An Irishwoman's Diary

EVERY TIME the late 18th- early 19th- century Japanese artist Hokusai moved, he walked out of his house, set it alight and burned it to the ground. Having just moved from Paris to Washington, I may follow Hokusai’s example next time.

For a while, I was on a roll. I was appointed to the Washington job, which I’d coveted for some time, and spent the last week of July house-hunting in the US capital.

After Paris, the efficiency and friendliness of America are stunning. Despite Barack Obama’s woes over Afghanistan and healthcare reform, the capital still seems to bask in the glow of his election. At a building in downtown Penn Quarter, a young black receptionist told me with obvious relish, “My name is Michelle.” The estate agent who found my lovely apartment in Georgetown is a retired US navy officer who targeted cruise missiles at Baghdad during the 2003 war. I heard and saw the explosions. Small world.

My luck turned the moment I returned to Paris to undo 13 years of life there. It was probably folly to attempt such a thing in the month of August. Each day brought a new crisis.

First, the moving company refused to take my most prized possession, a Pleyel baby grand piano which I bought to reward myself for surviving the Iraq war. American customs officers take very seriously the international convention banning the export of ivory, and my 89-year-old piano has an ivory keyboard.

If the piano were 100, I could bring it in, but the serial number doesn’t lie. If you’re caught trying to sneak ivory into the US, I was warned, your whole shipment is blocked, the item is confiscated and you’re hit with a massive fine.

In my mind, the piano saga came to represent the New World keeping out the Old. A dear friend, a composer, has agreed to look after my beloved piano for me.

Then my bank of 20 years, the Société Générale, informed me there’d been $1,400 worth of fraud on my French credit card while I was house-hunting in Washington. I blocked the card and filled out the forms. But my new credit card didn’t arrive, and I received a letter from Soc Gen threatening me with legal proceedings.

“You ticked the wrong box,” my bank manager said in an accusatory tone. (I’d ticked the box that said, “The card is in my possession”, which was true.) “If the card is in your possession, and there was fraud on your card, then you committed fraud,” he said with flawless Cartesian logic. Remember, this is the bank that let a junior trader named Jérôme Kerviel lose €5 billion on the derivatives market . . .

The very word l’administration – meaning government bureaucracy – sends dread through the average Frenchman. When I telephoned the tax authorities to give them my new address, a civil servant told me they were reimbursing my 2008 income tax, because I hadn’t earned anything. “But I did. I received a monthly salary. Please don’t transfer any money till we sort it out,” I pleaded. Three days later, the funds landed in my account. Ten days later, the trésor public admitted they’d made an error entering my tax return into their computer. I count myself lucky. My best friend received a notice she owed an extra €53,000 in back taxes – also an error.

France Télécom cut my landline a week earlier than I requested. I protested for two days, but wearied of being insulted by harridans.

By comparison, the woman at ATT who (unsuccessfully) tried to help me receive e-mails on my Blackberry in Washington was an angel.

My Paris cleaning lady asked me to “go to social security” to ensure she received benefits for having worked three hours a week for three years. There ensued a heated discussion during which I asked her to obtain a name, phone number or application form for me, because I was swamped with the movers, Soc Gen and tax authorities, and didn’t have time to embark on a wild goose chase through l’administration. She kept using phrases like “J’ai le droit” and “C’est votre responsabilité”.

We played an unpleasant game of Jacobins and aristocrats for a week until we located the right form.

Whatever my frustrations, the move was far more traumatic for Spike, the Irish moggie from Bray. He endured the injection of a micro-chip between his shoulder blades, a rabies vaccination and a veterinarian’s house call for a health cert and tranquilliser on the morning of our departure. Drugged though he was, Spike escaped from his carrier in the staircase of our Paris building, and I chased him up five flights while the taxi waited.

Air France graciously gave Spike and me two seats so I wouldn't have to sit for eight hours with my feet on his cage. The customs man at Dulles waved us through without a glance at Spike's papers. Now the poor, jet-lagged puss wanders through the apartment at odd hours, wailing and literally trying to climb the walls. He spends
much of his time hiding behind the washing machine, but has taken a liking to American
cat food.