Day 1: Sweet dreams Sofia

After our partial (total) failure to harness the power of the interwebz, we realised we were going to have to go to Paris in person and look around. Day 1 of our search on the ground began in high hopes; enter Claire Boulay (whom we christened Geoffrey in memory of Jere-Natalie). Claire-Geoffrey introduced himself as follows:

Sofia, I really appreciate your kind mail and interest in the apartment however, I would like to make a instruction of my self briefly, I am Anne-Cecile Claire Boulay by name, a 25 years old student studying Electronic and Electrical engineering at the University of Lyon and currently on Internship with Sony Entertainment INC, Spain, I am currently in a relationship while, my parent are based on the United Kingdom with my fiancé

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Sweet dreams

Claire Boulay

THE FLAT OF OUR DREAMS. 

Now, although sweet dreams (especially in retrospect) is a rather unnerving way to sign off an email, Anne-Cecile Claire Boulay from the University of Lyon is a fairly French sounding sort of person. French enough that the discrepancies in the English weren't enough to arouse suspicions. The apartment still looked too good to be true (2 bedrooms, 1^st arrondissement, 500 euros/month each) but the pictures were very detailed and, crucially, we were allowed to go visit and meet the current tenants. All we had to do was collect the building code from the restaurant next door, quoting the name of Claire-Geoffrey's 'Daddy' Ray, then go in and knock. Easy.

So off to Les Halles in the 1^st we trot. We won't even need to go look at the others. This will be perfect, the FLAT OF OUR DREAMS. We'll check it all out, have a good chat to the current tenants (who will be lovely people and tell us that Claire-Geoffrey and her daddy are saintly landlords) and then off to see the sights of Paris we shall go. Glorious.

Then we hit snag number one. The restaurant don't have the code for THE FLAT OF OUR DREAMS. Bugger. What's more, it seems the Italian staff have had several people ask, as they immediately know what we want and brush us off. Somewhat crestfallen, we question a couple of random bystanders before resolving to go away, follow up some other leads, email Claire-Geoffrey and come back later.

So off we trek to the 7^th arrondissement. We could have got the Metro, of course we could. But it's a scorchingly hot day and only a short walk, says Tom. A short walk, that is, for a 6+ foot guy who lives in the hilly countryside and is wearing comfy trainers. Not so short if you're a petite Italian wearing shoes that promptly choose to melt on the super-heated Parisian flagstones. Definitely even less short when the aforementioned gentleman is in charge of navigation but neglects to mention that the furthest he got in learning to read a map was ripping his copy of the Ordnance Survey in half whilst trying to open it in during a year 7 geography lesson.

Ok, all in all it might have been a bit far. We do at least get to meet a lovely gypsy man on the Pont Neuf who pretends to find a gold (brass) ring on the floor, gives it to us, makes as if to leave and then comes back asking for money. Tom caves ('only because he made me laugh!') and gives him a euro, to which he seems to take mortal offence as it's 'même pas un sandwich!' Oh come on, it's a croissant at least.

Unperturbed we move on over the bridge, cutting through Les Invalides in all its doggy poo-covered glory (it's France, people never pick it up, plus it was too warm for the pavement sweepers). Eventually we reach the offices of an estate agent who Fia found online. Oh, sweet bliss, air con. But although his ventilation system is much appreciated, his rental prices definitely are not and are far outside our maximum budget.

With our prospects of finding somewhere steadily diminishing, we cast around for somewhere to grab a drink and maybe eat. Not much of a challenge in a city that has more Michelin stars than any other (actually, this isn't true at all – Osaka, Kyoto and Tokyo in Japan are all far more decorated by the eponymous Guide than the so-called capital of gastronomy). We settle on McDonald's. Yes, McDonald's. Tom registers his disgust by refusing to buy anything and hogging the free WiFi.

Having acquired some criminally expensive blister plasters for Fia's somewhat tattered feet, we decide to use the Metro from now on and make a trip over to the American church to check the notice board and pick up a copy of FUSAC. Both are, as it turns out, extremely handy if you're an English speaker in Paris in need of accommodation or employment. Or indeed, companionship and a good spanking as advertised in the lonely hearts section of the magazine. With our number of potential leads now greatly increased but still in need of cheering up, we elect to go shoe shopping (retail therapy, Fia's idea), find somewhere to eat (gastronomic therapy, Tom's idea) and then go back and knock on the door to Claire-Geoffrey's FLAT OF OUR DREAMS and leave a note (both agreed).

Once back in the 1^st arrondissement, Fia makes a beeline for H&M. To Tom's surprise, despite not appreciating the finer subtleties of purple with black or black with purple, this turns out to be a relatively swift and pain-free experience. Then we cast about for somewhere to eat. Guess where? Paris... culinary capital.. Michel-blah blah blah McDonald's. This time the fast food eco-warrior caves and orders a Big Mac. Nom. Well, not really, but it served a purpose.

Feeling slightly ill as we stagger out of McDo we soldier on back to THE FLAT OF OUR DREAMS and, guess what, once again no one is there. Tom carefully crafts a pleading note to the current tenants in French, which Fia then has to write out again because his handwriting is so terrible. Agonisingly, as we turn the corner to post our letter under the door a man enters THE FLAT OF OUR DREAMS, but closes the door before we can catch his attention. We knock, but to little effect.

So, despondent and in a thoroughly bad temper we wander back to our hotel to watch Pirates of the Carribean. Jonny Depp's weather-beaten good looks do nothing to improve Fia's mood, nor do topless mermaids and Penelope Cruz's cleavage help Tom's disposition (ok, that last bit's a lie). Fia doesn't make it through the whole film and turns in early.

Sweet dreams Sofia.