Vous Etes Chez Vous

Before I could get the keys to the apartment, I had to get insurance for it (with a paper showing that I have said insurance), and do a walk-through of the apartment with a guy from, um?, a walk-through agency.

(So "walk-through" is the best translation I can come up with for 'état de lieu.' It's where you walk through and make notes of the current state of the place: what's broken, missing, cracked, etc., so you're not charged for those damages when you leave. And so that maybe your proprietor will fix them before you leave, since you're just moving in... What's that called in English, please?)

As I've said before on the blog, I feel pretty confident in my French, except for when I'm doing something completely outside of my vocabulary/experience comfort zone. I've never done a walk-through in English, much less in French, and so I really didn't know exactly how this thing was going to go down. Therefore, I was a little nervous and a whole lot excited about today, because after the walk-through, the place is mine.

I showed up with Pantene (two pairs of eyes are better than one), and waited outside the building. A man with an envelope with my name on it showed up and well...you know how you can spot your own name from a mile away even if you have terrible eyesight like me? I saw my name on that envelope and knew he was the guy we were meeting.

I gave him my go-to line ("Pardon me, but French is not my first language but I am going to try,") and he responded by saying, "Well, then, I will...speak...verrrrrrryyyyy...slooooooowwwly." That's a good sign.

He, Pantene and I packed into the 2-person elevator, and I'm not gonna lie...it was awkward. But now I know the elevator can hold three people who are willing to risk it. :)

We walked through the place and noticed little things here and there. A radiator doesn't have a handle, there's a little knick in the hardwood floor or one of the doors, the 150 year old fireplace has a crack in the marble...that kind of thing.

Then in the bathroom, he points out that the faucet (where you hook up the washing machine) doesn't have a handle. Kind of important. Speaking of faucets, the one in the kitchen sink is so wiggly-jiggly you'd think it's been taking dancing lessons from J-Lo. While in the kitchen, I noticed that the proprietor has not cut out the counter over the space where the oven goes (and thus, I can't order my oven yet because it won't fit). Eek.

He took pictures, and typed things up, and explained all sorts of things in ways I could understand. (There was once when I understood every word and a basic concept, but had no idea exactly what it meant because it had to do with how to turn the gas heater on. I'll ask an English speaking male friend about that one...) I handed the insurance paper, signed more documents, and then the glorious moment came.

He handed me the keys and said, "Vous êtes chez vous." (You're in your home.) Glorious.

As I let him out, the front door handle literally fell off in my hands. I laughed and asked him if he'd written that one down. He assured me he did. Note to self: Don't move anything in until that door gets fixed and you add another lock...

Pantene and I went down and checked the digital machine that guests have to use to call my apartment...my name was already in it. I now have an apartment with my name on the door.

This is a big deal.