It was inventible. Not inevitable like the sun rising or taxation, inevitable in only that way a certain address in Paris seems to attract the absurd.
“Power is out.”
This day was unavoidable.
It is time to confess. But to make this acknowledgment, you must be transported to two months after May 2nd, 2009.
It is common to use a broker when getting an apartment in Paris, especially when moving for work. Some people have had amazing success with these representatives, but this achievement is the exception. Most brokers make pirating seem like an honest day’s work.
So if a broker promises to handle your electricity bill, should you be surprised it does not happen?
A note appears under the door one morning, “this is EDF, the power company, and we will shut off your power if you do not choose and electricity provider. Immediately.”
Unlike the US, you can choose your provider of electricity. There is the main company, EDF, the former state run entity (or still state run, or half state run…) and then several others. I choose a company that seems like everything can be done on the Internet. Probably not the wisest decision made in Paris, but no worse than ordering something random from a Brasserie. The food may taste awful and cost you a days wage, but at least you did not go hungry.
Of course, it is not enough to do everything online. This is not clear at first glance. You provide your complete dossier including a bank account number, permission slip from your parents, and an x-ray of your skull. Ah, but we need your signature in pen.
One month passes.
Another mail asking for a signature.
Seems odd, since the first one was sent, so I call them. Having poorer French language skills at the time and since the call center sounded like the middle of Gare de Lyon, the conversation goes marginally better than an awkward prom date without booze. I get something that sounds like “send us your signature.”
I do this for the third time.
One month passes.
No bill.
Usually companies want you to pay them. The power provider is called again. Somehow a very nice woman with impeccable English and vast quantities of patience answers. I pinch my left arm. She is still on the line. Things are sounding good. Everything is apparently set.
Two months go by. No bill. At which point, my time in France has taught me to let it go. If the power provider does not want to bill me, why should I bother to tell them? Thrice attempting is just turning their lack of response into a habit.
Over a year goes by without a power bill.
“Power is out.”
(Inevitably.)
Now if you are American, you are thinking something to the order of, “of course, jack-ass, what do you expect?”
And normally, if you are in America, then you would be right. My French friends and colleagues question as if the predicament is manufactured from imagination.
“They never cut power here. It would be easier to enact the fifth republic.”
Suspicion arises. I had to wait a day because the first night I arrived too late to do anything. The next day, the self-sufficiency gene governs.
Circuit breakers. Check. Cutoff in the basement? No, but one could film horror there.
What else could cause the issue? How about the box between the main line and the apartment.
The box should be locked, as my neighbors boxes are locked. Locking means a weak plastic tag that makes a cable tie seem insurmountable. Inside the box contains fuses for the main, or it should.
Someone stole my fuses.
What seems to be sensible at this point is to go to the store and buy some new fuses. Since this is sensible, you will find out that no store carries them. It is late, so Monoprix is the first attempt.
The next day a cold shower.
A trek to a home store. No luck, try another one. No luck. Industrial supplier, no luck. Another home store.
“You must have a license to purchase those.”
What!? A license to buy fuses!? Granted the French power grid thinks that someday we may need 440 in our houses, just in case we want to manufacture Eiffel Tower keepsake’s or something, but still. It’s a fuse. You pop it in. No training required.
No dice. The only option is to call EDF.
Apparently other companies can provide power, but only EDF can service the equipment. It is quite unclear how this is supposed to work, but that is unimportant. Warm showers are important.
So first call is to the first energy supplier. Apparently, the bill is “in process.” For a year.
In process for a year.
Maybe it’s a trial period?
Clearly, that was not the right path, so EDF is called. For them to provide service, you need a contract. Maybe it is time to pay a bill to someone? My roommate sets this part up as he has nice coworkers to help with the French. After the billing is set up, something has to be done at the house. For some unknown reason, you must call from your home to set up an appointment.
Good thing for cell phones.
First call (I call because my French is better). Prompts, which lead to a person after about five minutes. We discuss the merits of me not having power and I argue this is a bad thing. Yes, I have a contract. No, I am not my roommate. You will call back, great.
No call. The number to call back closes at 9PM. It’s 9:05PM.
Cold shower.
Second call, different person. This works much better. Almost to the point where someone comes out.
“Yes, my fuses were stolen. Oh, this happens all the time. No, I am not my roommate. You need him to call, he doesn’t speak French well. Your English helpline has five minutes of prompts in French. Ok, I’ll call with him.”
Third call.
“Yes, I am the person on the bill. My fuses were stolen. Please change them. You’ll call me back? Fantastic…”
They do call back and direct me to another number.
“Yes I tried the circuit breakers. You see, the issue is that where I should have fuses outside of my house, I don’t. Yes, I have a main circuit breaker, but really, what I don’t have is fuses. Ok, you’ll send someone tonight.”
Tonight?
Although not the most comfortable introduction to 24 hour service in France, 12:15AM that evening I have power. The next morning came happily provided by a hot shower.
