French Bureaucracy Part 1: The bank.

You knew this was coming. So much has been written about the bureaucratic processes in France; what an absolute nightmare the system is, and how it is virtually impossible to get anything done. I am happy to add to this discourse as I have some serious trauma. 

I find it hilarious that I experienced the pitfalls of the French system first, shockingly, not with the apartment-finding process, but rather with getting a French bank account, which I desperately needed for everything else: getting a social security number, getting internet, getting electricity.

I had been staying in short-term rentals for the first 6 months of living in Paris, knowing full well (thanks to my fastidious research before I moved) that no landlord would even consider me unless I have a CDI contract, the most prized and coveted contract showing that I am trustworthy, have a regular income, and am “part of the system,” so to speak.

I did not have this. 

I was only doing consulting work for companies (and for very pitiful pay) as the world was still in a full-fledged pandemic, and most companies in France still had a hiring freeze.

Times were very tough, I was alone in a foreign country, and I needed a permanent address. The search for an apartment became critical when I realized that to declare my pay, I would legally need to register as an auto-entrepreneur, or essentially, as a freelancer. And to do that, I would have to have a permanent address to accept the highly important paperwork that would arrive via paper mail only, giving me my social security number, company number, and instructions on how to get set up on the government website.

I was rather desperate.

But I got lucky. And take note: this is actually a viable way to find an apartment in Paris. 

I had been in a furnished short-term rental in the 11ème, a highly desirable arrondissement, and had managed (despite the pandemic) to befriend my neighbors. All of us had been desperate to go outside and do anything while the strict curfew was in place, just for some fresh air, and I had been invited downstairs by my jovial neighbors to partake in (technically illegal) gatherings on the street, where we shared cigarettes, pastis (which I love, by the way, shout out to Marseille), and our mutual frustrations of being locked indoors. 

We would sit there, in a charming little Parisian alleyway, on rickety little chairs with a table of cheese and charcuterie between us, everyone greeting each other with nonchalant cheek kisses (to my horror), and calling out to other neighbors as they walked by, inviting them with enthusiasm to join. I had been hesitant at first, after all, I was deeply paranoid about disease transmission and doing the right thing and following all the rules, especially as a foreigner. 

But even for me, staying cooped up inside when I could hear such joy and the clinking of glasses below my window proved to be impossible. I would hop downstairs when one of them would text or call me, and I internally justified that this was ok by refusing any la bise (the cheek kiss greeting) on principle, citing the pandemic. My neighbors kindly obliged, albeit with a look of amusement. The French are largely a little more laissez-faire about viral transmission, shall we say. 

So there I sat, soaking in the scene, incredibly grateful and happy to be included, sipping my wine and grabbing little rounds of saucisson, speaking in very shy and soft French, pretending I understood the jokes when everybody laughed. 

I befriended the neighbors quickly, a mix of young and old: the local corner bistro owner who also lived nearby, the very wealthy and worldly Parisian girl who just finished university and seemed to come from a mysterious French family with a lot of money, the gay couple who were always going on exotic vacations and were both outrageously handsome, the divorced neighbor with his dog Raviolo, the young couple who had a toddler. 

In halting French, I told them my story, which garnered much sympathy from everyone; they were in absolute disbelief that I had the great misfortune to move to Paris during the worst time imaginable. “This is not real Paris, the way it is now,” one of my neighbors said to me, blowing smoke from his cigarette over my head. 

I mentioned I was looking for an apartment and had no idea what to do, given my unstable work situation. Sara, a kind young woman who was finishing her studies to become a pharmacist, told me not to worry. “We will find something for you,” she assured me. I was deeply touched. I had never experienced this level of neighborhood camaraderie and care before.

The neighbors kept their word, telling me routinely they had been asking around. The bistro owner was especially helpful, knowing everyone and all the comings and goings of our little quartier. He was convinced we would find a solution sooner rather than later.

When Macron relaxed regulations and restaurants were finally able to reopen, I was at his corner bistro at least once a week, often with the neighbors joining in. When I sat at a little table outside to read and have a coffee or glass of wine, someone would inevitably join me, asking how my day was going, how I was acclimating. Still, to this day, I am so moved by how kind and welcoming everyone was. I had been terrified and alone, navigating a foreign world with a dangerous pandemic and strict government regulations, and every single one of these neighbors would give me ample advice, taking time to have a coffee, drinks, dinner with me, and to make sure I wasn’t alone. I will never forget them, and how relieved I was to have the luck to temporarily live there and to also have a feeling that I belonged. Most areas in Paris are not like this, but you can get lucky; there are some very special corners with tight-knit communities. 

Ultimately, it was Sara who came back to me, telling me her landlord had approached her, saying his sister was looking for a tenant for a small studio the sister owned, just one street over. When Sara had relayed she knew someone, a young professional woman in her 30s who, while not having a CDI yet, was reliable and building her life in Paris, her landlord had been relieved. His sister was very old and did not want to deal with the process of finding a proper tenant. The rent was within my budget, and I agreed to a meeting, breathless with hope that this would work out. 

I met the sister and her husband, both charming and very Vieille France (Old France), and they quickly agreed to sign me to the apartment. The apartment itself was very old but very Parisian, already furnished with an ancient bed, table, and chairs that felt like they came from the 1800s, a beautiful gilt mirror on the wall, and some vintage paintings. 

It was tiny, only 24 square meters, but it had a bathtub and a fully functioning kitchen. The view was into a courtyard and facing other beautiful old Parisian buildings; I absolutely loved it. I was reassured it would be very quiet since I was not facing the street, and the couple was especially proud of the minuscule elevator that could barely hold one person, as this is a rarity in Paris. I didn’t need any convincing. I signed the lease and promised them I would find a stable job soon (spoiler alert: I kept my promise and did; they never once had to worry regarding my rent).

Which brings me to….getting a bank account. It is well known (and documented) that moving to France will create a chicken-or-the-egg scenario: you cannot get a bank account unless you have an address, and you cannot get an apartment until you have a French bank account. And many variations thereof. 

Luckily, I had the apartment first, and I sealed the deal by transferring the deposit in cash from my American bank account to my new landlord (further reassuring her that I was a reliable tenant). It was done. 

I asked my neighbors and coworkers which French bank they recommended. To my surprise, every single person I asked complained heavily about their bank. And they all had the same complaints. It was clear nobody was happy with any bank, so I decided on one of the biggest in France, thinking that at least I would have access to ATMs everywhere and could feel safe storing my money there. 

So very soon after signing the lease, I marched into a branch of this bank in Le Marais, thinking they would pop the champagne to sign me to a new account, exactly how it works in the U.S. 

When I was buzzed into the building (you can’t just walk in), I told the lady at the front desk I would like to open an account. She looked at me, bemused and trying to hide the smile twitching at the corner of her lips. 

“Vous avez un rendez-vous ?” She asked. 

I answered, no I did not make an appointment, I am here to open a new account. I was expecting them to welcome me with open arms. 

Instead, she actually laughed in my face. But you have to make an appointment! Opening an account by just walking in is impossible. Coming from the world of Wells Fargo, this was inconceivable to me. And so I left, slightly embarrassed and let down. 

This was going to be much harder than I thought. So that afternoon, I called the bank’s client service number to set up an appointment with a local branch. 

Side note: The most difficult thing to master while speaking French (besides the subjunctive) is any customer service call. You have to perfectly understand which button to press to get to the right agent from the automated voice in the beginning (difficulty level: very hard), then you have to speak to an agent who usually also does not speak French natively (the U.S. isn’t the only country outsourcing its customer service calls), and then you have to spell your name pronouncing the French alphabet letters correctly and phonetically. It’s no longer D as in Dog, but D as in Dimanche, for example. This process would cause sheer panic on any customer service call for me, and is only marginally easier for me today.

After being on hold with the bank for ten minutes, finally reaching a bored agent who had no patience for my level of French, I was able to make a real bank appointment for the following week with the branch closest to me (of course, going to any old branch with meeting availability is impossible, it has to be the most local branch!). I was getting nervous, the clock was ticking down on the move-in date, and I had discovered I couldn't even set up electrical service without a French bank account.

The following week, I arrived early, folder in hand with my apartment contract, my shitty little consulting contract, proof that I had been staying in short-term rentals, and my EU passport showing I had residency status. I was hell-bent on getting an account opened today.

After it was confirmed that I did indeed have a rendez-vous, I was quickly introduced to my banker, a nice man who led me to a private office so he could look at all the paperwork and get me started. As he began to set up my profile on his computer and shuffled through my papers, he asked me about my current work situation. I explained as best as I could that I would file my income with the French government as an auto-entrepreneur since I was technically working freelance, albeit in a current consulting role with an actual contract (not CDI). He stopped typing and stared at me. 

“Ah, mais non, c’est impossible,” He said to me immediately. 

Excuse me, what is impossible? 

He went on to explain that this required a special bank account since an auto-entrepreneur is a special status, and of course, he is not qualified to set up this special account. I now need a special banker who can set this up for me. 

You have got to be fucking kidding me. 

I sat there, wide-eyed, and begged him to please find me an appropriate banker and meeting as soon as possible, I was about to move into a new apartment in three weeks and needed an official bank account for my earnings and to get electricity going. He nodded sagely, handing my paperwork back to me, and said his colleague, Madame Moreau, could help me, and, after clicking a bit on his keyboard, he announced triumphantly that he could get me a meeting in two weeks. 

Two weeks?! 

Ah, bah oui, she is currently on vacation, but at this branch, she is the only one who can help me.

I sat there and weighed my options. I could choose another bank, but that was no guarantee of fast service (likely the opposite), or I could grit my teeth and stick with these guys. Which is what I ended up doing. 

I would love to say everything got easier from here on out. Which it decidedly did not. Which is why I will continue this saga of trauma in Part 2.

Tips for getting your foot in the door at a French bank:

1. Choose your bank (apparently, they are all terrible).
2. Call their customer service number to request an appointment. Be sure to have your address ready.
3. Confirm they are sending you to a local branch.
4. Preemptively confirm you will be paired with the right banker who can actually help you.
5. Prepare for it to all go to shit anyway.