Lille's Newest Arrival

Ok. So the last time I was waffling on about my arrival here, you side tracked me into talking about status and Airfix kits! ;o) I’ll try to stay completely on track this time but, of course, I can guarantee nothing!

So, with all those thoughts and uncertainties about for how long I might be here and where it would take me, I made an uneventful connection with the TGV and settled into the familiar, hour-long whiz to the North North East. When I hopped off the train, there I was… “home”. The more awkward bits of the journey behind me, all I now had to worry about was whether or not things were going to go smoothly for me the following day when, in theory, all my Worldly goods would arrive at my apartment, on time and in the same number of pieces as they’d been in when I’d packed them in Leeds, 2 weeks earlier.

My friend, JC, had kindly donated his spare room to me for this first night in France. I’d arrived in the late afternoon and JC would still need to be in the office for a few more hours so, killing two birds with one stone, his gorgeous girlfriend, Flo, had offered to meet me at the TGV station to pass me some keys to JC’s apartment and also to give me a lift there. Luxury! No messing about in taxis between various locations to collect keys, no trying to remember precisely where JC’s apartment was and, as a bonus, the most beautiful driver imaginable!

This wasn’t the first time I’d be seeing JC’s pad, nor was it the first time I’d encountered Flo. Obviously, my own apartment wasn’t just there waiting for me by accident. I’d spent a week in Lille a month earlier, during which time I’d familiarised myself with various job-related issues (and people), I’d benefited from the rare chance to span a weekend (as you might imagine, a normal business trip from Leeds to Lille would never be arranged in that way – mine had been deliberately organised to give me that benefit that particular time) and I’d spent a drizzly January afternoon in the pre-arranged company of a pleasant lady from a property rentals agency. She showed me 4 apartments, each of which had already been vetted to ensure that they all met with my “rules” for choosing a place to live. Being solo, I didn’t need to worry about anyone’s needs and preferences but my own. For example, a bloke with kids would need to think about school locations and whether or not the roads of the neighbourhood were safe and whatnot. A bloke who’d become accustomed to “a certain standard of living” would want to worry about living up to at least that standard. Where I’d last lived in the UK had had damp patches and wallpaper bubbling and hanging from the walls, threadbare carpets and a kitchen so small that to open the oven door in one’s dressing gown would be to risk severely over-roasted nuts. Of course, had I been a married bloke, then "my" choice of apartment would have been….. well…. “someone else’s" decision, if you get my drift.

As it was, I had 4 rules.

1) Not too pricy (the move to France was going to cost me dear, despite the company’s subsidies)

2) Central to Lille (to give me easy access to nightlife and to be close enough to the hotels where future visitors (my friends and erstwhile colleagues) from the UK subsidiary would inevitably stay)

3) Two bedrooms (To accommodate Mum and other visitors)

4) Calm!

It really was as simple as that. If the agency lady was going to show me one apartment meeting those criteria, I was going to choose to live there. As it was, she showed me 4. They all fit the 4 rules to varying degrees. One was on the tenth floor of a block so the views were fantastic but it was just a bit more pricy than I wanted and it wasn’t in the nice, quaint bits of Lille. Another had a “dream kitchen” but lacked the calm, old World character I hoped for. Another, which was comparatively cheap, simply deserved to be cheap and the fourth is my home and has been for over a year. I decided as soon as I saw it. It “ticked all the boxes” and I still love the place now, perhaps even more so today than then as, obviously, this apartment has become a character in whatever story I’m currently living.

It was and (usually) is a calm, quaint place. It charmed me into choosing it, even, as I saw it on that day, completely empty of all furniture and fittings. It has two nice bedrooms, a decently-sized kitchen, nice spacious bathroom (so much so that, as is normal here in France, the washing machine lives there). Nice big living room with good lighting and general atmosphere and, whichever of the 6 windows I might choose to look out of, something pleasant and very “French” to see. It’s 7 minutes’ walk from the fountain on the Grande Place (very much the hub of the city) and, as a result of the lack of parking and two storeys of narrow spiral staircase to climb, (no lift), it’s not a place which would appeal to someone with a car or someone old or infirm and, therefore, it was fairly reasonably-priced. “Tick, tick, tick, tick”! I’ll do a proper Blog on the apartment sometime soon, with a “walk-through” sequence of photos attached…… (when I’ve made my bed and done the washing up!)

Just to round off this chunk of waffle for the moment, as easily-pleased as I am, I’d never have been able to make the choice of apartment so confidently without the amazing help of JC and Flo. During that week in January 2006, a week which seems 10 years ago now, they both went well out of their way to help me. They walked me and talked me around the various neighbourhoods (“quartiers”), Flo had prepared a map for me with all manner of additional post-it notes and advices attached and, in a word, they were priceless.

After waving goodbye to Flo as she dropped me off at JC’s apartment, I opened his door, took my coat off and walked to his window, pulling back the blinds and looking down onto the street. To my left, a brasserie and a curiosity shop. Ahead, a florist and what looked like an old church. To my right, in the distance, restaurants familiar to me from my visits over the preceding 3 years and, just visible, a corner of the Grande Place.

No longer was the mantra “Is this right?” Much more “Bloody Hell! I’ve moved to France!”

The two photos you see above were taken from my kitchen window, one normal Sunday morning. I heard music, looked outside and there they were. Probably Saint Euphonium's Day or some such.