Getting a Bank Account in Paris

Today I had my first breakdown.

I’ve been living in France for about two months, happily sampling the yummy pastries, eating cheap sandwiches for lunch, even joining a gym. I still felt like an outsider, yet somehow believed that I was slowly becoming a part of the French fabric in my own way.

Until I went to get a bank account.

As weird, strange luck would have it, I was able to find a job here. This is largely impossible, and I would highly recommend against coming here without a job (unemployment is high the French are notoriously wary of foreigners). Providence was shining on me, and after talking to a few friends, I found out there were openings in the French Embassy’s English Assistantship Program. I sent in my resume and within days I was hired! Things happened so quickly: On Monday I found out I got the job, and on Thursday I was arranging to sign my bonafide French work contract. The program director told me that to complete my contract, I needed a bank account.  She directed me to a local bank to establish a foreign account. “It will be fine,” the program director assured me, “They’ve helped us set up all the English assistants.” She gave me the name of a Madame Marcelle who had helped ‘several’ Americans get set up, and with name in hand I was on my way.

I found the bank in question, and marched triumphantly into the ‘Accueil’ and said in my best French, “I’m here to open an international bank account. I was given the name of Madame Marcelle. Can you help me?”  The tremendously lacquered receptionist replied, “What address were you given?” I told her that unfortunately I didn’t have an address, just a name. She tersely responded, this time rolling her eyes and raising her voice, “What address?” I repeated that I didn’t have more information, just that I’m an English assistant looking to set up an account. With a huff she directed me across the street and tersely said she couldn’t help me. A bit put off by her rudeness, but still cheery, I wandered across the street to a confusing set of doors. I took a gamble and went with door # 2 and walked up to a man sitting at a desk. Again, I said in French, “I’m here to open an International Bank Account.”  He says, “To do that you have to go across the street.” “I’ve already been across the street, they told me to come here.” “Oh, well try the fifth floor.” I wanted to ask him if he was sure of his directions, but just decided to take his word for it and get on the elevator to the fifth floor. Once there, I stopped the first person I saw and repeated my bank account spiel. The lady said, “We can’t help you, go to the 6^th floor.”

I’m frustrated by this point, flustered and confused. Why is it so hard to find the woman in question? Confident however that I was finally on the right track, I got on the elevator again and made my way to the 6^th floor, where I’m confronted by a set of locked glass doors with a call box. Right behind the glass doors are two ladies chatting. I press the call box button. No response. Press it again. No response.  I figure since the two ladies behind the glass doors worked there, they’d let me in or at least ask if I needed help. I banged on the door and signaled to them. They motioned to the call box, threw their hands up, seemingly mocked the fact that I was trying to get their attention. Then, they continued their conversation. I couldn’t believe it.  Instead of them even asking what I was looking for, they stared at me like I was an annoying gimp and continued their conversation.  I was fuming, but finally a male’s voice came in over the speaker and said, “Yes?”  “I’m trying to open an international bank account.” The door opens and I’m greeted by a Senegalese man with smart Marc Jacobs sunglasses.  I say, “I’m here to see Madame Marcelle.” He says, “She doesn’t work her anymore, but my name is Saeed, I can help you.” He leads me past the two ladies who were so deeply engrossed in their conversation, and I wished I could say, “Thanks for helping!” But of course my sarcasm doesn’t translate easily into French and I settle upon a withering, stank glare.  They return my glance as if confused by my rancor.

By the time I sat down to handle the business at hand, I had had it. Saeed went in the back to get some paperwork, and as I waited, thinking about the past 30 minutes, the people I had encountered, and the level of unwarranted nastiness displayed, I began to breathe quickly. My cheeks got hot. And I started to cry.

I tried to stop the tears. I told myself, “You’re too old to cry, just hold it together.” But as one tear started, one more followed in quick succession. Before I knew it, it was waterworks and I looked up to see a confused looking Saeed staring at me with pen and papers in hand. My hands couldn’t wipe the tears away fast enough. I was a sniveling, snotting mess.

Looking alarmed Saeed asked, “Do you want water? A tissue?” I kept refusing, then finally allowed him to get me a tissue. He went to get them and in that moment it felt as if three of his fellow employees suddenly cared I was there and passed by. None asked if I was ok.

Saeed returned, and I thanked him for the tissues while wiping my eyes. Saeed asked me in English, “What’s wrong?”  Relieved to finally be able to express myself I my mother tongue, I told Saeed that I just wasn’t used to being treated in that way. I had heard the French were rude, but after four years in New York, I felt I could handle anything. New Yorkers are a loud, pushy bunch. But in New York, you would never go into a professional establishment and be treated as a burden. Imagine going into a Bank of America where the receptionist rolled her eyes, gave you bad directions, then directed you to people who were similarly unhelpful. Heads would roll! Not in France. It seemed everyone I encountered felt it a chore to actually do their job. And on top of not wanting to do their job, they were bad at their job, as witnessed by the three pit stops I made before reaching my intended destination.

All of this I related to Saeed, in between sniffles of course. I told him I didn’t understand why those women were so mean. What had I done? He said, “Hadn’t you heard this about French people? This is how they are.” I had to admit, I had heard it before, but experiencing it was a different beast. He said, “How long do you plan on staying here?” I said, “A Year.” He said, “Get used to it. Learn to ignore it. If you don’t it will ruin your experience.” I took his words to heart. And with my bank papers in hand, I made my way back on the Metro, and tucked into my book on The Magic of Thinking Big. In the end, I thought, who cares about the surly receptionist or the two gossiping ladies? They’re miserable in jobs they most likely hate—and the world is so much bigger then them. So I inhaled. Filled out my paperwork. And guess what? I got my bank account.  

Comments

[Valeria]

I was also an English Language Assistant in France (Verdun) and I went through a similar experience. I thought that after two years in Madagascar, dealing with African-style administration that continental Europe would be a breeze. Pas de tout! Bank accounts, carte de sejour, national insurance, the program administration, all a nightmare to plow through. My French friends even admitted that it was impossible. Ah, but the good wine, good food and good friends I met along the way made it all worth it. But I felt your pain while reading your banking trials. Courage!

[Linda]

I totally agree with what you , girls , wrote. I've been living in France for ten years. At the beginning, I've experienced the lack of professionnalism from my "counterparts". and still going through it: I studied here and graduated two years ago. I got a well paid job but I still have to go to the Prefecture every year to get a Titre de séjour.

Being black here could be assimilated to a long and hard walk to paradise. Not matter if you rich or not. Money still has color here and great soccer players know that ( William Gallas), Even Oprah couldn't deny it...

Happy new year ...

[Hassan]

Hi Kiratiana!

*HK

[Heidi]

You might find this New Yorker article enlightening: http://www.newyorker.com/archive/1997/08/04/1997_08_04_080_TNY_CARDS_000379278
What it boils down (slightly tongue in cheek, but only a bit) to is that French people would prefer to do their jobs without customers! I live in a city where complete strangers say hello to each other on the street and living in Paris was quite an adjustment (17 years ago!).

[Heidi]

Let me try entering that link again.

[Lesley-Ann Brown]

Moving to another country can sometimes be akin to falling in love. The beginning is a dream, the positive aspects stick out and seem to even slap you in the face. But as time goes on and you begin to settle into the every day life your outsider status begins to become even more burdensome--sometimes, at least. Seems like the French beat the Danes in the customer service department, although the Danes are not that far behind! I'm very proud of you btw for securing that job. Being jobless in a foreign country sucks! Glad you didn't have to find that one out yourself!
Hugs,
lab

[Rasheed Townes]

I can't believe they were this rude to you. Makes me want to fly out there and knock the rude out of them to set them straight. I think I can pull it off too, since the only French I can remember is curse words.

[Lasha]

This was definitely a good article...I'm thinking about moving to Paris after I finish school this year...haven't quite decided...I wish we could exchange email and chat...I would love to hear more about your experiences and challenges...

[Nancy]

All of you ladies absolutely inspire me with your stories. I love paris...have been trying to live there ever since I was 16. Could never figure it out and have just decided this year to save as many euros as possible and just go! Please continue to share your stories! I am a haitian girl born in Chicago with dreams of moving to france. every story is so helpful...your highs and lows just make any other girl with aspirations of living in france smarter. please share the wealth of your knowledge more...would love to be in touch.

[Black Girl in Chicago]

Hey Nancy,

Thanks so much for sharing this information! Are you still in Chicago? I am now in Chicago....

[Ducky]

Hehe.. got the same kind of treatment in NYC and LA. "Uh, it's just a bumbling foreigner with a weird accent, let us make him understand that he's interrupting our leisure."

[Michell Mouton]

You brought me back with this post. I was a black girl in France for a year. I can't count how many moments I had like this during my time there. It really bothered me at first but towards the end of my time there I learned that it was less about them being rude and more about a different set of values when it came to customer service. And when I saw my French friends were being treated the same way I stopped taking it personnally. Sometimes I just gave them a little taste of American attitude. which confused them greatly. : )