for Paris. Although I fall in love with Paris on a daily basis, the city haughtily and pitilessly rejects my advances to be one of its denizens. At the end of every day, I return home beaten and demoralized convinced by Parisians (and their dogs) that I will never fit in here. Yet, at the beginning of the next day, the rows of Haussmanien stone buildings and the taste of the pain au chocolat (or any bread here, for that matter) makes me fall in love with it all over again.

My apartment search is illustrative. After spending three days last week walking up and down the streets of Paris, looking at apartment after apartment (as well as some "apartments/closet/trash bins"), I had finally put in my application, or dossier as they call it, at two places, and as both a naive American and savvy Chinese, I thought it was a fait accompli -- I made enough money, I had all my documents, what more was left? I went about looking for items that might go into my new apartment and wondering which direction I might put my American-sized sofa.

I was wrong. Apparently, getting an apartment in Paris is harder than getting a white iPad in Manhattan the weekend it débuts. First, the all-important dossier. This set of documents is your introduction to your prospective landlord and it is on the basis of your dossier that you will be evaluated. At first, I had naively believed that each and every dossier contained a pre-determined number of documents: my passport, an attestation in French from my employer, my salary sheet from my employer, my offer letter from my employer, the last three-months' pay stub from my previous employer, my tax returns for the previous year, and finally the most important sheet of them all, the RIB (releve d'identité bancaire - more on this later).

I was wrong. There is no pre-set number of type of documents you must include (EXCEPT THE RIB -- more on this later). In fact, the only general rule for your dossier is "the thicker the better." Unfortunately for most ex-patriates, without a phone number or a previous address, their dossier will never be as a complete as a good Frenchmen. Unfortunately for me, my dossier includes a picture of a Chinese person in an American passport, oh ... and documents in English (gasp). To top it all off, I did not have a RIB at the time -- "C'est pas grave," I thought, "I'll send it later."

I was wrong. What, you might ask, is the RIB? The French will tell you the RIB is a sheet of paper proving that you have a bank account in France. Physically, the RIB is nothing more than a Word document with my bank's logo, my name, and my bank account number. These basic pieces of information are repeated three or four times on the same sheet of paper so that you can tear it off an hand it out for every transaction -- to get internet, to get a cell phone.... to get an apartment. (If it strikes you odd that you hand out your banking information like samples at Costco -- I agree with you, I don't get how this is consistent with French privacy rules!) Thus, the RIB is the piece of paper proving your existence in France. Without it, you can do nothing and are nothing.

Needless to say, the missing RIB (and my foreign-ness) means that I was summarily rejected from both apartments. The search continues apace. Paris has not yet fallen for me (or my dossier), but I am persistent. Stay tuned for updates!

Selected French Quotes

This is what a French person told me (name omitted to protect the innocent):

A: Orientals have the most beautiful babies.

Me: They have big eyes.

A: Well, yeah, the big eyes, but they have skin that is "matte." And I think they are just the most adorable babies. But when they grow up, they are not so nice. Their limbs are shorter -- I don't know what it is. That's just not nice.

For context, this person had previously told me that I'm "really tall, especially for an Asiatic."

I'm sure there will be more of this to come!