Before moving to France, I really tried to anticipate all of the situations that I would get into; the misunderstandings I'd encounter due to language barriers and cultural differences. Aside from my personal crisis of 2011, nothing has surprised me too badly. Even in my early days here, the culture shock wore off within weeks, and I'd like to say that I adapted fairly quickly to French living.
Haha! Think again! Forgetting that I'm still and always will be a foreigner here (regardless if I'm getting married); I was handed with yet another reminder that I really don't know shit here.
With her fashion week paycheck in hand, once upon a time, an American girl walks into a French bank....
To open an account in the States is really quite simple: You walk in with money (or sometimes even without), you ask to open an account and within thirty minutes you have an account number, starter checks, and a little welcome packet. Easy as pie.
Here. Not so much.
After having doors literally slammed in my face by several banks that I foolishly thought I could just mosey on into, I was ready to give up on doing it myself, and planned on using my French life preserver that I call Séb. It wasn't until I passed a bank on the way home that I figured to give it one last try. For the sake of keeping the company's identity anonymous, we'll call this bank Shmociete Gjeneral.
As expected, the woman denied my request after I went through my entire narative about how I just signed my work contract, I'm American, I would like to deposit my paycheck, and then go to H&M to stock up on winter basics. Her affirmative nod to the winter basics bit was probably the only reaction I got from her. The rest of what I was saying was being wasted on someone who was blatantly disinterested in my situation. She waited for me to finish, handed me back my passport as if it was a pair of soiled panties, and proceeded to escort me out of her precious bank. Request so denied.
Being inquisitive by nature, I just had to know why I wasn't a desirable candidate. I had a nice amount of money to start with, I was willing to pay the annual fees, and once I received my bankcard, these people would never have to see my face again. All good points, right? I then had a breakthrough. I knew exactly what was going on here. How could I have been so dim?
I turned to the woman before stepping out. "Just tell me," I said in a low hush before looking left and then right, "Is this like when a Catholic wants to become a Jew and the rabbi refuses three or four times just to test their willingness and dedication to convert?"
Silence. So naturally I continued for clarification purposes.
"In this case, I'd be the shiksa," I explained while pointing to me, "And you'd be the rabbi."
Coming from New York and attending over 45 Bar/Bat/B'Nai (twins) Mitzfahs, this analogy made perfect sense. I even practiced how I'd approach the rabbi back when I myself wanted to become Jewish, so I too could join in on all the fun. I'm sorry but a Confirmation party could never rival a well-done Mitzfah. For example, Lindsay Gold's Condé Nast themed Bat Mitzfah? It doesn't get much better than that. Each table was a different magazine cover...with her face on it. The Vogue table showed little Lindsay in a velvet puff-sleeved Betsey Johnson dress looking dark and mysterious. The Bon Appetit table pictured her cooking with a plaid apron and chef's hat on with an "extra" - presumably her grandmother. And my personal favorite, the Golf World table that had Lindsay posing provocatively in hot shorts on a golf cart.
Pure. Genius.
Anyway, I'm getting way off track here. My point is that my willingness to become a member of a French bank was evident, and I even had a paycheck from a fancy French fashion house to back me up.
Now I understand why my French interns in New York were absolutely astonished after I sent them down to the bank to open their American bank accounts for the year. They didn't understand why they were offered 50 bucks to thank them for opening it, and were each given a white teddy bear fashioning a t-shirt with the bank's insignia printed on the front. Not having yet lived in France, I just thought they were excited to speak English and to have an American bank account, not at all predicting what lied ahead of me many years later.
After calling Séb in total confusion over why I can't spend my hard-earned money, he made a few phone calls, sprinkled his French fairy dust and found one bank that was willing to take my money: the bank in the post office. I guess this is where all of the unqualified applicants go after being rejected by the fancy banks? I have no idea but it feels good to finally be making euros, leaving my exhausted American bank account alone for a while, and to not have to explain to every server and cashier in town how to swipe an American ATM card.
Just one more thing checked off on ma vie française! Ca fait du bien!
Bon week-end a tous!
What happened a year ago today? Well this is kind of ironic...
