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Published: September 4th 2015
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In order to do just about anything in France, one must have a French bank account. Such actions that require specifically French account numbers include: getting a student Navigo, enrolling in social security (aka health insurance), getting the required "assurance d'habitation" (aka homeowner's/renter's insurance), opening an EDF account to put the electricity in your name, and of course, withdrawing cash from an ATM without some dumb service or international fee.
So while bank accounts may seem like a rather boring topic, it was actually quite an adventure to get my (not yet officially active!) French bank account. Before arriving in France, I tried to set up my electricity, because there was no way I was spending my first day in Paris with the lights out. But of course, in order to create an account with EDF (Électricté de France), even if you later pay by credit card, you must enter your French bank account numbers. Thankfully, my landlady was very helpful, and called EDF for me to put the electricity in my name. She also called BNP (Banque Nationale de Paris) and made an appointment for me to open an account. That's right. In France, in order to
open a bank account, you must call ahead and schedule an appointment. No casual American banking where you just walk in and show them your ID and open an account. The French are much more formal in their administrative affairs. "Formal" is a word I'm using here to mean unnecessarily complicated and stupidly difficult.
Expecting nothing different than the process I had just been through to open a Bank of America account, I made my way to BNP Paribas on my second day in Paris (a Tuesday). I had opened a Bank of America account specifically because they partner with international banks, including BNP, reducing the cost to transfer money between accounts. Anyway, I walked to the branch nearest me, and went inside. I told the ladies at the Accueil (front desk) that I had an appointment to open an account. "Ce n'est pas ici," they said. "That's not here. Only offices here. You need to go to 16 Boulevard des Italiens." Oops. Ok fine, I guess I just walked into the closest edifice that said BNP. My mistake.
On I trekked, to Boulevard des Italiens, roughly a 15 minute walk. As I approached
the intersection, my GPS indicated that I was close to my replacement goal. So, naturally, I walked into the first building I saw with BNP over the door. This had to be it. NOPE. Wrong again. Same exact interaction at the Accueil as before, except this time the girl told me I just had to keep walking. At this point, beginning to get frustrated, I took a closer look at the email my landlady sent me about the bank. Turns out, this email included an address. And I was nowhere near it.
Once again, I started out, this time with fresh confidence. I finally arrived at the right branch, and sat down with the banker to open my account, full of confidence that this would be the end of my struggle. The banker then informed of an American law regarding US citizens and opening foreign bank accounts, which required the following items: passport (check), W9 (weird, but that takes 5 seconds), and proof of address by way of rental contract (crap). So, having no idea of my landlady's availability, I made an appointment to return on Friday, which I eventually had to change, because she was busy
and couldn't meet until Saturday. I had to move the appointment to the following Tuesday, because the bank was closed on Monday (what?! weird).
On Saturday, I met Bertha again at the Office Depot. Yes, there is an Office Depot in Paris, and they do copying, printing, customized stamps, and some other weird shit like engraving for some reason. After she arrived 30 minutes late, and I again wondered if she had forgotten about our meeting, we got started. She brought a new contract, but still had to edit it because it was yet another old one, and we filled it in, signed it, and copied it. On our way out, she offered me something from her house. I didn't quite understand what the "something" was, but I figured it was rude to refuse, so I just went along with it. I endured an awkwardly silent metro ride, and then was rewarded by the comical image of Bertha climbing the stairs out of the station. Remember that strange, tipped-forward posture from her heels? Well, climbing up stairs was the greatest manifestation of her altered gait to date. It was as if each jerk were to send her
nose-first into the steps above. It was excellent.
As we exited the metro, she asked if I had eaten yet. As per usual, I was already starving and had not eaten. I was hesitant to eat with her, but I tend to think with my stomach, so I went for it. She took me to this incredible little Chinese restaurant, where the owner has all these awards and they make everything in house, and it was the least I have ever paid for such a high quality meal. For 5 euros, I had rice with vegetables, tofu with vegetables, and fish. And it was exceptional. Note to self: return when feeling hungry and poor.
When we finally got to her apartment, I was aghast. It was a huge, gorgeous ground floor apartment full of antique furniture and artwork. I have a sneaking suspicion she's over-charging me... It was then that I found out what the thing was she had offered me. It was a cover for Pina's litter box. First of all, she hates covered litter boxes, and will pee in weird places if I use one. Second of all, that thing was WAY
too big for my tiny bathroom. She ought to have known that. She owns the apartment!
The following Tuesday, I returned to the bank with a copy of my rental contract, the W9, and my passport. The banker went over my documents meticulously. She looked at me guiltily, and then informed me that a copy was unacceptable. I must present the original of my rental contract, and besides, we had not dated it when we signed it, and it MUST be dated. YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. According to the banker, my landlady should have known better. She allowed me a few minutes to step outside and call Bertha and explain the situation to her. Bertha agreed to let me meet her in a couple of hours. The banker, thankfully, had an open afternoon, and invited me to return as soon as I had the DATED ORIGINAL.
After the 40 minute metro ride, I arrived at Bertha's once more. This time, she was "cleaning," and "ironing," during which activities she apparently only wears a very short robe. Yep. This woman, with whom I have a professional relationship and vouvoie (address formally), was
NAKED. She pulled out another new contract, but this time it didn't have anyone else's name on it. I sat on her floor, she tried to keep her legs crossed, we went through the contract, and I'm pretty sure she farted at some point.
Two hours later, I returned to the bank. We set up the account, and I got my "assurance d'habitation." There was still one final step. The banker told me that one more proof of address was required. She was going to send me a certified letter, which I would have to sign for and return to confirm that I really live where my rental contract says I live, and then, at that point a week or two in the future, my account would become active and I could put money in it, and subsequently would be charged for my insurance. It is now Friday, and I continue to await the arrival of this magical letter that will allow me to put my money in euros.
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