Hope Deferred...The Hunt Continues

It’s three weeks since I arrived in Strasbourg and I’m no closer to finding accommodation. Same script, different location. Hmm.

It’s Monday. I have one more week in Javier’s place. It’s clean and comfortable. He’s a considerate and attentive host. He takes the time to engage in stimulating discussion and gives constructive linguistic tips. I could get use to this but I can’t afford to. Literally. The pre-Festive season silliness will soon start. All available accommodation in the Strasbourg vicinity will charge at least double to make the most of the influx of tourists flocking to the famous Christmas Market. Going by the latest on AirBnb, Javier is no exception. I can’t keep paying for temporary accommodation. It’s already eaten into my flat budget. I’m yet to be paid or to gauge what my monthly outgoings will be. THRO pays a relocation allowance but I’m not counting any chickens just yet. Thankfully, I’ve been able to economise with what I have but for not much longer.

Besides, living with a tall, not unattractive man who is kind, friendly, bright, knows how to keep house and spends a lot of time working out is doing strange things to my brain. And. Other. Parts. It’s time to move on.

My third week starts optimistically enough. By coincidence I have two viewings on the same day and, as unwise as I know this is, I’m staking a lot on them. The first is in a brightly coloured student residence. The building management company run a tight ship. It’s well equipped and a very reasonable price. That’s for good reason. It’s a room in a glorified halls of residence. En suite, yes but still, just a room. Not much space to manoeuvre especially if I have guests. Furthermore, it’s not available for at least two weeks. Still, I’m tempted. I’m getting desperate. They hardly ask for any money up front and there’s minimal bureaucracy. Plus it's one direct Tram ride to work. But, I ask myself, could I really feel at home here? Could I deal with being at the mercy of student whimsy? I don’t plan to be moving every few months. I’ve done too much of that lately. 

The next viewing is in Poteries, at the end of the Tram D line. It’s not very far from where I stayed when I first moved to Strasbourg. 

I have an appointment with the concierge. I walk past the apartment complex initially to the other, less salubrious end of the street. I go back on myself to a gated residence. A middle-aged gentleman waves tentatively. It’s the concierge, Monsieur Fernando. We’ve been in touch by email, via the estate management company. He shows me two properties, one unfurnished (not interested. Too much hassle) and the other… 

...is what I’ve been looking for. Gleaming, new building, clean communal areas, capacious living space, fantastic amenities with plenty of room to entertain. There’s even a washing machine! True, it belongs to the former tenant whose belongings are still strewn around the flat...

The rent is ridiculously good value. I could expect to pay double, if not three times as much in London for the same. It is a bit further from work but close to the tram station and a major reasonably-priced (so I’m told) supermarket. I ask Monsieur Fernando for his thoughts on the surrounding area. It’s fine, he says. He draws me a rudimentary map and mentions the nearby vicinities to avoid.  'C'est catastrophe!'

 I ask about the mass of cinders I have spotted at the end of the road. (I’ve heard of car-burning in certain parts of the City). No need to worry says Fernando, it’s just a Halloween bonfire. The visit comes to a congenial end. I ask about the origins of his mediterranean-sounding name. Fernando switches to Portuguese. I stretch my basic Lusophone skills as far as they’ll go.

I mull it over. The residences I have visited today are probably the best I’ve come across thus far. Je suis plein d’espoir. I’m in such good spirits that I’m feeling magnanimous enough to overlook some youth blasting their great quality speaker on the Tram ride home. The main culprit is a cheeky handsome type; deep chocolate complexion and a permanent smirk. I can’t trust my French to come out the way I’d want it to in the situation. It could also be high-risk. I’m a solitary female in a different cultural context. I'd be more confident on London turf. 

Despite myself and the obnoxious lyrics, the tunes have a good beat. On descending, I do a little shoulder bounce. Mr Smirk nods his approval.

Back at Javier’s I make a list of pros and cons for both viewings, send them to mum and sis for their input. I’ve pretty much made up my mind already.  Independently of each other, my girls confirm my preference. By then I’ve already emailed the company that manage the Poteries accommodation, expressing my interest. The next day I’m antsy at work. I call my contact Lydia when she fails to respond to my email by lunchtime. She says she has a backlog. She’ll respond once she’s worked her way through it. Later that afternoon, I receive a message from Lydia.

Since I’m an expat and don’t have a French guarantor, I’ll have to pay four months deposit upfront (I discover later, it's usually six). That would wipe out my savings. I’ve never had such an unreasonable demand. Usually it’s enough for prospective landlords to know that I work for The Organisation. There must be another way. No, says Lydia, rather tersely. Quadruple the deposit or bust. It’s a far cry from her earlier facilitating tone. It’s not news to her I don’t have a guarantor. I mentioned it at the start. Don’t worry, she told me back then. There’s always a solution. Hmm.

Four months deposit upfront seems dodgy. Greedy even. My colleagues are stunned. My supervisor Sophie is resolutely unimpressed. ‘Don’t do it’ she says ‘Sometimes it’s not that complicated. The situation speaks for itself’. Her husband isn’t wild about the Poteries area either, as far as female safety is concerned.

I get in touch with HR. I have befriended from a distance a lovely administrator Klara, who has been in the job not much longer than I. Hailing from Zurich, she’s familiar with the fresh-off-the-boat expat experience. It has taken her a while to get settled. She was blessed to have a Strasbourg-based friend to put her up. She’s very sympathetic to my plight, even volunteering to be my guarantor. She’s also offered her sofa if I’m stuck. I’m reluctant. She barely knows me. We’ve never properly met. She lives with her boyfriend. I don’t like to be an inconvenience at the best of times. I’ve said it before. I hate the idea of staying with couples. It feels as if I’m intruding on their intimacy. I really hope it doesn’t come to that.

Klara exhausts other options. She sends me links to organisations that might be able to provide institutional guarantees. I’ve been here before. A French friend forwarded me similar information before I left the UK. It’s the same old story. I’m either too old to be eligible and/or I work in the wrong sector.

Another one of my HR angels Lucille, makes a last ditch attempt to convince Lydia and co that I’m good for the money without the need for divesting myself of all my worldly goods. Lydia proposes the following: I can pay the four month deposit in two instalments, in addition to my regular rent. Oh yes, and the property isn’t immediately available after all. It’ll be another three weeks. Between the agents’ avarice and Sophie’s warning, I’ve already been deterred. Lydia’s ‘suggestion’ is simply the coup-de-grace.

I arrange other viewings. It’s a perfunctory gesture. I know they’re unlikely to be the right fit. Still, I’m thoroughly deflated and need to hang on to some hope. I attend a viewing situated a short walk from work. The flat is on the top of a spiral staircase in a building primarily occupied by wealthy Jewish families, it appears. Madame Berger, the landlady, is much younger and glamorous than I anticipate.

It's one of those occasions when the property is smaller than the pictures convey. There’s no door on the toilet or bathroom; a mere ablutionary alcove. There's no washing machine. Madame Berger still can’t tell me how the present tenant does their laundry, despite my persistent enquiry. 

Pass.