France is not a country of instant gratification. I am finding it to be more of a slow simmer. Mine and my husband’s Americanized ways of “Have Gun, Will Travel” have no bearing here. Rather that attitude is frowned upon by the Land of Liberty’s first political ally – formed back when the U.S. was more of an aspiration than a realization and France’s dislike of Britain loomed large.
I am unsure of the origins of the phrase “Have Gun, Will Travel,” but I suspect that it may have come from the Westward expansion of the mid-1800s. It was a time of American prosperity, and unfortunately, also of great suffering to the native people of those lands. Under my current circumstances, I attribute it to the willingness to persevere and find ways to rise above difficulties. Slowly, I am becoming increasingly aware that my can-do approach is more of an irritant to my French countrymen.
As Randy and I deal with our own account of finding a homestead, we have quickly found ourselves baffled by the procedural burdens and frankly, absurd nature of securing a rental property near Montpellier. Let’s start with the fact that real estate agencies are closed on the weekends. Ask yourself if you’ve ever heard of a realtor back in the U.S. not working a spring weekend of open houses with lawn signs and balloons signaling that there is a home on the market around the corner.
Where we are in France, if you see a property you like, you will be agonizing about it Saturday and Sunday until you contact them on Monday so that you don’t hear back from them until later that week, if you are lucky. The act of a courtesy call is wasted here in France if it is not for a fruitful resolve. It is nothing personal but it is best not to squander one another’s time is how this is perceived. Lesson learned after a few weeks of radio silence from select properties we were interested about. So onward we continue to search for a place to rest our tired bodies.
To date, Randy and I have visited three properties, with one deemed suitable. We await to hear back from the landlord to see if he would grant us the privilege of being his tenants. We’ve proposed to our continuously patient relocation specialist about the offer to pay a higher rent, pay months in advance, anything to sweeten the deal and give us the edge over other applicants. This act of persuasion would be taken as an insult, he replied back. It is up to the landlord to exercise his right to select who he wants on his property and this is followed by some phrase of “this is not how it is done in France.”
Therein lies our issues as foreigners to a new land. We have no French taxation history, no prior references, much less speak their native tongue. Since tenants have overwhelming rights here, the landlord must be selective in order to avoid a potentially nightmarish situation. Naturally, this creates numerous hurdles for us. There are also certain risk insurance qualifiers and regulatory conditions of investment properties that require applicants to provide in-country tax documents to make sure they meet the criteria. Eventually Randy and I will find a place to temporarily call home in the near future, with a little sympathy from the property owner and some bonne chance.
The French are known for their bureaucratic love of paperwork and nonsensical formalities. We are finding out that these notions are not without merit. While opening up a single bank account which took an hour and a half inside a branch, each page required an actual written-out of lu et approuvé accompanying our signatures. We were assigned a sole customer service representative to contact with questions – she spoke sufficient English. Old-school bank ID cards were sent to us with some identifying number. Then there was a separate mailing of a “secret code” that required us to peel off a sticker to reveal a number so that we were able to verify our information to set-up our account online. This continued with another mailing of our personal identification number that cannot be modified, which at last enabled us to pick up our Carte Bancaire at a different bank branch where we showed our passports to collect. Almost a month later, Randy and I are proud card carrying members of a French bank account. Important caveat, the systemic enticement of the American credit card does not exist here. If one doesn’t have the money, then one cannot buy.
Right now our main focus is to find a house, villa or apartment adequate to rent and exist in for two years. Honing in certain towns where I can walk over to pick up my daily baguette and my youngest son can scooter over to school would be best. I have zero desire for a place where a lawn needs mowing or bushes need trimming. I would be content with some container pots growing beautiful plantings for adornments. For I did not come to live in the sud de France to be consumed with yard work. I did not come here, sell half my furnishings and possessions, to live a life of rigorous upkeep and cleaning. Part of the reason why Randy and I moved across the Atlantic is to create more balanced lives. This for me means less housework, less consumption, more family time with increased opportunities to travel – in a post pandemic world.
Our Americanized inclinations will have to be diluted so that we make a path towards settlement in southern France. Randy and I are learning their ways are contradictory to our grittier go-getter attitudes we usually rely upon to advance our cause. Maybe this is one of reasons why the French uphold their quality of life, you are forced to simmer down and eventually, things will get done when they get done.
wonderlifeofmom 