Depositing my sanity at the local bank

What just happened here? Was that a bait and switch?

I just opened a bank account, yet I have returned to my apartment empty-handed, even more broke than when I started. Is it France or am I just plain stupid?

Oh, the ups and downs of living abroad. It’s like being on your period every day for three months in a row.

After being in France for a week and a half, I can finally apply for a bank account. It’s funny what becomes exciting when you move abroad. For example, I was downright depressed until, the other day, I walked into the Orange store and bought myself a cell phone plan. Now I have a whole two hours of calling time for 25 euros! But wait, I have to make sure to use it up before the end of April or it will drift off into never never land! But seriously, that phone made me far happier than it should have done. Even though the only person I have to call is my friend Itwi, in Marseille, I am still happy.

So, the bank. Well, in order to open a French bank account, you must have proof that you live somewhere besides the street. But in order for you to get this proof, you must sign your initials at the bottom right corner of about a gazillion pieces of paper, all saying the same thing, and then some agency guy has to do the same. So, because Mr. Cipierre of the Orpi Agency dutifully did his job, here I am sitting with Madame LaGuionie in her small blue office in the Banque Populaire.

Unbelieveably, she speaks English. Actually, Camille has recommended me to her for this very reason. It’s not that I don’t speak French, because I do. But given the chance to hear information on deposits, taxes, fees and charges broken down into little English terms I can understand, it’s very appealing after the week I have just had.

Even more unbelievable, Madame LaGuionie is best buddies with Mr. Cipierre—one of the benefits of living in a small town, I suppose.

So, although I do not yet have a checking account, she is telling me she can arrange a bank transfer so that I can pay my rent, which was officially due three days ago.

Life is great! I cannot believe my luck. She tells me to return in an hour, deposit my work pay (which I have received in cash) and she will arrange everything.

I walk back home on a cloud. Small thrills are what get you through at the beginning of life abroad, when everything just seems so hard.

On my way back, I am feeling so good, in fact, that I go into France Telecom and buy myself an internet/phone/TV plan.

I return to the bank after lunch to find Madame LaGuioni sitting at the little podium in the entrance, ready to help me.

But this time, she looks at me vacantly, like we have never met before. Then, something clicks and she is all smiles. “Ok, I am going to show you now how to deposit your money,” she says, her pixie-ish blond hair flicking up on the corners by her ears as a turquoise scarf circles her thin neck.

“First you write the amount in this box,” she is saying. Yes, yes, I think. I’ve done this all before. Let’s get on with it.

Within minutes, I am dumping almost all the euros I have to my name down a little metal chute.

Madame LaGuioni goes back to the desk, where I dumbly follow her. She looks done with me now. Has she forgotten?

“And you were going to help me transfer money to Mr. Cipierre?” I ask her, smiling sweetly. “Oh yes,” she says, her smile fading just slightly, “did you need it done today?” “Well, yes,” I answer, “It’s already March third.” “Oh, yes,” she starts, “well, it might have to wait until tomorrow…and we will need a signature from you and also from him.”

What? She didn’t mention any of this before. It’s all becoming too difficult for me. I have no patience in general and certainly no patience for bullshit. I am not going to put my first month’s rent into the hands of someone who can’t remember what she asked me to do an hour ago.

I tell her it’s okay and walk out the door, fully steaming with annoyance. Now I have 70 euros to last me until April 1, when I hopefully will be paid a full paycheck. Oh, the ups and downs of living abroad. It’s like being on your period every day for three months in a row. One minute you’re laughing, the next you’re crying, and this continues throughout the day several times for several months. The smallest things can set you off, making the sanest of all people feel crazy. I have seen it all before—in myself—and I so don’t want to see it again.

But I fear it is all happening now, just like it always does when I move to a new town in a new country. It’s so simple, I hardly even need to say it, but my Dad loves to remind me every time we talk that what I am experiencing is nothing to worry about. In three to four months time, after I have moved through the appropriate phases, I will feel normal again. Right now, it’s just a little thing they call, “Culture Shock.”