Settling In...Finally

The first week of December is arguably my busiest yet. My supervisor Sophie has been poorly, as has her little one Aloise.  I'd like to tell her I'm praying for them. This early on in the job, it could be risky especially in super-secular France.  In her absence she forwards instructions on the most urgent tasks. When I later find out she’s been sending emails from her hospital bed, I mildly reprimand her. A bit rich, as I know how hard it is to switch off even when hospitalised. But still.

In between tasks I assist another colleague, Geri (hard ‘G’, not like Halliwell or whatever she goes by now). She’s helping to organise a conference in Algeria. When I first join the team, I’m not sure what to make of her. You usually hear Geri before you see her. She speaks very good French, very loudly with a noticeable Eastern European inflection (Hungarian, I’m told). Her laugh is louder still, almost forced. I’m polite towards her, even cordial but circumspect. Still, she’s a maven of all things administrative in the department and I’m grateful to have the chance to assist on another project.

Later that week, I’m invited to a new starters' HR training session. Just before I attend, I pass by Yotis’ office to sign the lease on my new flat. It’s really happening, folks. He has prepared a meticulous inventory of all the furniture and equipment and the few items that are not quite in pristine condition. I’m impressed with the integrity. He draws my attention to barely perceptible imperfections I wouldn’t otherwise notice. It has been agreed that I’ll move in that Friday. I manage to keep it from most of my colleagues save one of my three line managers, Lucia, from whom I must request special leave. I inform Sophie as casually as possible when she asks. I had intended to surprise her after I was bien installée.

At the HR meeting, I finally put faces to the names with which I’ve interacted regularly via email. There’s a session on the private health insurance that comes with the contract. All health care in France works on a private basis with government subsidies that cover (often a large) percentage of the costs in the form of reimbursements. Those who can afford it supplement the rest with private insurance. As employees of THRO, we have a global policy that replaces any other healthcare support -state or otherwise-to which we might have been entitled. That means bye-bye NHS. I am horrified. I had intended to stick with my UK GP whenever I were in town. The HR colleague gently admonishes that it would be fraudulent to benefit from a system into which I am not currently paying. Perish the thought. I apologise for giving her that impression. It’s just the alternative is so unpalatable; going to a private clinic. Thank God for walk-in centres. She suggests I could offer to pay my GP for any consultation. It’s worth a try. Anything is better than going private.

After the session, I swap stories with other organisation newbies. Ana has also recently relocated from the UK with her husband. She’s spent the past month, like myself, looking for accommodation. Consider yourself fortunate, says Romana. She’s a THRO veteran of sorts. She’s worked for the organisation for years as a temp and only just been offered a fixed term contract (or CDD-Contrat á Durée Déterminée). A month in limbo isn’t bad compared to some. Spare a thought for the temps and work placement candidates who receive no financial assistance from The Organisation and whose employment situation is too precarious for most landlords to risk. Ana and Romana compare THRO’s intricate bureaucracy with other public institutions. Ana has worked for several around the world. She considers this the most complex, even by public sector standards. Au contraire, I tell them. I find it reassuring. At least this way, there's more accountability with how money is spent.

End of an era...The late Johnny Hallyday
(courtesy of Melody magazine)

Back in the office I’m balancing work with sorting out all that needs to be done for my move. Internet access, electricity accounts, building insurance (in France, it's the tenant's responsibility)… Nearly every little formality comes with a processing charge, before you even get to the main tariff. I’m ever grateful for that substantial relocation allowance.

I also need to accustom myself to carrying my passport around more often. I am asked to present it even for relatively trivial purchases like a pay-as-you-go SIM. Cette maudite bureaucratie francaise ! It would hardly be worth the bother except my supposedly EU-friendly UK mobile isn’t very reliable these days.

THRO permits expats two days of special leave to move house. Most handy indeed. A few days before the move my AirBnb host Javier, God bless him, offers me a lift to my new digs. He won’t countenance me wasting the taxi fare. He asks if I’ve heard about the demise of French Rock Legend Johnny Hallyday. Bien sur. On the main page of the BBC website of all places. Hallyday’s death doesn’t have the cultural impact I expect at work but everywhere else is abuzz with the news. That weekend, to commemorate his burial, Strasbourg tram stations rather disconcertingly blast his greatest hits from their speakers. From what I do catch of live news coverage, French celebs give gushing eulogies at Hallyday’s memorial and Paris comes to a halt for a vigil.

When the day of moving arrives, it is a mercifully smooth transition. Javier takes time out of his lunch break to drop me off, as planned. Yotis and I go through some final formalities and, save for some initial issues with the heating, I’m good to go. I creep around my maisonnette like a guest. I’m still in Airbnb mode. I can’t believe I live here now. Look at all that fridge space! I buy almost a month’s worth of meat and still only fill one freezer tray. The place is so clean. I’m conscious of keeping it that way to the point of paranoia. I’ve even adopted my mum’s no-outdoor-shoes-in-the-house rule. It used to drive me round the bend.

A few days after the move, it’s an early start to my non-work day. Some workmen are coming round; one on Yotis’ behest to give the kitchen a spruce and the other to install my internet. They too become subject to the new shoes rule. It’s another potentially intimidating but ultimately useful linguistic exercise. When Hassan, the freckled, fresh-faced broadband engineer starts explaining the technical aspects of the installation process in as basic language as possible, I wonder if I’d completely follow him in English. It’s not the simple procedure that I expected. It’s a bit of a bloody rigmarole in fact, enlisting the help of neighbours and eventually the building maintenance company.

It’s turning out to be a somewhat chaotic day as far as strangers coming and goings are concerned. I’m also expecting the arrival of my belongings from London. Owing to bad weather (snow again) the removal company have postponed the delivery a number of times within just a couple of days. The control freak in me instinctively panics. I’m constantly re-arranging my schedule. Plans to make the flat more festive must be delayed until the basics are sorted. Thankfully, I've been organised enough to purchase other household goods in bulk the day before. The cost is temporary backache from carrying such a heavy load all the way back from Kehl, but it saves be future hassle.

I had hoped to have mum’s assistance if I’d found accommodation sooner. Ironically, the day my possessions are set to arrive, she’s flying out to Japan to spend Christmas with sis. Not to worry. I have a stack of podcasts lined up to keep me company as I organise my stuff. Provided I can manoeuvre around the workers.

That morning is a productive blur. The delivery from London arrives earlier than I anticipate. Hassan and the most congenial painter Pierrot are beavering away. I commence unpacking in between.

It takes much longer than I thought. Thanks to my early start, I still have most of the day. I’m full of energy and relieved to be finally setting up house. There’s enough storage space to ensure everything has its place and then some. All that’s left to do is make another extra set of keys (so expensive here) and start putting up those Christmas decorations I’ve bought.

I guess this is what the kids today call adulting.

It's off to the village-within-a-city that is my new neighbourhood. There's the cosy looking mediatheque. Another artisan boulangerie.  Farmers market on the weekend...

Lord, lead us not into bourgeois-fication...

The middle-aged cobbler/key-cutter Eli, makes shameless ouvertures. For my sins, he asks me out for a drink after I comment on the excitability of his chocolate Labrador and take a genuine interest in his Jewish-Algerian heritage. ‘Ce n’est pas de tout professionnel’ I playfully remonstrate.

The following evening, after a busy day in the office catching up on my backlog and finishing off moving-related life admin, I set about sprinkling some seasonal cheer around the flat. I’m not one for garish decorations; lurid streamers and the like. Just a few tasteful trimmings (I like to believe); a little tinsel and some LED fairy/tea lights.

Once done, I survey my demurely festive kingdom. I plan to add a few more bits and pieces here and there. Apart from that, it’s warm and cosy and beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Thank. You. Lord.