AmericaniMama: Banking in France

We have hired my friend’s American babysitter to spend some time with the kiddos so we can get out. It is really hard to get the kids out, since they prefer playing “at home” to schlepping around outside. With our time alone yesterday what so you think we did? Most folks visiting Paris would go to the Louvre or the Notre Dame or take a boat ride on the Seine.

We went to the bank.

We still have our French bank account, since Clay often works for French publishers. You can't get an apartment in France without a bank account and usually you can't get a bank account without a residential address in France.

One of those choice French conundrums.

So even though we pay an annual fee, we don't want to close our account. However, changing the address on our account is a major deal that requires lots of paperwork and documents and meetings. Our ATM cards expired six months ago, and for the past ten years we have been required to pick the cards up at the bank. So, we've been waiting for this trip to Paris to trek to our old bank and retrieve our ATM cards.

After waiting in line, the teller (who is very nice an that's another reason I want to stay with this particular branch) informs us they were sent to our old address. The one we moved out of two years ago. With the cards MIA, we need to give a new French address. Which of course we don't have. We could easily give a friends’ address, but we have to show proof of residency there.

Clay asks if our former bank contact is here Monsieur D. Yes, he happens to be in his office right now. So, we pop up (very unFrench - the French don't do pop ins. This actually was a relief to me when we lived here because in Italy they are a matter of course and I feel I am constantly risking offending friends by not "popping in" every time we drive by. Also, when the kids were babies I dreaded the pop-in. There was inevitably a knock on the door just as I was nursing a baby or had gotten one to sleep or had just secured myself a few Minutes of quiet.

Monsieur D. greeted us graciously and after an hour, we worked out the challenge of inputting our new contact info into the computer (and yes one should be able to easily do this remotely by login on but of course we have been unable to log on since our French mobile is no longer active. So basically it is impossible to edit our account without showing up in person - in Paris - and meeting with Monsieur D.

After many security codes and questions, birthdays, marriage dates and mothers maiden names our accounts were edited. Monsieur explained that the USA has enforced a new law prohibiting French banks from advising American clients in any way. Some distortion of the privacy act I assume, but basically means that he wouldn't be able to help us with our account if we hadn’t stopped in for a chat.

Good lord!

Our account sorted, the conversation turned as it always does in Italy or France (or maybe just with Clay) to food. Knowing that Madame D. is Vietnamese and adores cooking, Clay asked where Madame D. shops for her ingredients since he plans on filling the car before we head back to Italy. This prompted an extensive three-way discussion with Madame D. on speakerphone with Monsieur D. and Clay, debating the spelling of Bahn Cun and the differences between Chinese and Vietnamese noodles.

I was getting worried about wrapping things up in time to take the metro back across town because I knew the sitter would have to leave for her real job (guiding tourists up the Eiffel Tower.)

Ingredient list in one hand and Monsieur D’s personal mobile number in the other, (only to be used for personal/ food related discussions not bank issues) we strolled out an hour and a half later. We had thirty minutes to complete the rest of our errands: roast chicken and éclairs for the girls and baguette and fromage for Clay before hopping the metro home and racing back up our stinky stairwell (the sewage problem has not been rectified).

That's the difference between being a tourist and living somewhere.