France: The Benefits of Cold Bureaucracy and Cold Showers

House hunting in France is not for the faint of heart. House hunting in general sucks—but throw in an unfamiliar language, unfamiliar processes, endless uncertainty, and constant negotiation? Now you’re not just looking for an apartment; you’re trying to decode an entirely different system while hoping you don’t get something terribly wrong.

We’ve been in France for a few years now, and some of what we’ve learned is finally starting to pay off. We’re beginning to understand the rhythms of the place—how things move (or don’t), what to expect, and when to push. But it still surprises us. And, to be honest, I’m sure it surprises some of the French folks as well.

So—we moved last week, and I’ll be writing a few pieces in the coming weeks about that whole process. In short, moving is a bit of nightmare no matter when or where, in my experience. In the middle of it all, someone always seems to remind me that the process of moving is one of the most stressful in life, like dealing with the death of a loved one or an illness.

I’m not so sure about that—having dealt with all three, I’ll take Moving Apartments over Dead Relative any day. But at least with moving, you can openly say it’s a pain in the ass, and people get it.

A relative with a terminal illness? Not so much.

"Ah man! Dad’s got cancer again. What a pain in the ass. This guy…"

“Really, he just needs so much attention…”

Yeah… doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.But moving is still, undeniably, a pain in the ass.

Adjusting expectations

We had a lot going on in our lives when we first arrived in France a few years ago. We had spent months at different housesits, and it seemed like we were constantly moving already and while that could have been cool if we felt like being nomadic, it wasn’t because, well, we didn’t feel like being nomadic. We wanted the world to stop moving for a minute, to get our bearings.

When you’ve just arrived in a new country, you’re negotiating many different things at the same time, in a different language, and within a web of cultural expectations that likely make far less sense to you than you’d like to admit.

And renting sucked in NYC - we weren’t expecting Nantes to feel anything like it. And it didn’t, but then it did at times. Nothing again real estate professionals, but I would be okay if I never had to deal with another estate agent again for the rest of my life.

You step into it thinking, I’m a responsible adult, I’ve rented before—how hard can this be? You might also assume that the people you've hired to, well, help you, will actually do so.

Weeks later, standing in an unheated apartment in March, taking a cold shower that feels like full-body electrocution, I realize: this is not what I signed up for. Of course, I am not that articulate.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. Fuck. …fuck.

Never mind that it's supposed to be good for you or some other nonsense—I am freezing.

When “Fine” feels like win

I was knocked off my own center—my reflex to negotiate, to push back, wasn’t kicking in the way it usually would. We didn’t need to solve the real estate agent’s problem; we needed to solve our own. But at that point, we were also emotionally burned out, just trying to get through it.

A key lesson in all of this? Don’t waste time solving other people’s problems—focus on solving your own. Easier said than done.

It was a bit like dating after a long break. You know you should be picky, that you should hold out for something that truly fits. But instead, you find yourself sitting across from someone at dinner, nodding along, trying to convince yourself this could work—even as the red flags practically wave themselves.

At this point, you know it’s not the right match. And yet, something in you whispers, Well… at least he has a job. At least he responds to texts. And before you know it, you’re thinking, Maybe this is fine?

That was us with this apartment. The real estate agent had narrowed things down to three choices, and rather than holding out for the right one, we just picked the most tolerable option. It wasn’t bad… but we spent a lot of time convincing ourselves we could live with it.

Looking around the apartment, we thought, I guess this is a good idea? It wasn’t exactly inspiring—one of those charmless little cubes that seem to pop up all over the city. But hey, we told ourselves, we can do one for a while. And so we did, but we were happy to make the change when the opportunity came up.

Not My Problem, Still My Problem

It was also the agency. Or the relocation agency we hired. Or one of the people they had working for them. We had a lot of people to speak to and it was confusing at times. We were annoyed with them, they were annoyed with us. At least that part of the relationship seemed fairly reciprocal.

In the end, their goal is simple: solve the problem in front of them. We have these apartments. You need an apartment. Rent this one, we get our fee, and then on to the next.

There’s no real sense of fit, no consideration of whether you might actually like the place or if it works for how you live. It’s just inventory. And after weeks of searching, you start to see yourself that way too—just another file in a stack, another email left on read. It stops being about finding a home and turns into a matter of getting it over with.

We moved into the place in March. We never had heat, but in the confusion of it all, it seemed like we had told our relocation agent, "It’s fine." So she moved on to the next client.

So we picked. We signed. We moved in. It was fine.

And that’s when we realized: we had no heat. No hot water either.

The agent had said it would be handled—or maybe she said we would handle it? The details were lost somewhere in the haze of real estate jargon and our less-than-perfect French. Either way, we had assumed it was not our problem. But now, standing in a freezing apartment in March, it very much was.

We called the real estate agent. "Ah oui… je vois… mais ce n'est pas à nous de gérer ça." Ah yes… I see… but that’s not for us to handle. Not her job.

We reached out to the relocation person we had hired. "Je comprends bien, mais je ne peux rien faire de plus." I completely understand, but there’s nothing more I can do. They were kind of done with us.

Of course, everyone was very pleasant, very polite—but nothing happened.

In the end, we did what we always do: we adapted. We told ourselves, we can do this for a while. And, for better or worse, we did.

Enjoying the Chaos? Share the Pain.

If you’ve ever navigated French bureaucracy, fought with real estate agents, or taken an unintentional ice bath in your own home—congratulations, you’re one of us.

If you laughed (or winced), share this with someone who thinks moving abroad is all wine and charm—until the paperwork hits.

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Share with people moving - or looking to move, or anyone who loves a housing horror story.
Comment if you’ve had your own “Not My Problem” moment with French bureaucracy. Misery loves company.

Because in the end, we all adapt. If nothing else, we get some great stories out of it.

K

Comme d'habitude (1967) by Claude François is a melancholic song about resignation to an unsatisfying routine, originally inspired by François' crumbling relationship with singer France Gall. The melody was later adapted into English as My Way (1969) by Paul Anka, who rewrote the lyrics entirely for Frank Sinatra, transforming it into an anthem of personal triumph rather than quiet despair.

Same tune, same delivery—completely different meaning. There’s something to it, even if Sinatra’s My Way has always had a kind of melancholy for me, as it François’s DNA of letdown were dyed into the music of the song itself.

There are many videos of this, but I am liking this version at the moment. Try not to fixate on his eyebrows as he sings - or do it on purpose - their dance is hypnotic.

But still, Clo-Clo could belt.