French Bureaucracy Part 3: The Internet.
It was a bright and sunny afternoon in Paris, the sun was streaming through the stained art deco windows of the charming and antiquated brasserie I was sitting in, and I was on a live Zoom call with my boss.
My internet had still not been set up, and it had been nothing short of a disaster. I had given my provider my American cell phone number for the technician, as I did not yet have a French phone (the delay was largely because, to sign up for a phone, you need a French bank account and a French address, and blablabla, you all know how it goes by now).
The technician had not been able to make any call to my American number when he was at my building door, so of course, despite my having run downstairs multiple times to keep an eye out for him, we had missed each other, forcing me to schedule another technician appointment and wait even longer for internet yet again.
This setback had forced me to get a French SIM card, and I had even alerted my boss to the situation at this point. His reaction had predictably been one of bemusement as to why it took so long for me to admit I had no internet; he was not at all surprised it had been so difficult to get service.
However, on this particular day, he had insisted we needed to do a video call as we had to correct a sales deck together, and he had wanted to run through some different options for each slide with me, live, on a video call.
I had asked the staff at this lovely local brasserie if I could take an audible Zoom call in the corner, knowing it would be relatively empty and quiet at this time of day (3 pm), explaining that I had an outdated laptop with no lightning jack and a brand-new apartment with no internet. To my great relief, they had said of course, no problem, and even set me up on a banquette with an outlet, leaving me with a little cup of espresso. There had been one other patron sitting by me, whom I also had politely asked if it would bother him if I took a call with my boss, to which he chuckled and said a friendly “non, ça ne me derange pas” (it doesn’t bother me).
So there I was, working out the details of the deck to fine-tune our proposal to the client, my boss correcting a slight error I had made on the last slide, trying to keep my voice and the audio as soft as possible out of respect for my fellow patrons and the staff, when a little elderly French lady shuffled up to my laptop and peered over at me and the screen.
My boss, of course, could not see what was happening and stopped talking when I smiled at the woman and said a polite but nervous bonjour, wondering if she was about to ask me to turn it off. Instead, she seemed absolutely delighted by what was happening and began speaking to me in rapid French, coming around to stare at the screen and my boss (who could now see everything).
“What is this? What is it that you are doing?” She inquired, fascinated by the screen.
I tried to explain, highly amused but also panicking at our meeting getting derailed, that I was speaking to my English boss, we were on a video call.
She was enthralled, launching into a monologue about how technology today is so different, in disbelief that this is how one can conduct a meeting today. I was polite and also laughing; she was so genuinely curious and sweet (albeit incredibly disruptive). As I tried to simultaneously keep up with her rapid-fire French questions while explaining and apologizing to my boss for what was happening, my boss finally said, “Okay, let’s wrap it up for the day, good work,” and I was infinitely relieved to be able to close the laptop.
My boss, perhaps finally fully understanding the limitations of where I could take video calls at this point, graciously didn’t schedule another call until after the internet technician appointment, which I had prominently marked on my professional calendar.
When the very-long-awaited day finally arrived, I was totally on edge, sitting on my bed and staring at my phone, having triple-checked that the French SIM was working. When the phone finally rang, as soon as I picked up and heard the man saying a very rushed “Bonjour Madame, je suis votre technicien…” I sprang up, shouting “j’arrive !”
I absolutely gunned it for my front door, speeding down the rickety spiral staircase (iconic Parisian apartment feature), determined not to let this technician slip through my fingers. To my slight surprise, when I opened the building door, it turned out to be two baby-faced men; they looked barely older than 19 or 20 years old.
I will refer to them as Technician A and Technician B.
I greeted them both with a very enthusiastic bonjour and led them up the stairs to my apartment, thanking them profusely for coming. At this point, I was so frazzled by getting anything set up in France that I was bracing myself for yet another issue.
Which, of course, happened almost immediately.
Once the boys put down their bags and began unpacking my internet box, Technician A turned to me and asked me, in very, very fast French, something about a cave.
Cave...As in, basement?
I was perplexed and told him I didn’t quite understand. He took a beat and slowed down his French slightly, explaining to me something about having to connect the wire or something, and some more something something (rapid French), they needed to get into the basement something.
I was completely nonplussed. The basement?
I had no idea if my building even had a basement. Technician B, at this point, was looking up at us, the box out of the bag, his eyes darting back and forth between us. He sprang up and volunteered to check, sprinting towards the door, leaving me and Technician A alone, who settled down on the ground and continued the unpacking of all the equipment.
I began to have growing dread, wondering if I had read the instructions for the appointment wrong, having had no idea that there was a basement involved of any kind.
Technician B returned in what felt like a minute and announced to Technician A that there was indeed a cave; however, it was locked and they needed une clé. They both turned and looked at me as panic absolutely gripped me.
A key?!
“I am very sorry, I have no idea about a key,” I breathed out in French, praying this wouldn’t kill my chance of having internet today. Technician A asked to see my apartment key set; I handed him the ring of keys that was given to me by my landlord, which they both peered at, debating which key might fit. After a few more minutes of Technician B running downstairs again and trying every key from my set, it was quickly determined that none of the keys opened the basement door.
At this point, I was really starting to get worried.
“I have no idea what to do, but I really, really need internet today,” I told Technician A.
He seemed completely unperturbed and told me not to worry, a neighbor might be able to help, do I know any of my neighbors?
I did not.
Technician B, who had resurfaced by now, reassured me he would find a key and would simply "ask" the neighbors. I was completely dubious, seriously doubting that this would work.
With a swift turn on his heel, Technician B left my apartment once again, this time leaving my front door open, and began to pound his fist on every one of my neighbors’ doors, not just the single other neighbor with whom I shared my floor (she was not home), but every other door and floor below. I could hear his relentless pounding and shouts of “Hello! We need a basement key!” Reverberating throughout the entire building.
At this point, I sat down in a chair and put my face in my hands, mortified that all my neighbors now surely loathed me for the ruckus I was causing. Technician A was chuckling at my reaction, totally unbothered, and wholly focused on setting up my box.
Finally, to my great shock, we heard a triumphant yell from Technician B two floors below: “Aha ! J’ai une clé !”
He had found a key.
“How…?” I asked Technician A, completely taken aback that it had been possible to find a key in such a chaotic way. Technician A shrugged at me, busy connecting a wire, and said, “A neighbor always has a key.” His absolute nonchalance made it clear this was just another routine appointment for him and their tried-and-true method for finding elusive building basement keys.
At this point, Technician B had ventured back down to the basement (which I had never before seen myself) to let himself in, and as Technician A turned on the box in my apartment, he shouted down to his colleague in the basement: “The box is on, tell me when you’re connected!”
For the reader's information, I lived on the third floor (or the fourth floor by American count), so they were shouting at each other through five floors.
By now, I had completely given up and hoped that most of my neighbors were out at work; the entire building could surely hear this exchange (this is also commentary on the paper-thin walls and floors of the ancient Parisian buildings).
“Ok ! C’est vert ?” We heard shouted from below; Technician B was asking if the light had turned green on the box.
“Non ! C’est rouge !” My Technician screamed back down at him.
Genuinely, this experience was a comedy at this point.
After another 15 seconds of yelling back and forth, the light on my box finally glowed green, and Technician A was very pleased with himself, showing me the Wi-Fi number and password on the sticker and helping me connect my phone, just as Technician B came back to join us.
I have never before cried in front of a service technician, but at this point, I came really close, my eyes welling up with tears of gratitude.
“Thank you both so much,” I told them, clasping my hands together and trying to express my relief and thankfulness in halting French. “You have no idea, it’s been so hard, with my work, impossible to take meetings...” I was barely gasping out the words.
Technician A looked at me, perplexed, and said slowly and deliberatily, “Tranquille, Madame,” which completely snapped me out of the moment due to the sheer absurdity.
My very close girlfriend and I use a phrase to calm each other down when one of us is spinning out of control (apologies in advance, as it is a bit offensive): “Calm your tits.” Or, my favorite variation, “Calm your tatas.”
This man was, in no uncertain terms, telling me to calm my tits. But I was indescribably happy to finally have working internet.
I thanked them both profusely again, letting them out of my apartment with a smile and a wave, before pulling out my laptop to also connect it to my brand-spanking-new Wi-Fi. I have never before been so grateful to see the Google homepage flash in front of my eyes. I had internet. My internet was working.
Things to know before getting the internet set up in your Parisian apartment:
- Understand what kind of internet you can even have in your apartment building: ADSL or fiber (be mindful that fiber will soon be the only choice, ADSL will be phased out by 2030).
- Internet providers have eligibility tests available online to see what kind of internet your address qualifies for; use this to price shop and make your decision based on your internet needs.
- Check to see if internet service has already been previously installed in your apartment (most likely yes), and try to get as much information on the type of service as possible (I had no information in my case).
- Be mindful of the customer service options when you choose a provider; you will be thankful for the help when something inevitably goes wrong.
- If you get an internet box, it will most likely need to be connected to the basement. Preemptively ask your landlord about this and find out if a key or special access is needed.
- You will need a French phone number to receive the technician and a French bank account.
- Keep your tatas calm.
