Day 2: The sun does not love black people

We awake not-so-early the next morning – Fia from a restless night spent pondering the prospect of homelessness, Tom after a more agreeable slumber filled with Penelope Cruz-inspired thoughts. Mmm, Penelope Cruz.

Ahem. Having missed breakfast, Tom heads down for a drink from the vending machine and a verbal altercation with the hotel staff after the dispenser swallows his money but fails to come up with the promised goods. While he does so, Fia starts looking online for a phone number for THE FLAT OF OUR DREAMS. Success, a man called Ray ('Daddy Ray'!?) appears to own the flat and his number is listed. Positively ecstatic at the prospect of bona fide verbal contact, she dials the number.

Daddy Ray answers. They exchange pleasantries. Fia mentions Claire-Geoffrey. Daddy Ray sounds confused. He doesn't have a daughter called Claire, much less Claire-Geoffrey. Boulay? His surname isn't Boulay and never has been. Then everything clicks together as he explains that he put the apartment up for rent some time ago online and that someone has taken the photos and is using them to attempt to scam innocent, moon eyed young house-hunters like ourselves. He gets these sorts of phone calls, emails and letters under the door all the time he says. No, the apartment is no longer available for rent.

Oh bugger.

Tom wanders back in, still feeling somewhat miffed over the loss of his Evian, but equally pleased that his French was still good enough to let that slag of a receptionist have it over the counter (make of that what you will). Naively he sits down and waits for Fia to finish her phone call to Ray, blissfully unaware that a Sicilian volcano is about to erupt with fiery, molten ire within the small confines of our room.

Cue a lovely email to Claire-Geoffrey (on second thoughts, definitely just Geoffrey now). Fia makes clear her surprise at Geoffrey's lack of planning, offers some soundly-reasoned advice on how the business could be improved and expresses her heartfelt desire that Geoffrey 'get AIDS and die', before signing off 'Best wishes, Sofia.' One can't help but think Geoffrey might not take her message entirely to heart, but it was cathartic nevertheless.

We sit down for a few moments, not speaking. Then we try to look at the positives. Geoffrey didn't get any money from us, nor photos and personal details to clone our identities. Who are we kidding though, coming to see THE FLAT OF OUR DREAMS was a major reason for our trip and we cannot help but feel we've wasted our time and money.

After a call to Fia's mother, who on loudspeaker plays a dulcet Vesuvius to her daughter's Etna, we decide to start scouring FUSAC with pen, phone and laptop at the ready until we find a place. A number of potential leads come to nothing as they have already been taken or want to find tenants who will stay longer than we. Finally we come across an ad for a place in Chelles (to the east of Paris itself). 400 euros/month. Wow, not bad. A quick phone call and we have a viewing for that very afternoon.

Now we just have to get there. Train into Paris, train out again and we're in the right town at least, after a minor incident at Gare de l'Est where Fia gets stuck on the wrong side of the barrier without a ticket. Now to find the place. We traipse off down the leafy boulevards, most of them named for famous French people in true pretentious Parisian style. It's all very pretty though. Yes, we could definitely see ourselves living here, in a spacious stone villa with shutters and an outdoor pool. We'll sip Chablis by the water's edge in the blazing sun, recite poetry and debate the finer points of fine dining. It'll all be so distinguished, so cultured.

We find the road (sorry, the boulevard) without trouble, but the house numbers confuse us a bit. Searching for house 36, we pass 34 and 35, followed by a construction site, but the houses from then on don't seem to be numbered properly. All the buildings have high surrounding walls so you can't see in. Flummoxed, we give the landlady a ring to confirm her location; she says she'll come out to meet us. So we wait. We can almost taste the Chablis. Then the gate in front of the building site opens.

Oh dear.

Out comes a little, middle-aged Frenchwoman. As she ushers us through, the sound of drills does little to alleviate our concerns. We are taken around the side of the building works to a small house at the back; well at least the rooms aren't still to be completed. Oh but they are. The first room is a poky converted living room without enough space to swing the cat which has just followed us in (not that you'd want to, she's adorable). No curtains, paint peeling, cupboard doors looking like they want to fall off. Not promising. The second room is still to be decorated, still to have the dining table removed and still to have a corridor built in one half of it so that the Korean girl living upstairs can access the only staircase in the house. We briefly spot said girl, timid and wide-eyed, before she legs it off back to her lair. We can't decide if she was just in a rush or terrified of the demon landlady.

Actually, that's unfair, the owner is lovely.

But her house is still shit.

We walk away, promising that we'll consider it carefully. Like hell we will. Off we go to shelter from the heat and to grab a hideously expensive drink in the restaurant opposite the station. Fia pays because Tom cleverly forgot to bring his debit card (twat). As penance, once back at Gare de l'Est he is once more forced to participate in some retail therapy, this time far less tolerable as Fia doesn't actually buy anything, instead just gazing at the shiny stuff. At least Tom gets the fruit off her cake (no euphemism intended) in the little eatery place attached to the station because, according to Fia, fruit is gross. Still dejected, we stretch our legs a bit and walk to Gare du Nord. The train back is roastingly, blisteringly hot. Fortunately we are in a carriage that doesn't have too many people in it.

Other people have clearly observed this too and in race two black (this isn't bigotry, the colour of their skin is pertinent) men, panting for air. One pronounces loudly to the carriage 'C'est du génocide là-bas, ça tue les noirs.'

Stunned silence. Race killings on a suburban Parisian train? A bit much to believe perhaps, even if racism is purportedly rife amongst the francilian police; shock and disbelief show on several faces. Turning to us, the people closest to him, he explains 'la chaleur, c'est trop.' After hearing the accent in our reply, he elaborates in English, 'the sun does not love black people.'

Phew, no mass murder, just a spot of sunstroke.

Still not sure if this guy is for real and not on drugs as he seems MENTAL, we keep the conversation going. Not that he needs much help, proclaiming loudly his love for Manchester United and carnivals in London. Then his phone rings, he picks up and suddenly his voice drops to a seductive purr as he murmurs 'Salut mon bébé. Oui ma pouce, j'arrive.' The other guy (his cousin) notes how he speaks more softly when he's talking to his girlfriend and sex is on the cards.

After offering us a few more thoughts on football, Manchester United and the general decline of Paris, he spots a Brazilian man with a fold-up fan sat nearby. He kneels down in front of the guy and begs that he fan him a little lest he expire from the heat. In exchange for the personal air con service he offers his wisdom on how Brazil should go about winning the World Cup. You have to beat Germany, he says, beat Germany and you win.

Suddenly it's his stop and it's time to go. Off he and his cousin jump, then he turns and alternately mimes and shouts for us to call him to meet up some time. A look of realisation dawns on his face as he realises he didn't give us his number. He briefly considers jumping back on to give it to us, but clearly decides that his pouce would not want him to be late for their appointment, and so with a shrug that says 'tant pi, c'est la vie' he lopes off into the sunset.

We get off a couple of stops later, still laughing, Tom struggling to get a well-known collaboration between Jay-Z and Kanye out of his head (in his defence, we are in Paris). 'The sun does not love black people.' Honestly. Hurray for multi-cultural France and humorous errors in translation.

We still didn't have a house though.