Insistently canceling a bank account

Friday morning, I successfully managed to close the bank account that I opened Thursday afternoon.

As you might recall, this bank account that I opened at La Banque Postale came with a confused and overly-friendly bank operator and the minor problem of not being allowed to deposit any money into it for a week. After some soul-searching Thursday night, I figured it would be a better idea to close the whole thing before it was too late and they had already captured my money, and try again with a proper bank.

So first thing Friday morning, quick like a bunny, I scurried into the post office and sat around waiting for my so-helpful-it-hurts incompetent bank man to emerge so I could snatch my papers out from under him before he got a chance to file them away. When it was my turn, he lit up, all excited to see me — little did he know that I was about to break his heart and take my account details elsewhere. We went into his office, and I said, rather timidly in hopes of not hurting his feelings, that I really needed to be able to deposit money immediately, and thus I wanted to cancel the account.

It’s clear that he’s taken this as a personal affront. What do you mean you want to close the account? he says. Don’t you have faith in me? I told you that I’d protect you.

It’s not you, I reply, going for my best commiseration voice. It’s simply the terms of the account; I need to be able to deposit money right away and I can’t wait until next week for it to be open.

But it’s only 5 nights! It’s not a big deal. You’ll be fine until Wednesday or Thursday. I don’t understand; why don’t you trust me?

Listen, I say, switching from kind befuddlement to serious studiousness, this is my own personal situation. I need to close the account. Do you still have the dossier with my papers? Can I just take it back from you and then have the account closed?

With a sigh, he sits down, shuffles through the papers on his desk and finds my folder (sure enough, unfiled as of yet), all the while saying, very hurt, “Je comprends, vous n’avez pas confiance en moi! Je vois, je vois, c’est pas un problème.” (I understand, you don’t trust me! I see, it’s ok, really.) You see, he explains very patiently, this is why I told you not to put any money in when you opened the account, because I knew if you changed your mind, then you wouldn’t be able to get the money out. So see, it’s really very good that you didn’t deposit anything yesterday, because if you had, you wouldn’t have been able to change your mind today! I’ve had Americans do that before, want to change their minds the next day, and that’s why I always advise people to open the account with 0, instead of depositing money immediately. And it was a good idea, wasn’t it?

He writes ANNULÉ across the front of the account form and has me sign beneath it. I ask him to give me back the second copy of my papers – if nothing else, I’ll need the xerox of François’s passport and renting affidavit so I can bring it to a different bank – but he assures me that he doesn’t have them as he had given them back to me the previous day. I was 100% certain that this was not in fact the case. No, he insisted. You have those papers. Remember that nice folder I gave you yesterday, with the flowers on it? Where is that? They’re inside.

I don’t have the folder with me, I explain, but I can assure you that you did not give me back a copy of everything. But if you can’t find them, just give me the dossier with all the originals, and then that will de facto close the account, since you won’t have any of my papers!

Nonononono, he insists. I definitely gave them back to you. Where did you put them? Look, where could they be if I have them? And he goes through a big, exaggerated show of holding up the trash can, looking under the cover of the copy machine, puttering through a few of the many papers scattered across the desk, all, of course, to no avail.

I stare at him and shrug. He pauses for a moment, and then says, upon reflection, You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe I do have your papers! And if you’re right, of course, you’re right, and you should indeed be right. Let’s see. Some more shuffling in a hidden box somewhere and, lo and behold! the other copy of the papers gets magically produced, and he hands them back to be.

Ok. Mission 1 completed: necessary papers procured so I can re-open an account somewhere else. Mission 2, definitely closing this one, and potential Mission 3, getting back all of the papers (i.e., the bank’s copy) so they have no information on me, still uncompleted.

I ask him to give me back the original papers as well, so the account will definitely not be opened, but he says they need the papers in order so that they can close the account. (Don’t ask how this makes sense.) But at this point he’s a bit confused; he’s lost his firm moral standing what with my retraction of confidence in him. I ask if I can just take a quick look at the packet of papers he’s got. He hands them to me, and, very smoothly (if I do say so myself), I remove the xerox of my and François’s passports, all the while assuring him, “I’ll just take these, don’t worry, it’s much easier this way.” Telling him it’s easier makes him complacent. Ok, he says, a bit bewildered. Whatever you say.

So that account is closed, or at least un-openable since they have no official documentation, and I’ve got an appointment with BNP Paribas for Monday morning. Seems I’d gotten my way just by assuring this guy that it was much easier to do things this way. Who can but resist taking the easy way out?

Bizarre Bank Business, round two

Today I remembered why I so badly did not want to close my bank account last year when I left: because I’d have to re-open it were I ever to come back. Now I’m back… and the bank administrative nonsense has begun again.

The problem is that you need an address and a signed lease to open a bank account, so I was waiting until I found an apartment to start the bank process. However, the apartment hunt isn’t going all too well, and I need a bank account to, among other things, get paid (CNRS will only do direct deposit, and only into a French bank account), get a cell phone (they won’t give you a contract and a number without a canceled check), and, if I’m leasing from an actual landlord, then even to rent an apartment (note the circularity!) So what to do? I got my very wonderful friend François (with whom I’m staying, with Kim, in their snazzy house outside of Marseille) to write a letter swearing that I’m lodged at his house, rent free (which is actually true at the moment). This letter, along with a utilities bill and a copy of his passport, when presented to the bank (along with my own passport and assorted bits of information including my monthly income and the number of children I have – note the similarites with my travails the first time around), meant I was deemed an acceptable client to give them my money. I went to La Banque Postale, a bank run by and through the post office, because it was suggested that they might have the lowest fees. When I got there and met with the representative, he immediately decided that we were best friends and, in response to my rather insistent questions about fees, and internet account viewing, and non-French-ATM access, told me not to worry, he’d take care of me: “Ne vous inquiétez pas, mademoiselle. Je vous protège. Si vous avez des problèmes, n’hésitez pas à me demander. Même si à Marseille, moi, je vous protège. Pas de problèmes.” (Don’t worry, mademoiselle. I’ll protect you. If you have any problems, don’t hesitate to ask me. Even in Marseille in general, I’ll protect you. No problem at all.) Well, alright. Opening a bank account is indeed painful, but I need to do it, I’ve already done it once before, and this time, my French is actually good enough that I can understand what the bank person is saying, so it should at least go off smoothly.

Hah.

I’m not getting paid until the end of July, and I need to (a) buy stuff, ya know, like food, for the next month, and (b) pay rent for July if I ever manage to find an apartment. This means I need about 900€, just to be totally safe, for the next month. I have an American bank card that lets me withdraw from European ATMs, but it expires today, so my plan was to get this account open, withdraw 900€ from my American account, deposit it immediately into the newly-opened French one, et voilà! be well on my way to being settled.

My pal the bank man starts filling out my application, first on paper, then by transferring all the same information into a supremely 1990s-looking computer form, all the while stopping and chatting to me about where he was born (Martinique) and how close it is to the US (in the same time zone as the East Coast, and only a two-hour flight to Miami!), that he longs to visit the US so he can travel down Route 66 (ah oui, la route soixante-six!), and that the only English he knows is, “Nice to meet you!” but that all the travel books say you should never say that to any American (duly noted). All at once, watching the bank questionnaire proceedings, I notice a question that asks how much money I want to open the account with. He types 0. I protest that really, I do want to open the account with some money as I want to deposit it right away. No, no, no! he exclaims. Didn’t I tell you that I’d take care of you? It’s much easier to just open the account with nothing in it now, and then deposit money in later. No really, I say, I’d like to deposit some money right now. I’ve got it with me. But no– it’s soooo much easier to deposit it afterwards. Don’t worry, I’ve got it! You can count on me.

We move on, blow through pages more of questions and options that he doesn’t even ask me if I want — at one point, I notice us speeding past the internet vs. paper statements question, so I stop him and say that I want internet access to my account. He obliges, but upon attempting to put in my email address, it throws an error because he’s actually checked off the “receive updates via SMS” box, and, as I don’t have a cell phone (because I don’t have a bank account…), he’s just put in the bank phone number. Unfortunately, the bank phone number, being a land line, can’t receive text messages and thus the computer gives an error saying that the phone number must begin with 06 or 07, the initial digits of all mobiles here. He, however, ignores this message that keeps popping up and continually re-types in the bank’s phone number, regardless of my pleas to simply uncheck the “SMS update” box. After about 5 minutes of me saying exactly the same thing, the SMS box gets unchecked, but at this point it’s unclear if the internet banking is enabled. When I ask about it, he assures me that it’s probably set, but, don’t worry, we can check and take care of it after the account is fully opened.

At this point, another box shows up on the form, asking how much money I’d like to open the account with. As before, he puts in 0; I argue that indeed, I have money that needs to go in; he ignores such arguments and tells me that we can deposit it after I’ve opened the account and to trust him in this, he opened an account for another American just last week. In fact, this box shows up a few more times, and each time I plead with him to enter some amount – even 50 €, look, I honestly have it in my wallet right now! – but he persists.

Some indeterminate amount of time later, we’ve more (or less) successfully navigated all of the questions, I’ve signed several forms, he’s copied all of my paperwork, and the account seems to be open. He informs me that my checks and bank card will be coming in the mail and grudgingly gives me some “only provisional” RIBs (Relevé d’Identité Bancaire – what I need to give out to all these places that need my bank info). When I ask him to do a deposit, however, it seems there’s a teensy tiny problem – the account isn’t exactly open yet; it needs to be processed by the bank so I can’t actually deposit any money until that’s happened. But — well, it’s 4:30 now, and tomorrow’s Friday, but I’ll file it as soon as possible, so it should be ready next week some time, maybe Wednesday or Thursday.

So after all those assurances, I’ve managed to open a bank account, into which I really need to deposit money today, and that’s not even possible to do because the account isn’t open enough. No amounts of suggestions of going back into the account-opening system would cause him to budge, even when I explained the whole 900€ situation. (Note: I’m not actually carrying 900€ around with me; I ended up not withdrawing it from my American account at all because I had nowhere to put it.) He was quite nonchalant about the whole having-gobs-of-money-in-my-pocket-for-several-days situation. Some protector indeed.

I got back home and François expressed great distaste for the Banque Postale and roundly assured me that he would never have an account there because they really don’t have any idea what they’re doing, which quite indeed seemed to be the case. Given these issues, I’m actually going to try to go back tomorrow morning first thing and see if I can head the account off before it’s sent down the opening tubes, and maybe just cancel the whole caboodle and try again at a different bank.

Sigh. And I thought it’d be easier this time around, now that I know how France works.

Legality!

New feature! For those of you, devoted fans, who do not want to be subject to my fickleness in publishing, you can subscribe by email or RSS and receive automatic updates! (Though I promise I’m going to get more consistent at posting…) ———————————->

As of two days ago, only 7 months after my arrival in Marseille and the beginning of my contract with a governmental agency, I am no longer an undocumented alien worker but a legal foreign scientist! How very liberating.

Though I needed a work visa before I could even leave the US and I received a temporary Carte de Sejour a couple months later when the visa ran out, this temporary card expired way back in January and my attempts at renewal were met with complete non-responses from my unhelpful CNRS Representative. (Ironically, when I first arrived, I was assured that as a CNRS employee, rather than a student, the agency would take care of all of my immigration needs so I wouldn’t have to deal with this ugly bureaucracy myself.)

I was told I had to wait for an official summoning from the Prefecture before I could receive my permanent card, so I waited. Waited through the expiration of my temporary card, waited through the application for a second temporary card, and waited as it became clear that this second application was never going to be processed and I was thus probably not technically working legally anymore.

Then, glory be, at the end of January (note: 5 months post-arrival), I got my postcard in the mail telling me I could go to the Prefecture to pick up my real Carte de Sejour!

J’ai l’honneur de vous informer que le titre de séjour que vous avez sollicité est a votre disposition…

When I went to the Prefecture, Window B, where I was supposed to present my documents, was closed, and there was a monstrous line queued up for the other windows. I wandered around until I found an unoccupied employee, showed her the postcard, and explained the Window B dilemma.

Luckily for me, she quizzed me on the items I had brought. Yes, along with the postcard for my appointment, I had my passport, my temporary card, and this special stamp of 300 Euros. How about my official medical certificate? No. She claimed I should have received an appointment with a government doctor and that I couldn’t get my card until I had been checked for various diseases. I argued that this wasn’t necessary for me because on the list of things I needed to present to pick up my card, the line with “certificat medical” had been crossed out, much like the 70 Euro fee line had been crossed out (and 300 Euros written in its place).

This woman was not convinced and told me to go away until I had been convoked and had my medical certificate in-hand. Could I go to any old doctor to get checked out? No, only the official doctors could perform the requisite tests. So could I call up these doctors to schedule an appointment? Again, no – I had to wait until they contacted me and gave me whatever appointment they felt like. Hopefully I’d be in town.

So the waiting recommenced. I waited while I flew home on a spur-of-the-moment grad school interview process and then back to France (entering on a tourist visa this time).

After a while I started harassing the secretary of the lab to harass the CNRS HR person to figure out what was going on with my medical appointment. Unfortunately, it seemed to be nothing, until last week – when I got a letter informing me I was being convoked on Tuesday at 8:30am chez les medecins.

I arrived at the office to find an enormous crowd of people murmuring angrily in front of a pair of doors. It wasn’t clear to me how one gained access to this inner sanctum, which was presumably where the official doctors did their sacred check-up work. I had an appointment, but I assumed all these other angry people did too, so I milled around a bit trying to figure out what was going on. Extremely fortunately for me, a woman who entered just after me pushed her way up to the doors and marched right in. Since no one threw her out, I figured this was a good plan of action and so did the same.

I wandered up a couple of flights of stairs, handed my appointment slip to the receptionists, who had a discussion between themselves about whether I was worthy to pass to the examination. As one of them glanced through my file, she said, “Ah, elle a été convoké par Isabelle!” and promptly ushered me in. Apparently Isabelle is someone good to have as your convoker.

After more waiting around, some routine exams and an x-ray of my lungs (which I got to keep!) they gave me my approved medical certificates and I marched right off to the Prefecture with them to get my card. More waiting around (but nothing particularly unexpected), and 3 hours after I began, I became the proud owner of a French Carte de Sejour! I am now legal and official and can pretend I’m a tiny bit European.

And since the card lists the type of visa I have, I am now officially a card-carrying scientist.

Vélo

Marseille started this ingenious bike-rental system a few years back, along with several other French cities, whereby you can borrow a bike from one of many stands throughout the city for half-hour blocks for free. The idea was to encourage people to use the bikes for short trips (commuting, grocery shopping, going around the neighborhood) instead of taking cars or even public transit. Great idea, huh?

It was an absolutely gorgeous fall weekend – mid-teens Celcius/low 60s Fahrenheit, slightly cloudy and no wind. The leaves are beginning to turn and fall down, too, so it’s pretty much ideal bike riding weather. Drivers are somewhat insane here, so I wouldn’t want to bike to work, for example, but there’s much less traffic (both car and foot) on Sundays, so I ventured out to the vélo stand a couple minutes from my house to see how the bike rental process worked.

In a word: it didn’t.

You have two options for buying a subscription: a short-term pass, good for 1 week, which costs 1€, or a long-term pass, good for 1 year, which costs 5€. Planning ahead, I decided to get a long-term pass, but after pressing a bunch of buttons and navigating through six different screens, I learned you can only do this online.

I walked back home, fired up my laptop, put in all my information – and then they told me I needed to print out a form and mail it in to activate the subscription.

Well, I decide I really want this bike ride, so what the heck, I’ll suck it up and pay an extra Euro for a short-term pass. I go back out to the stand, punch a billion buttons again, and voilà! I have a week-long pass. I pick out a bike, retrieve it from its stand, and I’m good to go.

Not exactly. Turns out this bike had a flat tire, which I didn’t notice before I took it out. So back to the kiosk, where I punch in all my codes again to return the bike. When I try to borrow another bike from the same stand, though, it tells me I can’t. Maybe there’s a minimum amount of time that needs to elapse between when you can return a bike and re-borrow one from the same stand?

I look at the map of stand locations and see there’s another one just a block away. No big deal, I think – I’ll just go over there! At stand #2, I punch my numbers in yet again and select a bike – only to be told there’s an error and sorry, no bike is available (even though there were two bikes sitting right there).

However, this has only increased my determination to be able to go for a bike ride. I go back to the initial stand, punch my numbers in for the nth time, check the other available bike for flat tires and other undesirable characteristics, and then check it out. When I go to the stand to unlock it and, finally, get to ride through the city, I can’t yank the bike out of its stand. It’s completely stuck.

No matter how hard I pull, or at what angle, or while holding down the button on the stand – nothing is getting this bike released. Unfortunately, when I go to the kiosk to look at my account, it says I have a bike charged out. So even though the bike never released from its stand, the machine thinks I have it borrowed. I try to jam it back into the stand while telling the kiosk I’m returning it, but to no avail. I can’t get it either in or out, it’s borrowed on my account, and, predictably, the customer service line is closed because it’s Sunday night.

It’s clear I’m not going to get to ride now, but at this point, I’d settle for just not having a 150€ fee deducted from my bank account. I call a friend here, in a bit of a panic, and explain the situation. He tells me not to worry because this stuff happens all the time – just call the company up in the morning, explain the situation, and they’ll credit back my account.

Sigh.

This morning, not at all looking forward to it because talking on the phone in French is rather frightening (it’s much more difficult than talking face-to-face), I grudgingly call the bike rental number, after looking up all of the vocabulary I think might conceivably be necessary for navigating this conversation.

The phone call lasted about 3 minutes – I explained what happened and gave her my account number, she told me there had been a computer problem last night, and then credited everything back to my account. 1-2-3; pas des problèmes! Wow.

This is pretty indicative of how things work here in France. Great ideas that, in theory, ooze simplicity and ease of access and egalitarianism. In practice, though, they have huge glitches that waste oodles of time and produce mountains of frustration, but ultimately are solved in a snap because the overarching agency has seen all of these problems before.

Lesson learned: start to think more like a Frenchman: don’t worry, be happy – no need for stress or hurry or distress, things just work themselves out.

Getting a library card

Today I became the proud owner of a Ville de Marseille library card! (This brings my grand total to 5, including: Metuchen, Iowa City, Providence, and the Library of Congress.)

This was the fourth time I’d gone to the library to apply for a card: first I didn’t have enough money (like everything else here, a municipal library card has a yearly subscription fee); next I didn’t have sufficient proof of address (and I managed to go several blocks in the wrong direction and subsequently get caught in the absolutely torrential rain) and the third time, even though I’d specifically planned to go to the library, I managed to forget to take both enough money and my proof of address. Fourth time’s the charm, it seems.

When I arrived, there was a huge cluster of people sitting around the subscription counter, waiting for their turn to be called up – apparently Tuesday evening is a popular time for getting a library card. I sat down to wait. Next to me was a 20-something-looking woman reading through a pile of kids’ books. I stared inquisitively. She laughed when she saw me looking at her reading material and asked what I was reading, and we got into this great conversation. (Turns out she’s a master’s student in economics, and is here in Marseille for 5 months for an internship. She was reading the kids’ books because the big pile of them happened to be next to her and she got bored waiting for everyone ahead of her to get processed.) We got to be great pals over the next 45 minutes, waiting our turns. (This is why I love libraries.)

When it was finally my turn, I went up, handed over my passport and proof of address, and got out my checkbook, ready to fork over 21€. But the woman working waved the checkbook away (just as it was dawning on me that there seem to be different lines on French checks and I don’t know what to write on them), telling me it was ok, I didn’t have to pay, because we had the same birthday. She then leaned toward me and whispered something I didn’t understand, but it was clearly the French equivalent of “keep this on the down-low, alright?”

Well, that was certainly a coup. Apparently it’s handy being born on February 9.