I supplied Frank Baum’s (American actor, filmmaker and author of the Wizard of Oz amongst others) great grandson with photographs today. Somewhat ironically they were photographs of his great grandfather. Seems like quite a random way to start my post today. I have much to catch up on, including my brother’s wedding, the Paris pub music quiz, the olive oil shop and the pleasures of simple French foods… Right now work is keeping me pretty occupied!

Like you, I had no idea who Daniele Groff was (See youtube video or official site).
I believe he’s big in Italy, where he is from. My girlfriend’s friend works for a record label in Paris, they work solely with Italian bands and so last Sunday (June 15th 2008) we went along to support her in promoting Daniele Groff, who was doing a free concert in place d’italie Paris. Having checked out his music on youTube it really wasn’t my personal cup of tea, and perhaps has a much greater success with teenage Italian girls, but it was a good atmosphere and live; with just two acoustic guitars, he did have an impressive singing voice. There were a few Italian fans turned up, but the demographic was a real mix, mainly of older people (about 50 in total); I imagine he wasn’t used to such a small turn out, but it made for a better atmosphere. My girlfriend who’s fluent in Italian as well as English (I despise her! She’s spent the last four years learning Japanese too) insisted on translating half the songs, and I’m sure I would have been more impressed being oblivious to the lyrics. She got excited at the prospect of meeting him after the show, but he was busy signing and talking to people, so we decided to head back.

Yesterday was ‘Journée de la Musique’ in France, and all across the country bands were playing. I went down to the Latin quarter of Paris around 10:30pm and could barely squeeze out of the metro staircase onto the street above for the crowds of people all around. The hot summer streets were heaving with the whole of Paris, and tourists besides, intoxicated with wine and the smells of cheap barbecue. The only way to navigate was by spilling out all across the roads, to the honking of horns. Merry French were dancing everywhere, and a particularly large crowd gathered around the famous Saint-Michel fountain as a group of young French men scaled to the top of the fountain, baring cheeks to the cheers and multitude of camera flashes. The police didn’t seem too bothered about the violation of this historical monument, but they had enough to contend with keeping the traffic flowing.

The streets were enthused with competing sounds, and you could hear something new every fifty metres. Any prowling rats along the Seine would have taken refuge in fear, replaced with line upon line of people as far as the eye could see.

I got home around 1:45am, and was woken up at 2am by an old crooner playing live music with his band outside the apartment. My district had been pretty much devoid of music all day, and it seemed like an odd time to be contributing, but by then I was too tired to notice.

How I wish my blog might address the niceties of Paris, but in the past week it seems to be one thing after another. Finally my SIRET number arrived, but the day after I got the all green I fell ill and so diminished my capacity for work. My planned meeting to open a business bank account in France on the Saturday fell through when the lady I had been dealing with announced she was too busy to see me. I was then told she was going on holiday for a week so I couldn’t even arrange it for this Saturday, and so must find another branch that is not within walking distance, and then delegate the closer branch to be my main branch. Following on from that, my girlfriend and I are seeking to get a PACS, but in true French style that is not nearly as simple as you might think. My original birth certificate was apparently not adequate, and so I had to reorder a long and new version from Norwich, which must be translated at an extortionate cost by an official person. I also require a ‘certificat de coutume’ to prove I’m not married and I have no legal guardianship (as British birth certificates do not state this). The British embassy displays a wrong email, which results in a bounced reply, so I sent the correct one 5 days ago, but didn’t get so much as a ‘your email has been read’ receipt. I called them yesterday and the most miserable sounding woman told me to ring again tomorrow afternoon. That was it! No explanation as to why, and she was so miserable it became contagious and I was too miserable to even ask why they couldn’t do anything there and then.

During this time I received a letter about the cotisation (social security), but they seem to be under the impression I’m in the film or TV industry which is quite bizarre, because it’s not the category my business is registered under at all.

Last week I went to the Paris town hall and put my name on the electoral role. I felt a bit of a fraud as I don’t really plan to be voting on the next mayor, but since coming to Paris I’ve had no way to really declare I’m a resident here. The carte de séjour is no longer a requirement for Europeans, and when speaking to the town hall and an appropriate Paris public service body, they’re clueless about how a new resident might officially declare themselves so. Apparently if you’re a European there’s really nothing you need do. Of course if you want to get on the health care system, and pay social contributions and make a living, then there’s much to do!

The icing on the cake is that yesterday my computer died. Well, it’s not entirely dead but when I shut down windows, it quite literally cuts the power and refuses to reboot (the ultimate window’s shutdown!). It’s only when I open up the case, and poke around that it sometimes springs back to life, but without any logical explanation. Last night I gave up on it, with the plan to buy a new one today (a hassle and expense I could do without). This morning, having done nothing to it, it powered up! I shut it down, and again it was dead. I pulled out the power unit, nothing appeared wrong, so I gave it a blow, sealed it up and so far everything’s working, and I’ve been able to power down and power up, but I think it’s working on borrowed time. The powers of the French cosmic universe are conspiring against me, but I will prevail!

The start of a new month. It also represents the same amount of time the Chambre de Commerce have had my work application for (10-15 days to process they say – ha!) My accountant said he’d chase them up, but I’ve been 4 days without a word from him. Bienvenue en France! I’m slowly hemorrhaging money and can do very little really without a SIRET number (including opening a business bank account). Okay, that’s my little rant over. You read about such problems happening to expatriates, always hopeful that you will be the one who can slip into a country trouble-free, but alas no.

ANYWAY! This afternoon was spent roaming Bois de Boulogne, which is not really too far a walk from the apartment, with some interesting and varied architecture to observe along the way. Despite the forecast for rain, it was a beautiful sunny day, and I felt in my element wondering into relatively dense woodland. In many places, you can escape people altogether, although go too far off the beaten track and the ground becomes a disposal tip for condom packets. The grounds have a seedy reputation at night, but this is a problem in many a city park, and it really feels quite safe by day time. I don’t wish to say too much about Bois de Boulogne as it will feature in one of my city guides, but it is probably my favourite of all the Paris parks. I will need to double check my facts, but I seem to recall reading that it is about 2.5 times the size of New York’s Central Park, and that one was a fair old size when I once spent a sunny day there.

I’ve visited Bois de Boulogne in the past, and took the cheap ferry out to the little island of the boating lake, where you can sunbathe freely (many French were in bikini’s and trunks today); I’ve even witnessed nude bathing there in the past. The island’s home to some cute little bunnies and peacocks, although spring bunnies are also visible in the woods elsewhere. I need to take another visit or two before I can start to put together any sort of guide to Bois de Boulogne, but for anybody reading I’d recommend a visit if you’d like an escape from the city.
After walking the breadth of the park, the cloud swept over with a threat of rain, so in search of the metro we wondered off into Neuilly-sur-Seine, a district on the opposite side of the park. Affluent is definitely a word to describe this district. A little lost we ended up wandering through an estate with some mighty expensive housing, and ended up in a little park: ‘Folie Saint-James’ (see photos). It’s only worth visiting should you happen to be passing that way, but it was quaint despite the long list of park rules presented on the entrance. In the end we had to ask for directions and arrived at the metro with a nice view of La Défense.

Saturday afternoon was just about t-shirt warm in Paris, but you could comfortably look at the sun as it shone dimly behind a grease-proof paper sky. I took a stroll along the Seine out towards the tramline (T3), having never taken the Paris tram before. The T3 line was introduced in 2006, and the trams still look squeaky new; even the grass between the lines was lusciously green. It’s strange how the old has a way of working its way back into the present; the last tram in Paris was decommissioned sixty years ago. When I first boarded, the tram was next to empty, and a large jovial conductor walked on, said a joyful bonjour to the passengers, before seating himself behind the helm. If his previous job had been working subterranean in the metro, his joy was quite understandable – I’ve become almost wary of the jovial Parisian, city’s often have that way of making folk seem a little frosty around the edges.

The tram was smooth and a pleasure to use. Sat right at the front, I had an unobstructed view at the approaching scenery through the driver’s window. The pleasure changed a little to annoyance when a little French boy sat behind me kept banging me with his arm and elbow and talking loudly down my ear (he was also keen to look out of the front window you see) to the indifference of his mother. And then a man stood in front of me, obscuring the panoramic which I wouldn’t have objected to if it hadn’t been for the stench of perspiration. Sandwiched between the brat and the smelly man, the tram ride took on a different ambiance for 3 or 4 stops until I arrived at Cité Universitaire and jumped off to visit Parc Montsouris, which will be the subject of a future Paris City Guide.

It was never my intention to start retrospectively, but I have survived two months here in Paris, and with the Chambre of Commerce dawdling for one month over my application (having lost my electronic documents), it felt time to kick start my Paris in Photos website once more, now I am a full time resident here in France.

I would assume most expatriates who come to live in Paris, did so out of a romantic ideal and love for the city itself. They quite probably speak good French to boot. I can’t really place myself in that category, although I have no objections to Paris itself, I just happen to not be a city-dweller in nature.

Having spent two and half years living in a town called Mossley, on the very outer rim of Great Manchester, bordering the Saddleworth Hills, stepping out of an apartment onto a long tree lined Parisian avenue is quite an alien experience. My year’s worth of private French tuition (amounting to just one hour a week), placed me in little stead to comprehend and converse beyond the basics, although my realistic expectations hadn’t been anticipating miracles. So why, might you ask, am I here? I wish I could concoct a reason beyond the usual clichés, but it involved a girl – a Parisian with anglophile proclivities.

Coming to France wasn’t really too much of a logistical nightmare, it’s really not all that far south of London after all. I’d taken quotes from three removal companies, and as I had previously lived by myself in furnished, rented accommodation, did not have a full household of possessions along with furniture to transport. Still, the quotes ranged from around £1000 - £1300 excluding VAT, so on a budget closer to £300 I hired a long-wheel based transit van, took along my Dad and girlfriend (who was briefly in England at the time), booked the Euro tunnel both ways, a hotel for the night in Abbeville (not so far from Calais), paid for fuel expenditure and a return flight to Paris three days later.

I collected the hire van on the Friday afternoon, and loaded up in the evening with the help of friends. Saturday morning, we set off, my Dad kindly offering to do the driving in the UK. Boarding the huge trains at the Eurotunnel was a bizarrely fun experience, and the system was fast and efficient. Normally reliant on map and compass, this was my first time using a Sat-nav, and as I took over the wheel for driving in France, Emily (the voice of the Sat-Nav), got us into Paris. This wasn’t the first time I’d experienced Parisian drivers, but what made it unique was driving a large English van. When I came across the occasional broken down car on the side of the road, not one French driver would let me come across to get around the obstacle, so you have to drive quite aggressively to get anywhere. Nearing our destination after many weary hours on the road, a wrong turn took us off towards St. Cloud, and by the time I got back to the ring road, and to the 16^th arrondissement, the daylight was beginning to fade.

Upon arrival, there was little chance but to park illegally. To get to the apartment we had to walk a few metres up the pavement, through a door, down a hallway, through another door, through a courtyard, through another door, up a flight of steps and then finally, viola. With someone constantly needing to keep an eye on the van, and some of the boxes weighing up to 40kg, it was long, tiring work, and quite dark by the time we’d finished. Although the district is rather nice, keeping an eye on the van was a wise precaution, as one disheveled man seemed to take a keen interest in the contents. A little later a man on a moped stopped directly behind me, turned off his lights, and sat there in the dark for no apparent reason. I picked up the metal pole of my computer desk, and the headlight came back on as he scootered off. Maybe I was just paranoid, but I had been living in a town where the night was ruled by chavs.

Grubby, exhausted, and with a hotel to check into, I kissed my girlfriend goodbye who was not in the best of moods since I’d destroyed her minimalist style of living and turned it into ‘cardboard city’. I never planned to stay in Paris overnight, as I knew I would never get parked, which transpired to be a smart move. The hotel I booked was in Abbeville, somewhere between Calais and Paris - it was cheap, and I hadn’t planned on sight-seeing. I arrived with my Dad close to 1am, and a machine in the foyer allowed us to get an electronic key for our room. At 1am we had tea (canned tuna as given to us by my girlfriend), and switched on the TV. Flicking through the first few stations, it may have been channel 4 or channel 6 when some close-up, penetrative hardcore sex started broadcasting through the screen. I’m by no means prudish, and I know Europeans to be more liberal with their TV content, but it still came as quite a surprise, and fortunately I had no children to tuck into bed and explain what carnal acts of the flesh had just passed  before their eyes.

The etap hotel was practical and cheap, but the bed linen was flimsy, with no spare sheets to be found. The shower room was the crudest I’ve seen with plastic lined interior and loo, seemingly moulded from one single sheet of plastic, and no possibility of putting anything in there so as to remain dry. The hotel might also have proved difficult to find if it wasn’t for the navigational skills of Emily our Sat-nav.

The next morning we set off bright and early, with a full tank of diesel, which I must point out was no cheaper than British prices. The previous night we had been stuck on the autoroute with the van on fumes, the red light flashing, and the next service station 50km away! We made that mini adventure by the skin of our teeth. The Euro tunnel was not so kind on our return journey, and whilst my Dad did the equivalent of a supermarket sweep when our boarding letter was announced inside the duty free, by the time we had queued up, ready to board, we waited and waited and waited some more. Eventually there was an announcement regarding a problem with one of the trains, and so we missed our scheduled train and had to wait for the following one. Whilst killing time the news reported snow back in England causing problems on the roads, which we lightly sniggered over, as a one millimetre covering is enough to bring England to its knees. Here on the French side of the channel it was blue skies and sunshine. Well the laugh was ultimately on us; I had not seen snow that heavy for a great many years. Although the photo does not convey the worst of it, the fast lane of the motorway soon became covered, and the landscape was thick with the white stuff, as the sky around us became ever more saturated by snowflakes. By the time we reached the Midlands, there were really no traces that the snow ever existed.

It may not be the best politically correct carbon footprinted mode of travel, but for £2.04 (just over £20 with tax included), it sure was a convenient means to return to Paris on the Tuesday afternoon. I could have returned on the Monday, but the flights were an extra £120. As I took the Roissy bus from Charles de Gaulle airport to Opera, we stopped at traffic lights, and a young attractive blonde with her boyfriend, pointed her camera at me. I looked left and right, but there was nobody but me on this part of the bus, so assumed they were browsing their photos. Ping, the flash went off, and they went on their way with little grins of amusement, and I, a self-conscious individual, became ever more so. And so it came to be that I arrived in Paris, complete with possessions, and with very little in the way of work. With a month to organise, prepare and wait for my French/English accountant to send my relevant paper work to the necessary authorities, one month soon became two. Now two months into my Parisian experience, I am still unable to create a company and work for profit until I have a SIRET number, and cannot open a French business bank account until this is done. I always read about the sort of nightmares other expatriates endured coming here, and now I come to experience it first-hand. Alas, I have little time for idle wordpress waffle, and so I must christen my very first wordpress entry (I am a wordpress virgin at this time of writing), and now my dear reader, you know why and how I came to be in Paris, I will keep updates of an Englishman’s experiences in the French capital, if I do not inadvertently press the button that trashes my database. À bientôt