Homeward found

After our frantic week in Lyon, we’re back in Pertuis cleaning up the entirety of our lives.  Both the search and the wait were emotionally and physically taxing, and it took me half of Saturday and all of Sunday to recover.  But somehow the universe pulled through for me, and on Friday at about 3:30 pm, we got a call that the number one apartment on our wish list had accepted us.  Birthday present, extraordinaire. 

My birthday didn’t start so cheerfully.  Friday dawned drizzly and humid, and I had three appointments to see three more apartments—alone.  Ben had a seminar all day at the university, and we weren’t yet confirmed for a place, so what choice did we have but to send me out on the hunt?  The first two places were a bit out of the city – and out of our desired location – so Thursday afternoon was spent tracing the journey so I would be able to do it alone Friday morning.  When the time came, Ben kissed me goodbye, and a small part of me wondered if I’d ever see him again or get kidnapped Taken-style and require Liam Neeson to come rescue me.  Good thing we aren’t looking in Paris…

Of course, the obvious thing to do would have been to whip out my phone and let the Google machine guide me to my destination, but alas, I’m too poor to pay for a data plan.  So I relied on my memory and some really terrible screenshots of the map I had saved on my phone.  I managed to find the first apartment with no problem.  The agent who met me there had been warned that I don’t speak much French, but that didn’t stop her from talking at me rapid fire, while I nervously laughed and pleaded that she slow down and repetez, s’il vous plaît?  I really find it quite rude when someone knows I don’t speak French well but doesn’t even try to speak slowly so I might understand, especially when I make an earnest attempt to speak French with them.  Not only did she not slow down, but she mumbled and muttered her way up to the 3eme étage (4^th floor, if anyone wasn’t familiar with how the French number their stories.  It’s evil.  You think, 3eme étage, third floor, ok I can live with that.  Nope.  4^th floor, sucker.).  In any case, there were a couple other people viewing the apartment, so I wasn’t stuck awkwardly looking around in silence while she judged me for not knowing her language.  Even when I asked her questions in halting French, she answered bewilderingly quickly. 

I ended up liking both the apartments I saw in the morning, which was both fortunate and unfortunate.  Fortunate because it was looking necessary to have more viable candidates, but unfortunate because it meant Ben would somehow need to turn in our dossier to the agency before end-of-business.  That would have been nearly infeasible since he was needed at the university until 5pm.  So I headed back to our AirBnB apartment, uneasy over how to accomplish the dossier submission.

In the early afternoon, I walked to the third apartment, which doesn’t really merit much description, so I’m not going to waste words.  I plodded home again in the rain, and grumbled pitiably to myself that this was a very fine 25^th birthday, UGH.  Of all the things I thought I’d be doing on my 25^th birthday, apartment hunting by myself in Lyon, France was never in the top 10.  But I’m an adult now, and this is what responsible adults do, and no one cares that it’s your birthday. 

I spent the afternoon agitating on the couch.  Surely, something would come through.  It had to.  IT WAS MY BIRTHDAY.  And then, at 3:30, my phone rang, an unknown number.  I didn’t pick up because, you know, I don’t speak the language.  But the caller left a message.  I played the message.  The first time, all I heard was “accepté” and “votre dossier,” and then a request to call them back at a number I couldn’t discern.  My heart started racing.  This was it!  I replayed the message about 5 times, and I began to understand that the person was calling me about the address for the #1 apartment, our dossier had been accepted, could we please call the agency?  I texted Ben.  CALL THEM.  No answer since he was in class.  Never have I felt so helpless and annoyed at myself for not taking French classes in college.  I thought about calling them, but I didn’t know what to say, and I figured they would hang up on a stammering fool.  Finally, finally, Ben let me know that he called them and that he was coming home. 

The story doesn’t end here.  Nothing is easily done in La France.  All persons and guarantors must be present at the signing of the lease, and nothing may be faxed in by those who don’t live in proximity to the agency.  Our guarantor lives in Pertuis, so we wouldn’t be able to sign anything or get any keys on Friday or Saturday, the day we were scheduled to return home.  So we lugged our heavy suitcases (that we had intended to empty in our new place and take back to refill) back home on the TGV.  But we had done what we came to do.  The universe listened and got me my birthday present, though wrapped with a less tidy bow than desired.

This week will be spent packing and cleaning, cleaning, cleaning.  We have no internet since Ben cancelled it right before we went to Lyon (in the hopes that we would move a bit sooner than this).  We’re getting the keys on Friday.  I’m dying to take pictures, but I don’t have any yet since when we viewed the apartment, it still had the previous renters living in it.  I’m not going to describe it yet either as a terribly unclever way to drive readership and pro-long this cliff-hanger of an experience.

Now, I’m just itching to start nesting.  I’m also anxious to start classes and settle into a routine and begin our life.  We’ve been back for almost four weeks, and the summer is decidedly over; time to throw on the cardigans and scarves and dig into life, not leisure.

In other noteworthy news, Friday was the first birthday Ben and I have ever spent together in our almost 5 years of dating.  We’ve somehow never managed to be together on either September 19^th or December 1^st.  He took me out for a lovely dinner.  We both ordered burgers at this adorable bistro in Vieux Lyon, and I’m terribly ashamed to admit that I succumbed to the local culture and at it with a fork and knife.  I’m so sorry, America, I feel like a traitor.  But one is allowed to do anything one pleases on one’s birthday, SO THERE.