In addition to
a bank account, one needs the internet to survive. (Truthfully, the bank account is the means to the internet, and that is why it's required for survival.) After surveying every French person I know, I realized that prices for internet service are generally the same so I might as well walk across the street to
Darty and buy their version. French internet is notoriously unreliable, so if the service provider is directly across the street from me, I figure it’ll be difficult for them not to service me.
So I marched over with my bank account number in one hand and the lease in the other. “Yes, well,” the vendor said to me, “we need the last phone number that existed in the apartment.”
Seriously? “Ok… How do I get that?”
“Ask the landlord.”
Of course my landlord’s on vacation until October. So I did the next best thing: I called the real estate agency that manages the apartment.
A young woman picked up the phone and I explained my situation.
“You must speak with the landlord,” she said.
“Yes, as I said, the man at Darty told me that. But my landlord’s gone until October.”
“Yes, but you must speak with the landlord.”
Um, ok. “I hear you, but my landlord’s gone and I need the internet sooner than that.”
“Yes, but you must speak with the landlord.”
I began to hear the Twighlight Zone theme song and realized I was going crazy. Except I wasn’t. “My landlord’s gone. Who can I speak to instead?”
“You must speak with the landlord. We can’t help you.”
“Yes, but who can I speak to instead?”
The conversation proceeded just as such for at least five more minutes. (If nothing else, I will learn patience in this country.) Finally I told her she needed to help me because I’ve moved into an apartment, I have no landlord, and there are certain things I need and its their responsibility to work it out—or else. I have no idea if it is their responsibility, but I find that sometimes threats do—in fact—work. She asked me to hold and found her boss.
I explained the situation again, and he said: “Yes, you must speak with your landlord.”
I’m not kidding. Those were his words. “She’s gone," I said. "What else can I do.” It was no longer a question but a blatant demand for action.
“French Telecom.” Alas, we’re getting somewhere! Or so I thought. He then explained the complex rules of French phone services, and ended by asking me if there was a phone jack in my apartment.
“Um, not that I’ve seen.” I noticed that before and found it strange, but willed myself not to worry about it. I had almost convinced myself that the French get phone and internet without ever needing any kind of outlet.
“Well, if there’s no plug for the phone, Darty can’t help you anyways. You need to pay France Telecom to install it.” I can only imagine how many euros that would cost. Then he asked, “Do you have the metal plaque?”
“The what?”
He sighed, because clearly only idiots don’t know about the metal plaques. “Every apartment that has a phone line has a metal plaque,” he explained. “Do you have one?”
Yea, I’m going to need a little more than that. “Where might the metal plaque be?”
“Outside.” Duh. “If you look outside your apartment to where the wall meets the floor, there will be a little metal plaque—two inches by two inches—that has a picture of a phone and a number. You tell France Telecom the number, and then they can give you the number of the last phone line, and then you can go to Darty.”
I looked outside. Sure enough, there is a little metal plaque with a phone on it and numbers--next to my neighbors’ door frames. By mine, there's nothing. No plaque, no plug, no connectivity.
This country is exhausting.
...which we climbed...
...and climbed...
...and climbed...
300 steps to the top. (And 300 back down.)
...and below...
We walked all over Paris, from the Louvre...
...through the artist's market and Montparnasse...
(*Do you see the hot air balloon?!)
(*The Sacre Coeur, taken from the Eiffel Tower*)
