A Spot of Bother

Two weeks have already lapsed and I still haven’t found anywhere to live long term. Over the weekend I attend a viewing in a part of town with a mixed reputation. As soon as I step off the tram, I notice a group of youth arguing vehemently on the platform. They are holding beer cans and shoving each other around. It’s only late afternoon but it’s already dark. I’m alarmed. 

The raucousness doesn’t really abate as I roam the street, trying unsuccessfully to find the address without being conspicuous. There are a number of young men hanging around aimlessly. A local shopkeeper directs me to the right building. 

The communal area is shabby to say the least. The current tenant Jérémie shows me around. He’s surprised I’m on my own. Perhaps he expected a couple. It turns out he’s still living in the place until mid-December. He then intends to sub-let for around a year after which, from what I understand, he’ll be away for an extended period. The flat is spacious, attractive and well-kitted out but I am unsettled by the rowdy environment and specificities of the living arrangement. It’s not evident where Jérémie will sleep whilst he’s still around.

I share my misgivings about the locality. He assures me it’s calm and emphasises the good transport links. It’s a stone’s throw away from German town, Kehl. Don’t worry about the young men, he says, they’re always hanging around. Hmm.

I let him know my decision the next day.

I have to leave my current AirBnb the following Monday. I didn’t envisage it would take me this long to find accommodation. Unfortunately, I can’t prolong my stay at Dominic’s since he has other bookings. I’m forced to find an alternative temporary residence at the last minute. My original choice falls through when the host doesn’t respond in time. I find another reasonably priced residence but it’s yet to be rated. I would never normally stay somewhere that has no customer feedback but I’m desperate. The pictures aren’t very impressive but it looks manageable. I book.

When the taxi drops me off at the new lodgings, my heart sinks. The hostess, the very English-monikered Liz, is not available. A downstairs’ neighbour shows be around in her absence. The place is musty and old. The cold landing reeks of damp and the temperamental sensor light means you’re plunged into darkness more often than not. Dust and cobwebs abound. My mattress is sunken. There's poorly cleaned cutlery in the drawers. Lodgers smoke indoors. Technically, it’s not permitted. The toilet and bathroom are not inviting to say the least and five people have to share. Oh, and the door doesn’t lock. Someone has scribbled a reversible note in highlighter and biro: ‘libre’ or ‘occupé’ to avoid any awkward interruptions. 

The only thing to recommend it is its proximity to work.

First world problems, I know. But when you’re in a foreign country with yet to be established networks and finite funds, you start to feel trapped by your limited options. For several hours I can’t access the internet to search for alternative accommodation, even if I wanted to. I shed several tears that day. 

Later that afternoon I receive a call from AirBnb. The downstairs’ neighbour must have informed Liz of my discontent, who in turn notified AirBnb. I haven't vocalised my concerns to the neighbour but he must have guessed from my reaction. I have never been so grateful for meddling. The wonderful Angelique- angel by name, angel by nature-gets in touch. We spend the rest of the day and evening trying to find an alternative. I make life harder for myself by insisting on speaking French. I have to get used to using the language in different contexts. 

It’s too late to find an alternative lodging tonight but there’s hope for tomorrow. Angelique offers to reimburse me for the current booking and also throws in a generous discount voucher. She sends me some better options, two of which are unavailable. I’m at my wits’ end. I sob down the phone. I have work the next day and have to pack my suitcase-again. I haven’t eaten...

‘C’est un cauchemar ! La recherche du logement, c’est galère’

Angelique remains calm; a stabilising force, soothing my distress.

In between this drama I’ve squeezed in another visit. The elderly landlady shows me around. She and her husband own the whole estate. In the process of my accommodation search, I've discovered that's not uncommon.

They’ve clearly tried to squeeze too much into one space. The shower is next to the kitchenette, the toilet is on the landing and the kitchen sink has to double up as a bathroom sink. No thanks. 

Later on, I become angry at the thought of their greed and contempt for their (usually student) tenants.

Claudia’s words about rip-offs ring in my ears. Strasbourg isn’t so different from London after all.

I do some perfunctory shopping on the way back to the dive. The full week’s shop that I had planned is something else that now has to be momentarily abandoned. I almost get lost on the way back. The streets are fairly well-lit but it’s not at all a busy neighbourhood. I feel vulnerable. I well up again. It’s early evening but long after night-fall, being that time of year. Mercifully, I see some familiar street signs and head back to the AirBnb with determined steps. The pretty daytime view of the canal that runs parallel to the road, resembles a sinister void after nightfall. Only the appealing electric-blue glow of a large illuminated structure in the distance disperses the gloom.

I make a tearful call to mum that evening, in between more emotional phone conversations with the patient Angelique. I am more aware than ever that I am a long way from home. I rage against Heaven, wondering why there has to be so much drama every time I am looking for accommodation. It’s embarrassing. I’ve had a few exchanges with friends back in the UK. It’s reassuring how many have been thinking of me. I’ve mentioned my problems finding a flat. Most of them would already be aware of my previous issues. There must come a point where it just gets repetitive. Or odd. Why is she always getting into these scrapes?

Being annoyed with an all-powerful, all knowing Being is pretty futile but it still feels like a satisfying-ish outlet. I don’t understand. It’s not that I don’t know or believe God can provide somewhere good. I just don’t know why it has to be so flaming hard. Rather than strengthening my faith it makes me afraid of what He’ll permit to happen.

Mum tries to assuage my frayed nerves and prays for me.

Thank God, I manage to find one of those quick, automatic bookings at the eleventh hour. I’m chancing it again with a new host. This time at least, the pictures are more promising.

It’s been a distressing day. It’s coming up to 11pm and I still have to pack and cook my evening meal. I’m famished but overwhelmed by all that needs to be done. I want to get a shower out of the way. I’ve resisted using the toilet yet. The less time I spend in that bathroom, the better.

I put the spaghetti on the boil and go to open the tuna. No can-opener. It’s too late to disturb the other residents. It’ll just be plain spaghetti, dried herbs and a dash of sweet Activa. I try to count my blessings. That’s more than many have. Hmm. I confess, I’m not in a very grateful mood. It’s been one of those days.

The next morning, I am ready to pack before I leave for work. It's about a quarter hour on foot door-to-door via the canal.  It would be picturesque, except that winter is already biting into autumn. It’s cold and foggy but it’s a new day and I am set to move into a better (I hope) accommodation. 

After work , I trundle my copious luggage down the steep steps of the dive, at the mercy of those sensor lights that give out within seconds. I feel around the walls in vain for a switch. 

I start with the heaviest suitcase first and make it downstairs all in one piece. The rest is easy.  My cab wastes no time arriving. He deposits me prematurely at the wrong end of the street, overcharging me for my trouble at that. 

I manoeuvre my baggage to the block of flats where my new host Javier resides. It’s in that same part of town  mentioned at the start of the post. The reputation varies according to what end of a road you’re on. I ring the buzzer. ‘Oui, c’est sixième étage’. End of transmission. How rude, I think. No offer to help. In Javier’s defence, he has no idea how loaded down I am. Erykah Badu’s ‘Bag Lady’ comes to mind at times like these.

Thank the Lord, there’s a functioning lift.  As I stumble out of the lift-a good while after I’ve been buzzed up- Javier pokes his head round the door and rushes to my aid.  To my great relief, his flat is pristine with modern cons and a decent kitchen he hardly uses. I have it more or less to myself. 

With a name like that, I expect my host to be a swarthy gent from Central America.  The AirBnb pic has been taken outside in bright sunshine. It’s over-exposed and not that clear an image. In person he’s a young, well-built Norman polyglot (another one, damn them!) whose farmer parents happened to like an Iberian-sounding name. He’s lived on the East Coast of the US, in Spain, Austria and New Zealand and his English is more confident than my French. It does come in handy when I’m searching for equivalent expressions, I admit. 

Javier is a solicitous host and a good conversationalist.  He patiently corrects my errors or offers constructive feedback when asked. He often furrows his brows whilst I’m gabbling. I’m not sure if it’s his attentive face or I regularly confuse him.

He shows me the lay of the land. His flat overlooks the lovely St Louise church, for which the street is named. We make small talk about jobs, home cities, cantankerous elderly neighbours and a shared sweet tooth. Over the course of my sojourn our discussions become more philosophical.

The only thing to cause immediate alarm is an absence of an iron.  Javier's girlfriend took it with her back to Normandy after a periodic stay, he tells me. Hmm. THRO has a reputation to uphold and though I am currently living like a (comparatively comfortable) vagabond, that shouldn’t mean I show up to work looking like one. I’ll have to improvise.