French plumbing - quelle horreur!

The French are great at many things - wine, food, cakes and pastries (which technically fall under the food category, but are so good, they deserve their own special mention), looking effortlessly stylish, having magnificent hair, knowing how to wear a jaunty scarf, marrying dead people... Unfortunately, plumbing does not seem to be one of their innate talents. 

A depressingly familiar sight

The day I was due to move into my new apartment in the suburbs three weeks ago, the host got in touch with me. 

Jean-Luc: Hey Linda, there's a problem with the cold water in the apartment today. 

Me: Oh, what is it? 

Jean-Luc: There is none. 

Me: Right. 

Jean-Luc: They're working on it though so hopefully it will be fixed later. I'll come around with the paperwork for the flat this evening. 

Me: OK, I guess if my skin is peeling off when you see me, we'll know that the fix hasn't worked. 

But, amazingly, later that day, the cold water was back and I was able to wash things, including myself, like a normal person with no screeching. 

Two days later...

Me: Hi Jean-Luc, today there's no hot water. 

Jean-Luc: What? I thought the problem was fixed. 

Me: Yeah, me too. 

Jean-Luc: Welcome to France.

Me: Hmm. 

Jean-Luc: I will bring you croissants when the hot water comes back. 

The hot water did come back eventually but the croissants never materialised. 

A few days later, my friend was due to arrive for a visit from Berlin. I tidied up the flat a bit and went to get in the shower. The water went from vaguely lukewarm to icy in around two minutes. But, with company on the way, I had to persevere. I'm sure the neighbours were wondering what all the yelping coming from flat 6 was about but that's the kind of friend I am - generally not stinky. 

Last Thursday...

Me: Hi Jean-Luc, today there's no water at all. 

Jean-Luc: Oui, there is no water in the entire building. They're sending out a team. Seemingly, there's a massive problem with the heating system but they're not sure what it is or how to fix it. 

Me: Hold off on the croissants. 

...

Jean-Luc: Any developments? 

Me: Umm, the tap is spurting out brown goo. Is that progress? 

Jean-Luc: Ha ha ha! 

Unfortunately for the residents of Saint-Émilion, I had already booked tickets to go there the next day. I gave myself a once-over with some wipes, slathered on extra make-up, doused myself in perfume, and hoped that I wouldn't be too repellent. 

Jean-Luc was in touch later that day. 

Jean-Luc: The first team was there and they managed to get the cold water back on. I went to the building and the entire basement is under water. I spoke with one of the neighbours and he told me he also has no hot water but that I should enjoy the cold showers - they'll make a man of me - but he's like 80 years old.

Me: Yeah, well, at 80, your bits are probably already shrivelled to nothing. I'd quite like to keep mine fresh and perky for another few years. 

Jean-Luc: You're funny! They're sending in a second team to try to get the hot water back on. 

Me: I hope this team is German. 

Sitting with a glass of wine in sunny Saint-Émilion, at a smell-safe distance from other people, I fantasised about the Germans being helicoptered in, descending on the building on ropes, like a SWAT team only with wrenches instead of weapons. Special Wrenches and Toolbelts, or something. 

Hopefully the Germans were on the way

After spending a full day in the sunshine, but with the temperature dipping dramatically in the evening, the only thing I wanted to do was take a nice hot shower when I got home. 

I ran the tap in the kitchen. Cold. I ran the tap in the bathroom. Cold. I ran the tap in the kitchen again. Still cold. I ran the tap in the bathroom again. Still cold. I repeated this until I started feeling a bit like Sisyphus. I messaged Jean-Luc to let him know of the lack of developments and he kindly offered to refund me the rest of my stay and help me move to a new place. 

But the thoughts of changing apartments a third time for the sake of a week seemed like kind of hard work. Instead, I started devising a complex showering plan involving the kettle, pots and pans, and various cloths for various stages of the procedure. A bit like MacGyver - but if MacGyver was wet and shivering with suds in his eyes. 

I wondered if I could pass dirt off as tan. 

Dirt or tan? I'll never tell... (Hint: it's most likely 90% dirt.)

I Sisyphused around a bit more, fully aware that I might be going mad but, astonishingly, at around midnight, the hot water came back! I messaged Jean-Luc with news of this French plumbing midnight miracle. 

Now, I have no idea what was actually going on down there in the basement but I reckon I could already be a French plumber - make French noises (anything along the lines of buh, uhhhhhhhhhhhh, or alors will do), shrug French shoulders, make troubled - but still very attractive - face, flick magnificent hair, adjust scarf, go to lunch. 

So, new plan for when I go back to Berlin - instead of taking French classes, I'm going to become a plumber's apprentice. I figure if I can be even 10% effective, I'll be able to retire in France in around two years. Then I can devote my energies to buying scarves and working on my shrugging technique.