Apartment Purgatory

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APARTMENT PURGATORY: THE UPS AND DOWNS OF THE PARIS HOUSING HUNT LIMBO

Let’s talk about Paris. Let’s talk about finding housing in Paris. Let’s talk about an endless maze of counterfeit and deceit, inconspicuous dead ends, and conniving Russian artists passing off tenements as factory loft studios. Okay maybe that last bit was just me. But it did really happen. And verily, it was a tenement.

I arrived in Paris in mid-September hoping to find an apartment by October. With the outlook of a New Yorker joining a dating website, I figured that the first few tries probably wouldn’t work out, that there would be a direct correlation between the length of my search and the rate at which my standards would plummet, and that I would be reduced to tears at least once.

As it turns out, the Paris apartment market is a lot like purgatory: you wonder what on earth you did to deserve the torture, and when you find a place, it feels like heaven if only because you've landed somewhere. Luckily for me, I did actually land in heaven...a heaven with parquet floors, marble fireplaces, miss-matched dinnerware, and three lovably idiosyncratic (and kind of dreamy, actually) roommates. But oh, did I earn it.

Again, let’s talk about finding housing in Paris.

THE SEARCH

Prompted early on by my mother and other well-meaning type-A acquaintances, I began my apartment hunt months before I even arrived in France. Just a note to other spineless individuals who may be similarly prodded out of their instinctual tendencies to procrastinate: this was a complete waste of my time. Unless you want to go with an agency and pay what basically amounts to a foreigner tax (bracketed by level of desperation), you can really only start once you get here. The agencies to which I’m referring are designed for internationals who are looking for convenient short-term housing (anywhere from a week to a year) and who can afford to pay astronomical agency fees for the convenience of arranging everything from home. New York Habitat, Paristay, and Paris Attitude are three such companies that cater to Americans ready and willing to fork over the necessary cash to avoid having to navigate the Paris apartment market.

Unfortunately for me, I am not waiting for a trust fund to mature, and in my universe, I am bound by certain physical laws: Euros are neither created out of thin air and deposited into my bank account, nor are they spent on overpriced luxury apartments. Certainly not with the current exchange rate.

The two main avenues I used in my search were Craigslist (the chambres/coloc section) and Appartager.com (with the 11 EUR 10-day “premium” account—a most excellent investment). From the beginning, I wanted to live with roommates; firstly, because I knew all of two people in Paris, and secondly, because it quickly became apparent that I would not get my parquet floors, high ceilings, and balcony if I wasn’t willing to share a bathroom. My old micro-econ professor can tell you I have no future in finance, but even I know that a nice studio doesn’t come cheap in this city. A cursory analysis of privacy/amenity curves would show that at my budget, I would need at least two roommates to live comfortably near the city center. So Laura, I have you to thank for the floors and ceilings; Moritz, you for the balcony; and Pierre, you for the proximity to Printemps. My deepest gratitude to you all. Though, Pierre, please note that this gratitude would be enhanced if you relinquished your dream of one day playing the trumpet well.

For those of you who absolutely cannot stomach brass instruments and whistling, Craigslist still isn’t a bad bet—especially if you’re looking for ads in English. There are several studios and one-bedrooms listed under the “immob/appart” section—many of them by expats who are taking extended vacations or business trips and cannot afford to leave their apartments empty. Proceed with caution, though, because some may try to milk you dry. On the other hand, if your French is up to speed and you think you can breeze through an application process comparable to a Cats casting call in the Castro, you could try De Particulier à Particulier (pap.fr). Be prepared to present a dossier with relevant documentation (salary, passport/visa, references, vaccinations...).

In any case (and after this, I promise I’ll stop my running Craigslist PSA), you-know-what is probably the best place to go for temporary housing while you search for a permanent situation. You can find apartment shares starting at 30 EUR a night. That’s better than a semi-private room at a hostel.

"THE TERRITORY"

I’m not going to waste your time warning you about Nigerian scammers. Don’t send money via Western Union, and don’t pay for anything without seeing it first, k? Instead, I’m going to waste your time with a story about a Russian artist named Serge who runs a little real estate operation he calls “The Territory” in the Montparnasse neighborhood in Paris.

Our friend Serge has a running ad on Craigslist (oh drat, there I go again) targeted at budding artists and writers who still harbor delusions that their minds were made for thinking. And that money can’t buy love, in fact love doesn’t exist, and furthermore they are post-modern and post-money anyway.

Naturally, I sent in my application. I told them I liked art and covenants and that I would love the opportunity to live in their warehouse or commune or whatever. Said “warehouse” is actually a makeshift construction of ladders, sheetrock, and duct tape squeezed between two real buildings. Whether or not there is modern plumbing remains uncertain because upon arrival, I was whisked away to Serge’s lair before I could even ask to use the toilet.

Serge listed several of the155 rules I would have to live by. If summoned (yes, summoned) to participate in an art project at any given hour, I would drop what I was doing and scamper to the studio at warp speed. If I was having sex, I would bring my partner with me. I would communicate with a walkie-talkie. I would take part in weekly fire drills.

He found the all-consuming nature of fire intriguing and enigmatic.

Let me tell you a few things I find enigmatic, Serge.

Anyway, the interview lasted 10 minutes. Serge talked at me. I listened. Serge told me I would or would not hear back from him within 24 hours. I nodded. Serge asked me to leave. I left, never to hear from “The Territory” again.

Was this rant possibly a snide and bitter tangent resulting from a wound still sore and too much wine too early in the afternoon? Yes, possibly.

THEY'RE JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU.

When I first stepped over the threshold of 90 Rue Lafayette after a week of ugly industrial carpets and awkward tête-à-têtes, I knew I had found The One. I knew the way you know a good melon. The lighting was subdued, soft New York jazz was playing on vinyl, and you couldn’t even tell the sofa was from Ikea. The interview went well: a round of Heinekens, mild flirtation, no petting. I left feeling lighthearted and confident.

A day went by. Two days went by. Maybe they were just busy. Maybe they had lost that cute handout I had given them—complete with my hobbies and headshot! Or maybe they were just playing hard to get. But that’s stupid. I know a romantically lit, well-appointed apartment is hard to get in this godforsaken city.

So I called.

Awkward conversation with Pierre:

“Remind me please: are you ze short Sara or ze tall one?”

“Umm, probably short. But not that short...”

“Oh, ze short American from New England?”

I’m from New Orleans. And I’m really not that short.

So I crossed 90 Rue Lafayette from my list. Here’s the thing: if they don’t get in touch, they’re probably just not that into you. You can call back to let them know how much you enjoyed your evening together and that you’re hoping to see them très bientôt, blah blah blah, but chances are, they’ve already chosen someone else. FYI, there is a Ben and Jerry’s in Paris, and it’s true: wine here is cheaper than water.

IT'S NO KANSAS, BUT OZ CAN BE PRETTY SWEET

Five days after my desperate phone call to Pierre, while I was copying, pasting, and editing emails to possible crackpots, perverts, and Nigerians, I received the following message in my inbox:

“Hi Sara, I'm not sure u got the last mail I sent from my office so I resend from my personal mail. If you still want the room from the 90 rue lafayette, please let me know. Pierre”

Did I care that his tenuous excuse probably meant they chose someone else first, but it didn’t work out, so they chose me next? Of course not. I could change them. I could make them love me for me.

And that’s just what I did.

Two flourless hazelnut chocolate cakes later, and I am the fourth happy roommate in the Parisian apartment of my dreams. The peeling paint on the bathroom ceiling is charming. The drafts from the floorboards are invigorating. The trumpet really doesn’t sound like cats dying—not if he uses his mute, anyway.

Speaking of cats, I feel as though I have landed the part of Grizabella. And who cares if I’m an understudy as long as I get my ten minutes—or in this case, ten months—of fame?

The Paris apartment market is heartless and demoralizing. It will make you want to call your mother. When you call her, she will tell you to come home. Don’t do it. Light a candle at Notre Dame. Chase the pigeons at Place des Vosges. Throw pebbles at the couples making out in the Tuileries. You are home, damnit. You’re in Paris. And somewhere, in this glorious city of light, there is a cozy little spot just for you.