The Move From Hell

by Chantal Sicile-Kira

Some very able people with autism or Asperger's Syndrome compare being autistic and trying to figure out the ways of the world like being a traveler in a foreign country where you have to learn all the nuances of the language as well as the body languages and the social niceties that most of us neurotypicals take for granted. Once a young woman with Asperger's Syndrome, told me that she hadn't realized until her early 20's that when people gave you a compliment, you were supposed to acknowledge the compliment with a 'thank you'. This led people to thinking she was rude, as she never replied when complimented. Interestingly enough, having been raised by French parents in America, I learned early enough that in France, when given a compliment you are not supposed to say thank you, as that would imply that you know you have good taste. However, being raised French in America in no way prepared me for some of the realities of day to day living in Paris. In many ways I felt like a stranger in a strange land or slightly autistic myself.

Take moving. Moving can be quite traumatic. I never realized how traumatic until I moved to Paris, France and continued the family tradition of changing residences every three years. I had never considered the cultural differences when it came to moving or the differences in how disgruntled employees air their grievances.

For our second move we decided to hire a moving company as well as workers to varnish the floors of the apartment we were moving into. At the time we were living in a 5th floor walk-up. You know, the kind of place where when you go food shopping, you stop on the first landing and drink all the beverages so you don't have to carry the full bottles up and the empties back down. This way, you just leave the empties on the first landing, and then chuck them in the recycle bin on your next trip out. The apartment we were leaving was great. It had been advertised as overlooking the Eiffel Tower. True enough, if you opened the French window, held on to the railing and leaned out as far as possible without falling out onto the beautiful cobblestone street below, you could see the Eiffel Tower in all it's glory.

However, there came a time when the landlord wanted his apartment back because he was separating from his wife. So we found a small apartment that needed a lot of work right in the center of Paris, in the Marais.

We decided to hire professional movers to move us down those 5 flights of stairs and up to the third floor apartment we were moving to. My husband got some bids from a few companies, spent weeks haggling and finally settled with the cheapest moving company. My husband is from New York and does not believe in paying full-price for anything so he settled for the cheapest bid, and there -in is where all are troubles began.

On the day of the move, I took the day off work and spent the day supervising the packing. Finally, the movers were done trudging all the boxes and furniture down the stairs and into the truck. The big burly driver climbed into the cab of the truck, slammed the door, and turned the key in the ignition and put the truck into gear. The plan was, since there was no room in the truck for me was that I would take the metro, with my cat, and meet them over there. I said to the driver, " OK, I'll see you in half an hour at 22 rue de Rivoli." "Non Madame!" replies the driver. "Comment? what do you mean," I reply, my heart beginning to palpitate." We haven't been paid for last months work, we are taking the truck hostage, salut!" And he drove off like a bat out of hell with all of our worldly possessions.

There I was left standing on the sidewalk with my cat, one metro ticket, and dressed in grungy clothes I couldn't even wear on casual Fridays. This was all I had left to my name.

When I called the owner of the moving company, he seemed to take it all in stride. "What, not again, they did this 3 months ago, they are impossible!! Mais, c'est la vie." It took 3 days for the owner to get the money to pay off his workers, and it took him 5 days to find the truck and unload it in our new apartment. So much for cheap moves.

But that was not the worst part of the "Move from Hell" as this experience was fondly remembered over the years. My husband also hired workers to sand and varnish the hardwood floors of our new place, while we were still in the old place. Now, if you are familiar with 2 – part high gloss varnish, then you know it entails mixing two chemicals together and then carefully applying one layer of the gloss and allowing it to dry before applying another. The mix has to be just right and the varnish has to be applied 'just so' for it to dry and harden as it should. My husband hired two Tamuls, political refugees from Sri Lanka who speak some English but no French. Of course, he 'negotiates.' I had some concerns during the interview process when the Tamuls were adamant about their experience. "Yes, sir, we experienced in applying this delicate varnish procedure, we are masters at it. We done this many times in our country." I mean really, I knew they have wood in Sri Lanka, but 2-part high gloss varnish?

The day the owner of the moving company locates his truck full of our worldly possessions is the day we find out that the Tamuls have no such experience. Half the floors were OK, the other half never dried. It took us two days to find the cat, who was stuck to the floor under our bed. When the movers put the boxes down in the various rooms, the cardboard stuck to the floor. For a very long time. Yes, moving can be traumatic. What I learned in all of this, is that hiring the cheapest services to help in your change of residence only increases the trauma. And that if you hold 2 dance parties a month for three years, you can wear off the cardboard stuck to the hardwood floor.