 | You’d think getting burglarized in Paris would be glamorous, right? Or maybe it would be funny, like the policeman would be Inspector Clouseau? Nope. Getting burglarized in Paris is pretty much like getting burglarized anywhere else--a pain in the derrière. |
This was not my first rodeo. I first got burgled in 1989, the day I moved into my grad school apartment in Ypsilanti, Michigan. Somebody quick-prowled through my apartment while I was downstairs retrieving boxes from my dad’s pickup. They stole a backpack full of knick knacks which included my jewel box, and they took my last Dr. Pepper from the fridge. (That was the true violation--there is no Dr. Pepper that far north). I called the police and they came over and suggested I look in local pawn shops for the jewelry. That was too scary, so I didn’t. I wasn’t insured for anything at the time, so it was just a loss. Welcome to Michigan.
This time, I was in New York enjoying New Years Eve with my lovely family. Somebody opened my door, probably with a key because there was no sign of forced entry, took the cat sitter’s money off the piano, ransacked the bedrooms, stole my fancy jewelry and some cash, and left. People in Paris don’t usually change locks when they move because it’s expensive, so it could be anybody who’d ever had access to this apartment. Or their dog walkers. Or their housekeepers. Or their crazy ex-boyfriends. [Shudder.]
When the cat sitter, my friend’s teenage daughter, had came on New Year’s Day, she immediately noticed that her money was gone (she’s a very conscientious girl and was going to take it on the last day when her work was complete). A light was on and a door was open which had been closed. Hm, she thought. Had the housekeeper come and mistaken cat money for cleaning money? Maybe a repairman? She refilled the cat’s water bowl (but didn’t look in the bedrooms--why would she?), fed the cats, and left. At home, she told her mother, who got suspicious and came to check things out. She found the ransacked bedrooms and called me. It was a shock, but she sent me photos and I could see that aside from the ransacking, nothing looked damaged. She alerted my guardien, and they pursed their lips and exhaled together.
In France, the guardien is the resident doorman/super/custodian/mailman, and my guardien is terrific because he’s this building’s second generation guardien. He was born in the apartment he lives in downstairs. He takes robberies personally.
The next day, I hugged Sam and Kids 1 and 2 goodbye and flew back to Paris with Kid 3, as planned. Sam went to Texas to do some business, also as planned. Our flight landed at 6 a.m., and we went home to inspect the damage. I was glad I already knew and didn’t have the shock of finding the mess myself. The photos didn’t lie--the bedrooms had been tossed, but nothing else. I called the police, who sent three kind officers over right away. They asked me lots of questions, poked around, wrote everything down, and told me to wait for the finger printers and call my insurance company, and to get the locks changed.
This time, I was in New York enjoying New Years Eve with my lovely family. Somebody opened my door, probably with a key because there was no sign of forced entry, took the cat sitter’s money off the piano, ransacked the bedrooms, stole my fancy jewelry and some cash, and left. People in Paris don’t usually change locks when they move because it’s expensive, so it could be anybody who’d ever had access to this apartment. Or their dog walkers. Or their housekeepers. Or their crazy ex-boyfriends. [Shudder.]
When the cat sitter, my friend’s teenage daughter, had came on New Year’s Day, she immediately noticed that her money was gone (she’s a very conscientious girl and was going to take it on the last day when her work was complete). A light was on and a door was open which had been closed. Hm, she thought. Had the housekeeper come and mistaken cat money for cleaning money? Maybe a repairman? She refilled the cat’s water bowl (but didn’t look in the bedrooms--why would she?), fed the cats, and left. At home, she told her mother, who got suspicious and came to check things out. She found the ransacked bedrooms and called me. It was a shock, but she sent me photos and I could see that aside from the ransacking, nothing looked damaged. She alerted my guardien, and they pursed their lips and exhaled together.
In France, the guardien is the resident doorman/super/custodian/mailman, and my guardien is terrific because he’s this building’s second generation guardien. He was born in the apartment he lives in downstairs. He takes robberies personally.
The next day, I hugged Sam and Kids 1 and 2 goodbye and flew back to Paris with Kid 3, as planned. Sam went to Texas to do some business, also as planned. Our flight landed at 6 a.m., and we went home to inspect the damage. I was glad I already knew and didn’t have the shock of finding the mess myself. The photos didn’t lie--the bedrooms had been tossed, but nothing else. I called the police, who sent three kind officers over right away. They asked me lots of questions, poked around, wrote everything down, and told me to wait for the finger printers and call my insurance company, and to get the locks changed.
| I left Kid 3 dozing on the couch with the cats, waiting for the fingerprinters, while I went to the locksmith. I hadn’t changed clothes because everything in my suitcase was dirty and I couldn’t touch anything in my room, so I wasn’t looking my best. I looked up all the new vocabulary words I thought I might need and steeled myself, fortified only with coffee and breath mints. You got this, Yvonne. At the serrurerie down the street, I asked the serrurier if he could come install new serrures right away. I explained about the cambriolage which had happened in my apartment, how voleurs must have had the clés to my apartment because nothing was cassé and they had taken my bijoux and I was afraid to sleep there until I had new serrures because my fils and I were home alone while my mari was in Texas. I did not cry, but it was on the table if the serrure didn’t cooperate. He did. He told me to wait at home and somebody would come. I bought a roast chicken and some grapes and went home to wait. |  |
After a while, an elderly French man with a toolkit showed up. He removed the locks from the front and back doors and teetered down to the serrurerie to change them. After he came back and installed the serrures, he gave me the bill. I knew it would be bad, because when we moved in we got keys copied for our family, and it cost about €17 per key. You know why French people don’t change their locks? Because getting new locks in two doors cost me (sit down) one thousand four hundred Euros. That’s about $1600. I wrote him a check and opened a really delicious bottle of €4 wine from my kitchen stash, telling myself everything equals out eventually.
| The fingerprinter came, a capable woman in a windbreaker, with a photographer in a leather jacket. They sprinkled black dust all over the trashed bedrooms, took pictures, tsk-ed their sympathy, and left. Then Kid 3 and I got to work. I picked up my beloved cheap jewelry that they didn’t steal, sorted my underwear and socks, folded my shirts and pants, put Sam’s stuff back in his closet, threw away all the little jewelry boxes that were now empty, and lined up my shoes. Luckily, they didn’t find my chocolate in the bedside goody drawer, so I ate that while I worked. Thank heaven for small mercies. Kid 3’s room didn’t look that much different ransacked than it usually does, so it didn’t take him as long. After 30 sleepless hours, I went to bed. For the next two days, I filled out insurance paperwork and sat in the police station filing a police report. It was just like insurance and police reports in the USA, except that it was all in French. I had to look up a few words, but I was quite proud of myself for doing it all in French. Maybe next time I’ll write about the glamorous French expat life, baguettes and red lipstick and flirtatious waiters. Today it’s just robbery. |  |
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