Revving up for the final showdown
The clock in reception clicks to 17.31, and I rise from where I have been sitting. I walk over to the receptionist and say sweetly 'Malheureusement, je ne peux pas attendre plus.' I give the standard lie which I have learned from the people who come to view my flat. 'Je vais appeler'. The receptionist is pleasant, but offers no excuse or apology.
Deep down, I'm relieved. I was dreading discussing the finer points of French property law with a notaire. Especially not a notaire that makes me wait 45 minutes for an appointment with no explaination. For someone in a hurry to sell up and hightail it out of the country, that's a bad sign. But a familiar one.
In these matters, I take off my hat to my friend P. She counts as a half a French friend (I'm afraid I don't have a whole one), as her father is French and she was brought up in France. She has already gone through most of the doctors in town, as once she has sat in the waiting room for an hour without acknowledgement, she calmly writes them a letter denouncing their lack of respect and manners, and leaves it on the chair as a calling card. When she told me that, I knew instantly that she was my kind of person.
I don't stretch to writing letters. I prefer to hit people where it hurts. The grumpy old git who owns the local florist will never know how many hundreds of euros of custom he has lost by snapping at me the first time I entered his shop and asked a question I apparently should have known the answer to.
I have also learned the hard way not to choose professional services by pulling out the yellow pages and dialling the first number I see. The French are a suspicious nation for a reason. Ever since the satellite-dish installation man drilled a hole where he shouldn't have in the roof, with predictable consequences (waterfall on the landing, much shouting down the telephone and avoiding the neighbours), I have operated a strict recommendation-only policy.
The hitch is, this notaire was a recommendation, and the only recommendation I have.
By the time I get home, my hackles have subsided. I put the kettle on and look out of kitchen window at the view, with the RER in the distance, snaking in and out of the gaps between the buildings. My soon-to-be ex view. Then I go and pull out the yellow pages and look under 'notaire'.
Deep down, I'm relieved. I was dreading discussing the finer points of French property law with a notaire. Especially not a notaire that makes me wait 45 minutes for an appointment with no explaination. For someone in a hurry to sell up and hightail it out of the country, that's a bad sign. But a familiar one.
In these matters, I take off my hat to my friend P. She counts as a half a French friend (I'm afraid I don't have a whole one), as her father is French and she was brought up in France. She has already gone through most of the doctors in town, as once she has sat in the waiting room for an hour without acknowledgement, she calmly writes them a letter denouncing their lack of respect and manners, and leaves it on the chair as a calling card. When she told me that, I knew instantly that she was my kind of person.
I don't stretch to writing letters. I prefer to hit people where it hurts. The grumpy old git who owns the local florist will never know how many hundreds of euros of custom he has lost by snapping at me the first time I entered his shop and asked a question I apparently should have known the answer to.
I have also learned the hard way not to choose professional services by pulling out the yellow pages and dialling the first number I see. The French are a suspicious nation for a reason. Ever since the satellite-dish installation man drilled a hole where he shouldn't have in the roof, with predictable consequences (waterfall on the landing, much shouting down the telephone and avoiding the neighbours), I have operated a strict recommendation-only policy.
The hitch is, this notaire was a recommendation, and the only recommendation I have.
By the time I get home, my hackles have subsided. I put the kettle on and look out of kitchen window at the view, with the RER in the distance, snaking in and out of the gaps between the buildings. My soon-to-be ex view. Then I go and pull out the yellow pages and look under 'notaire'.
posted by francesca tereshkova | 3:12 PM
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