First Impressions Part 2: The Hunt

(c) Lexis-Byron Bay

One thing my flat-hunt has afforded me is plenty of French practice. There’s something about the necessity of having to make myself understood which initially prevents me over-thinking what I am about to say as much as I normally would. I am using French in all sorts of hitherto unfamiliar contexts. Apart from the accommodation search I’m dealing with official documentation at work, medical examinations...

I am relieved how much I understand on the first go. I wouldn’t describe myself as fluent. A few more months of consistent interaction, however will do my language levels no end of good. I hope. After a month, this early optimism looks to be something of a false dawn. It amazes and frustrates me how inconsistent my linguistic competencies can be. One minute I’m off and away. On a different day-or simply different time of day-it’s as if that part of my brain has gone on strike. It feels like my skills are receding rather than flourishing. I'm surrounded by polyglots and yet I'm still trying to master a second language that I've been studying since the age of 7. Je m'en veux.

Nevertheless, familiarity with French is helping me become quite adept at sniffing out the property crooks; those who post false adverts in hope of fleecing some poor, unsuspecting desperado. There’s usually some story about not being based in Strasbourg and needing to rent the property to a ‘trustworthy’ person in theirs or some other's absence. Their messages contain too much detail and they demand the same. They often insist on communicating via less official channels. They talk about signing leases and paying deposits before even meeting the potential tenant. No respectable landlord/lady would be so lax with scrutiny. Then there’s always the suspiciously professional-looking photos of plush premises at mouthwateringly low prices. A quick search via Google images can trace the provenance of some these appropriated snaps. At first, I confront them in forthright and dry French (as much as I can attempt irony in another language). After a while, I'm canny enough not to bother responding to them at all.

There are genuine proprietors (and even then, I'm in a vulnerable position as I do all my viewings solo. On mum's wise suggestion, I make a point to notify her where I'll be and when). The problem is the lodgings are either too small and/or don’t have sufficient amenities, or are not immediately available.

The lack of accommodation is a real test of faith. I know the Good Lord will provide. There have been miracles paving the way for my trip including an impromptu, highly generous donation from a Christian former work colleague who barely knew me. And yet. I wrestle with the instinct to panic. Last minute acts of the Divine are wonderful but I’d prefer more timely intervention.

Petite France

For a start, it’s difficult to mentally unpack. My new life is in a state of suspension. It's hard to put down roots without a fixed address. For the first fortnight, I have been fortunate to find a whole condominium in a central-ish location via AirBnb. The regular resident, Dominic Lumumba (no relation) divides his time between Paris and Strasbourg. To my pleasant surprise, it’s a lot more spacious than the online pictures capture. Since he's away on business I am welcomed by Dominic’s friend, Patricia. The flat is clearly still lived-in. Lumumba’s wardrobe is full, his freezer stuffed to capacity. Patricia’s clothes are drying in the airing cupboard. Dominic’s bedroom notice board is replete with pictures from his night’s out. Quite the social butterfly, it seems.

I make myself as comfortable as I can without going overboard. I’ve only booked it for two weeks after all. Patricia doesn’t hide her mild shock when she learns of my limited window to find suitable accommodation. That makes me panic even more.

‘At least just try and enjoy this period for what it is’ advises mum. She’s right. I do live in an unbelievably picturesque town. It has many likeably quaint features. The tram network and the general layout mean nowhere is really far from anywhere. Some trams play curious little jingles as we approach a stop. I can’t believe I live here now!

During my first proper weekend in Strasbourg, I take the opportunity to acquaint myself better with the city whilst doing some errands. I need to take some pictures for my residence permit. I find a photographer’s studio with rave reviews online in the Faubourg National area. I engage in a fascinating conversation with the Bengali owner, who settled in France 20 years ago without speaking a word of the language. He learned from friends, he tells me. He points out that, compared to the shiny upmarket part of town where I work, this is the ‘quartier populaire’. He mentions a couple of African food retailers. On emerging from the shop I realise that I have indeed stumbled upon Le Quartier Noir. Overpriced African delicacies. Obtrusive cat-callers. Afro hair and beauty shops. I find a salon that does all and sundry including skin treatments. My French falters trying to use more technical terms to describe what I want. The clientele is noticeably diverse. I catch the eye of a Caucasian transgender customer. There’s a wide-eyed curiosity to how s/he observes me. I wink and smile. The latter is reciprocated.

I allow myself to get lost in Strasbourg’s cobbled streets and become acquainted with La Petite France and other scenic parts. There are buskers playing the accordion in the street. Seriously. I wander through a free exhibition on anti-semitic Nazi Propaganda trying to access the terrace of Le Barrage Vauban.

Occasionally the topography reminds me of other European cities; flashes of Amsterdam or Toulouse. Perhaps somewhere in Belgium.

There’s something about going abroad that makes me more conscious of the architecture than when I’m in the UK; especially churches. Strasbourg has its own distinct mix of classic Roman or Gothic influences (the stunning Cathedral for instance) and big shiny new steel edifices (EU institutions).

In terms of pace, Strasbourg is somewhere between the chaos of metropoles like Paris or London and a peaceful small town. Un bel equilibre. (Very un-London like, I quickly pick up the local habit of greeting strangers.)

Still, it’s not a backwater. The high streets have most of the familiar creature comforts. There are posters everywhere advertising performances by international artists, a forthcoming Jazz festival, socio-political conferences…

One thing for which I am not prepared is the cost of food. I am aware that grocery shopping in France can be pricey but that has been based on cursory knowledge from short breaks. I hoped once in the country, learning where the locals shop, I’d be pleasantly surprised. If nothing else, there’s always Aldi and Lidl. All will be well.

My first trip to Aldi’s is a rude awakening. It’s not as close to my temporary accommodation as hoped. I spend two hours looking for the damned place, traversing hills and vales and losing my bearings in the process. It’s not a journey that’s supposed to be made on foot. The nearest public transport is a solid 10-15 minute walk.

On arriving there are no small shopping baskets, just the over-sized trollies; not much use to a solo shopper. The shop is woefully lacking in variety compared to its British counterpart . I am stunned at the so-called discounted prices. Four (high calorie) pita breads at 1 Euro 15 cents? Double the equivalent of what I’d pay in the UK for more product? You’re having a bubble. I spend nearly 25 euros on an insubstantial shop.

An after-work trip to Lidl proves, ahem, little better. This time, there are no trolleys or baskets whatsoever. I am obliged to stuff my yet-to-be-paid goods into my bag-for-life like some poxy novice shoplifter. A furtive glance over my shoulder reveal others have had to resort to similar measures. I don’t know what the Francofied German supermarket chains have against portable metallic repositories. It’s another disgruntled shopping experience.

Less than a week later I am a lot more accustomed to the general state of play. Washing detergent starting from seven euros. Hmm. The limited range also means shopping will have to be divided amongst several retailers. I suppose I do the same in the UK but for the opposite reason; more competition, more consumer choice. Maybe this French experience will wean me off this capitalist indulgence.

First Impressions: Living the Dream...Maybe

After years-maybe even decades-in the making, I’m finally realising my European dream.

10 years since I first applied for a position at The Human Rights Organisation (THRO), I have finally been offered the opportunity to work in their Justice Department. I’m swapping the long commutes and overpriced rents of London for charming Strasbourg, in the Alsace region Eastern France.

The territory has had a contentious history, passing hands between Germany and France and back again. Although it’s been definitively French since the Second World War, the area still occupies a cultural netherworld between Franco and Germanic influences. It’s evident in the appellations of localities. Some are francofied versions of German alternatives (as in the City’s name itself). Others suggest the French gave up on replacements altogether (Neudorf, Alt Winmarik, Illkirch-Graffenstaden…).

It is similar to Brussels in that sense, although that’s not all the two cities have in common. Both have the honour of being the official headquarters for the EU institutions. 

That’s enough historical context for now. I won’t promise there will never be more.

This particular THRO application process (or competition, as it's formally known) takes two years. Several months go past before I receive an initial response. I expect a rejection email like all the others. Instead, I am called in for the next stage; an examination which happens to take place a few days after the UK’s EU Referendum. I anticipate all the Brits to be sent home ‘Be gone, thou fickle little Englanders. We don’t need your trouble round these parts’.

Instead I’m told that the Brexit result makes no difference. Although collaborating regularly on shared projects, THRO and the EU are distinct entities. To my great surprise, I ace the entrance exam and several months later, I am invited to Strasbourg for an interview.

In the time it takes for me to be formally accepted and do a number of further interviews for various THRO departments (some across the Channel, some via Skype), I’ve changed jobs in the UK and moved house. Finally, this summer an auspicious video conference interview leads to a firm offer. Eventually.

My notice period at the North London Council is two months. The formal paperwork from THRO doesn’t come through as quickly as I’d hoped and they want me to start by early November at the latest. Hence the six weeks from mid-September (when I receive an official offer from THRO) and making the move to Strasbourg are a flurry of activity. I start sharing the news with friends and attempt to meet as many of them as possible. I notify my pastors at church and step down from serving in the youth ministry. I formally resign from the NLC after nine short but turbulent months. There are no tearful farewells on my last day. Having joined my local Labour Party relatively recently, I throw myself into as many meetings and campaigns as I have time to attend before my departure.

Amidst tying up loose ends on the London front, I’m preparing to adapt to La Vie Strasbourgeoise. I research accommodation, local churches, supermarkets and cultural events. A very supportive contact from the Human Resources team at THRO is of great help.

Still, the most basic of needs eludes me. At the end of October, despite making an additional trip to Strasbourg for the express purpose of looking for accommodation, I am to spend several weeks AirBnb’ing it.

I have displacement issues beyond the usual and varied second generation migrant pathologies. My recent housing travails and brushes with homelessness in London have me longing for stability. My move to Alsace will be the third in 18 months (I didn’t even bother blogging about the last experience. There’s only so much deja vu before it gets boring). Admittedly it's not as bad as some, but more uncertainty than is welcome for someone who thrives on being organised and settled as far in advance as possible.

The good news is that, it seems one can live more civilised for a lot less money in Strasbourg compared to London; both in terms of commuting costs and accommodation. Even without the employer subsidy, I spend roughly a third on monthly travel than what I would in the Big Smoke.

Long term rentals are common in France (roughly 40% of the population). The home-owning, milestone-debt-around-your-neck-mortgage-culture doesn't seem to be as prevalent as in the UK. That's not to say there aren't a lot of people (at least in Strasbourg) who have invested in buy-to-rent property. However, there are protective tenancy rights enshrined in French law to redress the power balance. There are rent regulatory measures, such as caps for instance. 'Short' term leases for furnished accommodation are usually at least a year (three years for unfurnished) as oppose to the standard 6-month ASTs in the UK.   

Studios and one bedroom flats vary in quality. I’ve seen some bizarre set-ups such as shower cabinets in the corner of kitchens. (The layout often doesn't lend to good hygiene practices with toilets in worryingly close proximity to cooking areas, for example. I am to discover later that gastric illnesses are quite common). But even some beautiful shoeboxes are reasonably priced. By London standards.

The problem is finding somewhere spacious enough (in the not unlikely event I’ll have guests) with sufficient amenities. My requirements are modest. I would like a washing machine on site. Launderettes are a common high street feature but I don’t trust them. I have vivid childhood memories of seriously itchy clothes before my family invested in their own machine. (We were probably at the mercy of some malicious prankster, mixing powdered soap with a skin irritant but I can’t prove it). 

I’m also having to negotiate the difference between what the French mean by ‘bills included’ and what I’m used to in the UK. There are additional levies for the removal of refuse and the equivalent of council tax. Landlords might throw in heating and water supply but the electricity bills and internet access are almost always for the tenant to arrange. So much for my simple one-payment-for-all plan.

As mentioned, prior to the Big Move I do an additional reconnaissance mission to Strasbourg with the intention of securing accommodation and opening a post office account.

politico.eu/Getty Images

I’ve taken the more romantic and carbon footprint-friendly journey to Strasbourg by train. But it’s long, pricey and involves mid-journey changes. I hate to fly such short distances but I am enticed by Easyjet’s one-hour plus, cheap-as-chips flights. Gatwick Airport is a straight, relatively brief train ride from my London address.

En route, I spot former UKIP leader Nigel Farage in the departure lounge. He’s tucked away in a less conspicuous corner. I only notice him as I attempt to steer clear of the more congested seating area myself. I approach him with the intention of speaking about faith rather than politics. First, I try to find a segue of mutual interest and do a friendly interrogation of his unpalatable views. 

Mr Farage. May I ask you a cheeky question? Won't you miss all this easy European travel once we're out of the EU?

He’s genial and willing to entertain conversation. He tells me about a recent US tour. He’s also on his way to Strasbourg, I imagine to petition the European Parliament for some reason or the other. It occurs to me we might end up sitting next to each other. Not a thought I particularly relish but a chance to have a meaningful (I hope) back and forth. By the time we reach the aircraft, after trying to make a case for socialist policies that address economic imbalance rather than blaming immigrants, Farage’s words are fewer. I detect from his near-silence that he didn’t know what he was getting himself into. We don’t get round to discussing faith. I turn around to find Farage has been spirited away to the Easyjet equivalent of First Class. It’s all quite surreal.

Once I touchdown in Strasbourg, I continue my quest for the most ethical banking service I can find. Alas, my UK-based building society has no branches overseas. Main ethical player Triodos doesn’t yet do business in France despite having sites in neighbouring countries. A Nationwide rep (who also happens to have spent a year living across the Channel) suggests a French Post Office account. Great idea! If only it were that easy. I can’t push past all the bureaucracy.

My flat-searching endeavours fare no better. In spite of my best efforts, I can’t secure many visits within the two day window I’ve given myself. I do manage to arrange one via THRO’s online employee hub, Solidarité. A retired widow has converted her late husband’s home office into a very attractive studio. The rent is unbelievably reasonable and is as close to all-inclusive as I could hope. There are a couple of issues though. The flat is in her garden, like an especially well-equipped treehouse. Let’s just say it’s prone to unwanted little visitors.

On a more practical note, it’s in the middle of a quiet residential area, a long and secluded walk from the main road. It will be the most appealing residence I visit for some time but, as a visible foreigner, I can’t face walking down those quiet avenues during the darker autumn/winter months. Thus my trip feels futile. I call mum for some cheering up and perspective. She suggests I make my peace with my reality in the short term. I have been hoping to avoid any unnecessary expenditure like temporary accommodation. Mum encourages me to be practical. It’ll be a lot easier to look for a flat when I’m based out here.

I also contact Lucille, my kindly future colleague from THRO’s HR department. She forwards helpful links and puts me in touch with a young Swiss woman who also recently made the move to Strasbourg. Admittedly, the move is more straightforward for her in regards to local links, bank accounts and being paid in the same currency as always. Still, it’s good to have another sympathetic ear within the organisation.