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.