Upsizing with difficulty - a buyer's tale

After the recent "Vendor's tale" which recounted the successful sale of a property I owned in central France, I found myself with some spare cash in the bank.

Not a fortune mind you -  not by any stretch of the imagination.

Now, there seemed to me, a couple of options as to what I could do with the money.

Either I could go on a Viv Nicholson type (within limits of course) "spend, spend, spend" frenzy, frittering the money away on things I probably didn't need or want.

Alternatively I could put the whole bundle into savings and wait for the current excuse of a government to decide how best to get its hands on any interest accrued by levying a tax...a  move it was rumoured to be considering retroactively and over which it got itself into yet another fine Laurel and Hardy mess a couple of months ago.

Or - and this seemed the most sensible choice - I could invest in bricks and mortar and "upsize" my apartment in the Paris region.

Now househunting - or rather flat hunting - in Paris and its burbs, is quite a different ball game to looking for the home of your dreams in the countryside.

For starters, property - especially if it's located in the right sort of area - seems to sell more quickly.

I knew "upsizing" would swallow up most of my savings and require me to put my current appartment on the market.

What I didn't know was that the search for more-or-less (I couldn't afford - in all senses of the word - to be too choosy) the right place would be more difficult than I had envisaged.

Especially as it was supposed to be a buyer's market.

Anyway the hunt was on.

And as I had had such a positive experience with Leboncoin as a vendor (although it had been ruddy hard work) I decided to try the same approach as a buyer, combining it with the use of estate agents.

I wanted to stick to roughly the same area of my current flat or move to the neighbouring town. In either case I defined a maximum of half a dozen streets in, what estate agent jargon, is called the triangle d'or.

The budget was a combination of the money I had already received from the sale of the house and that expected from the eventual sale of my present apartment.

And I was equally clear on what sort of place I was looking for; it had to be old with parquet and original features.

I waited for the estate agents' response, all the while looking at the small ads myself on Leboncoin.

Maybe it's a Paris thing - but the estate agents with which I registered - three in total - inevitably sent through properties that came on to their books which roughly (in their eyes) corresponded to what I was looking for.

That often meant 40,000 or 50,000 euros over the maximum budget (even with a margin for negotiation that was pushing it, I thought) - and the wrong area entirely.

And their behaviour often left me perplexed.

While some were punctual and helpful in answering my questions as straightforwardly and comprehensively as possible, others simply didn't seem to know very much about the places they were showing me.

"Where are the radiators?" I asked one during a visit.

"Er...I'm not sure," he replied as he rang back to home base to discover that the flat was heated by an air pulsé (no, I didn't know what it was either) system located in the cave and apparently installed back in the dark ages.

"Would it be possible to visit it, to check it out?" I asked.

"Well I don't have the keys on me at the moment but it should be possible during a second visit."

He didn't - produce the keys, I mean - on that counter visit and I lost interest.

There was also of course, the agent who missed an appointment completely, leaving me waiting at the agency for over half an hour with a colleague insisting that he would be arriving any moment now.

When the 30 minutes were up, I had had enough - and left. One hour later I received a call.

No apology or even an excuse - just telling me that he would be available to see the property the following evening.

No thank you. Goodbye.

And those properties I saw.

Did the agents follow through wanting feedback? For the most part, did they heck as like.

None of them (thank goodness) tried to close on the sale.

They weren't pushy. Their job seemed to consist entirely of showing me around, answering questions as best they could and letting me take the initiative.

If I didn't buy, they seemed to know that another potential purchaser was just around the corner.

Over at Leboncoin, things weren't going quite as swimmingly as I had hoped.

Several properties seemed to fit my spec perfectly - at least in theory.

The reality of the visits though, proved to be a disappointment.

They had been beautifully (in the eyes of the current owners) renovated to the very highest "do-it-yourself" standards by those who clearly shouldn't...have done it themselves, I mean.

And of the dozen or so I saw, more than half of them didn't live up to the description happily and unimaginatively borrowed from the estate agent's thesaurus.

"Ready to move in to" said one.

Except there was no heating (the place had previously been rented and the tenants had presumably used oil radiators) and the bathroom was a hovel.

"All the charm of the old with a touch of the modern," said another which turned out to mean that the cuisine americaine (and I'm not a huge fan at the best of times) gave out on to the...hall!

"A lovely ground floor flat" with a garden offered the promise of "a haven of peace" (I kid you not) in the middle of the city. Except it was just a con.

The terrace was a couple of slabs of concrete overlooked by...well anyone who wanted to and could.

Another ground floor apartment with a green garden this time was a non-starter because on arrival I discovered that the owner had scheduled visits en masse (convenient for her, not for potential buyers) and one of the rooms was off limits because her young daughter was asleep!

"Hello? Did she want to sell or was she intent on wasting my time?" I asked as I left early not waiting for her response.

And another property in a "quiet residential street" was exactly that...except there was a ruddy great big building site next door.

Sadly Leboncoin didn't come up trumps for me this time around and it was instead through an estate agent that I finally found what I had been looking for.

And then of course the "fun" began as I bargained down the price (well, I ain't such a "fool and his money"), had my offer accepted and tried to fix a date to sign the compromis de vente.

Because I was initially told the date on which it would be signed was the one that would be most convenient for HIM - the estate agent - and not the one I had suggested.

Er pardon? Did I hear correctly? Was I buying or was it the estate agent?

I stood my ground.

"Could you send me a copy of the compromis before the signature?" I asked. "It'll save time and allow me to correct any mistakes in advance."

It also meant I could run it past my notaire. She was woman I had used several times somebody I trusted.

"No problem," he said after my second 'phone call asking once again for the compromis to be emailed to me ahead of time.

And it was just as well I insisted a third time (sigh) because I saw that my date of birth had been messed up (mind you, making me one year and one month younger, so I suppose I shouldn't complain) my middle name had become "Bareth" and my nationality...well, it was now - without having gone through the naturalisation process - "French"!

All's well that end's well (roll out the clichés). The bridging loan is in place and the final signature is set for this afternoon while the sale on my current flat is due the middle of March.

That'll give me time to have the renovation and redecoration done (no I'm not going to turn my two left hands to either) and gradually move what furniture I plan to keep.

The rest will be flogged on Leboncoin. Where else?

But that's it for the buying and selling game.

I've had more than my fill...until the next time that is.

SNCF industrial (in)action - Oh joy!

Friends on Facebook (and there aren't that many of them, I have to admit) might know that, in a manner of speaking,  I've recently put the car "out to pasture".

On seconds thoughts, perhaps winter hibernation would be more appropriate.

I'm tired of driving the length and breadth of the country, inevitably getting stuck in rush hour Paris traffic and/or motorway tailbacks.

Besides, now the days are shorter, I'm not that keen on having to drive when it's dark.

So instead I've had to rely on public transport.

Whoopee!

Now, as I have a fear of flying, and in spite of taking two courses over the years with both Lufthansa and Air France to cope with my anxiety, I try to avoid it if I can.

So my travel options have been limited to...well, the train.

And the least that can be said is that over the past couple of months I've had some less than magical mystery tours courtesy of SNCF.



First up there was an hour's delay on an outward bound trip from Toulouse to Paris.

The usual platitudes were offered in the form of a half-meant apology while on the train and an email to inform me afterwards that SNCF "regretted any inconvenience but as the delay had not been sufficiently long they would not be offering any compensation".

In oither words, even though I hadn't asked for anything, I was being told to get stuffed if I even contemplated the notion of complaining.

All well and good.

Service at its desperate worst.

The return trip proved to be no better with the TGV (now there's a pseudo-acronym surely) coming to a halt several times on its journey from Paris to Bordeaux and then crawling along at its usual snail's pace's to complete the final 210 or so kilometres to Toulouse.

Yep, SNCF has the trains but not the track to serve France's fourth largest city.

Some sort of power failure on the line meant that the train was, "40 minutes...one hour...90 minutes...and finally three hours behind schedule" as the guard helpfully informed passengers.

A few days later there was another email from SNCF once again "apologising for any inconvenience" but this time offering 50 per cent off the purchase of my next ticket.

I would rather have had a flat screen television (I've been living with the current monster for the past 15 years) but that's another story.

Fast forward a fortnight and there I am happily keeping my Facebook "friends" informed (why do I do that? It's akin to posting pictures of food...a practice of which I'm also guilty) of my progress on another Paris-Toulouse return trip.

"Just leaving Bordeaux," I wrote. "And we're ON TIME." Words I should never have uttered, albeit it virtually.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Your attention please," began the announcement over the train's tannoy.

"After an accident at a level crossing at Castelsarrasin, all circulation on the lines to and from Toulouse has been suspended for an indefinite  period. This train will now terminate at Agen. I repeat, this train will now terminate at Agen. Buses will be laid on to allow passengers to continue their journeys to Montauban and Toulouse. SNCF would like to apologise for any inconvenience and thank you for your understanding (as if we had any sort of alternative)."

You could hear the collective sigh...no groan. This was bang in the middle of the school holidays and the train was heaving.

A chance for SNCF to pull out all the stops and prove it really was the master of improvisation when faced with the unexpected.

Yeah. Right.

Picture the scene. Agen. A train full of people disembarking and, even though "information" had been given ahead of time on board the train, there was nobody around at the station to tell them where to go (although more than a few passengers probably felt the grumbling desire to tell SNCF "where it could go").

Bus terminus in Agen

Granted, there was an almost inaudible message over the loudspeaker telling the 400 + to make their way from the railway station to the neighbouring bus terminus.

But apart from that nothing; and just a single member of staff looking on in bemused fashion as everyone shuffled their way past, hoping it wouldn't be long before they reached the promised land of buses.

Some stood in bays looking as they knew what they were doing and where the buses would arrive. But how could they? Nobody had been provided with information because there didn't appear to be any information to provide.

A bus arrived and a section of the crowd surged forwards, only to discover this was a local service and not one of those "specials".

It was far from being an isolated incident as the minutes ticked away and local buses came and went.

"There taking the mickey out of us," one French woman said to me as we watched yet another bus arrive and make its way to a bay followed by a quarter of the train's passengers only to accelerate and leave empty.

"They're taking a lot more than that," I replied.

Finally the first of those special buses arrived and with it, as if from nowhere, a bevy of SNCF heavies...or security guards.

You could tell they would be needed as there was once again a crush to board the bus.

400 into one simply wouldn't go.

"Stand back please and allow those travelling with small children to board first," yelled one of the guards. "There will be several more buses arriving shortly. Stand back."

He was right. A few minutes later a couple more arrived: one bound for Toulouse the other for Montauban. Only nobody seemed to be certain which was which.

Both filled up quickly and left.

A quarter of an hour later along came another three and after yet more confusion over their destinations, departed.

That just left 30 or so souls remaining (including yours truly of course) and as happens on such occasions when waiting for a bus, four came along at the same time.

"Bon voyage" chirruped an SNCF guard as he waved off the last of us off into the night. A job done to the best of his ability probably given the tools with which he had to work.

Since then my trips have been relatively uneventful - well apart from the train I was informed three weeks ahead of time would be leaving five minutes before scheduled but when I turned up early at the station I discovered it was 30 minutes late.

Still I shouldn't complain.

Until today that is.

Because with a train booked to Marseille and a long-awaited trip to visit the European Capital of Culture 2013 before it's too late,

I've just discovered that my train is one of those cancelled by strike action beginning on Wednesday evening.

http://www.rtl.fr/actualites/info/politique/article/greve-sncf-les-previsions-de-trafic-7767783242

SNCF even sent a very helpful email telling me what to do (in the nicest possible way). I may still use the ticket on any train from Toulouse to Marseille but won't be guaranteed a seat.

SNCF email

Marvellous. I can take a trip down memory lane to my student InterRailing days complete with rucksack and squat in the corridor for four hours.

Don't think so.

Or I can try to exchange my ticket for one aboard another train that (fingers crossed) will be running. For that of course, I'll have to pay a supplement as the ticket I have is one of those cheapo deals.

Or I can cancel my trip entirely and be reimbursed.

Or I can get the sodding car out of the garage and drive.

Bon voyage.

Terminal 2E Charles de Gaulle airport, Paris - a traveller's nightmare

I've been meaning to write about this before as a word of warning to anyone who might be unlucky enough to arrive at, or leave from, the main airport in Paris, Roissy-Charles de Gaulle, at Terminal 2E.

But now after a second dose of 2E "Terminalitis" in less than a month, it seemed like the appropriate time to "share".

Quite simply put, the place is a nightmare - still. And it must leave even the most seasoned traveller bewildered.

You might remember that Terminal 2E didn't get off to the best of starts.

Designed by the French architect, Paul Andreu, it opened in 2003 to a hullaballoo and was described as "a stylish triumph of innovative yet practical design".

Just 11 months later of course, part of the terminal collapsed, killing four people and injuring several others.

It has since been rebuilt, and for the past year has been up and running, functioning "properly" or so the Airport authority would have us believe.

The problem is that while the main reconstruction work has been finished, there's still a fair amount of tidying-up that needs to be done.

It's a mess.

At the beginning of March, I had the misfortune of arriving at the crack of dawn at Terminal 2E on a long haul flight from Singapore.

The contrast between the two airports couldn't have been greater.

While order, calm and superb design had made the experience at Changi one to relish, the arrival in Paris brought me right back to earth - with a bump.

After arriving at a far flung gate, passengers were then expected to follow the signs leading to the in-airport train to the main terminal.

There was then a marathon walk to passport control with orange-clad ground staff directing confused passengers past cordoned-off areas (a feature of Terminal 2E) to the inevitable queues as European Union citizens looked for the chance of taking the "fast lane" rather than standing behind those from outside of the 27-nation bloc.

Any advantage gained once through was quickly lost when arriving at baggage reclaim.

The Singapore flight shared the same carousel as earlier 'planes arriving from Montreal and Ouagadougou (the capital of the West African country of Burkina Faso, in case you were wondering).

This wonderful bit of French planning resulted in the reclaim belt being chockablock with luggage from those two other flights as obviously many of the passengers were still stuck, waiting at passport control.

It also meant that the "intelligent" baggage delivery service, which automatically slotted a case onto the carousel whenever a space was available, was unable to function properly because there was simply no space available.

The main conveyor belt was full.

Nor was there any ground staff around to help create gaps by pushing cases closer to one another, or taking them off the belt and putting them to one side.

So the result? It was left to those bleary-eyed passengers to sort out the mess themselves by packing the existing luggage together more tightly on the belt thereby creating some space - which is what they duly did.

Bienvenue to Terminal 2E!

Fast forward to last Thursday and a flight out of Paris to New York's JFK, and ominously the electronic ticketing details listed - you've guessed it - flight boarding at Terminal 2E.

Groan.

"Still at least it would provide proof that departures cannot be as nightmarish as arrivals," I thought.

Wrong.

Air France - along with many other airlines - now offers passengers the chance to check-in on the Internet before arriving at the airport.

In theory it saves times (and personnel) and means you get to choose your seat.

Except of course with Terminal 2E, it doesn't really work the way it should.

Well it wouldn't, would it?

And that's especially true if you have extra luggage that can't be taken as carry-on. A fair bet on a long-distance flight.

Non-US passengers travelling to the States still had to stand in line to have details checked and show they'd completed their Electronic System for Travel Authorisation (ESTA).

Then there was another queue to "deposit" luggage and receive the boarding pass.

Next up was another line for passport control before taking Terminal 2E's very own magical mystery tour.

That of course included more orange-clad ground staff, more cordoned-off areas, that in-airport train, and those impossibly long queues at security as departing passengers did battle with those making connecting flights to see who could struggle through first.

All under the watchful and hapless direction of even more orange-clad ground staff.

Finally after all that, the boarding gate loomed somewhere at the back of beyond, and everyone who made it already looked completely shattered from the experience.

Passengers are advised to turn up at least two hours ahead of time for a transatlantic flight.

Believe me, if you're leaving from Terminal 2E you'll need every minute of that - and then some.

_________________________________________

Postscript.

Sunday evening at New York's JFK sitting at the gate waiting for my return flight and scribbling away in longhand.

Once again the mess that is 2E has been brought home to me by being here.

Plane(sic)-sailing all the way. The Internet check-in (or Web check-in as it's called here) works like a dream.

Passport control was a breeze.

Security is of course rigourous (belt, shoes, jacket, computer etc) but there are no snaking, waiting lines or interminable queues that seem to be a feature of European airports.

And all in all I skedaddled through without any problems.

Just one downside - knowing that I'll be arriving the other end at Terminal 2E.