'Flat hunt takes me out of my comfort zone'
By Emily Ford |
April 23, 2012, Monday
|
Print Edition
Print Edition
IT is my second day in Shanghai and I am going flat hunting. The prospect fills me with dread. Experience has taught me that finding a house is the last sad meeting place of expectations and reality, a place where the chi-chi loft of my imagining is inevitably shattered by the altogether more prosaic truth of rented accommodation.
Take the first apartment I lived in after university, with the wild-eyed insomniac neighbor who took aggressive pleasure in playing bass guitar throughout the night. Or the shared house in North London where I spent two years, where mice made their homes in cereal boxes and a green damp seeped sneakily in through the walls.
If flat hunting in London could prove difficult, moving to Shanghai ignites a whole new set of vague, undefined fears.
"What if I hand over vast sums of cash to a fake estate agent?" I start to worry. "What if the heating is poisonous? What if the house itself turns out to be fake, with a whole other Chinese family living downstairs?"
"I know," I think. "I'll do some research. I'm a journalist. That's what we do."
I consult a few expat friends. "How do I find a place to live?" I ask. "I'm not particularly fussy. You know, as long as it's in a great area, good price, quiet but lively, convenient for the Metro, close to a supermarket and near a gym."
Helpfully, everyone has a different suggestion.
"Go to a local agency. The foreign ones will rip you off. And negotiate hard," the first says. "Jing'an is overpriced," advises another. An American friend tells me she saw 27 apartments in three days. "But on that 27th we got real lucky," she adds brightly.
The last person I talk to mentions an area called the old former French concession. It has trees, he says. "That sounds nice," I think. "I'll live there."
I look at some websites where houses are being advertised for rent. "Ikea furnished" the first states proudly. "Ikea-style furniture," boasts another. "ALL IKEA ONLY IKEA YES" screams a third. A white plastic table beams winningly down from the screen. I am confused. In Britain, any furniture that came in a box was for people who couldn't afford the ready-made stuff. Here it is a selling point.
Miraculously, after two days of searching I find a place I like. The estate agent, George, is a Shanghai local who rides a pushbike and does not allow a lack of English to prevent him from extracting large sums of money from foreigners.
Tentatively, I make an offer fractionally lower than the one in the advert. George looks pained. He consults the landlord, a TV executive, who begins dialing a number into his mobile. "What is he doing?" I ask. "He has to ask his wife," George explains.
Before I know it I am signing numerous papers in a language I cannot understand. "This is why you came to China. To get out of your comfort zone," I tell myself.
George drives me to an ATM and waits outside while I attempt to withdraw money. The first, my card is refused. "I wonder if they'll break my legs if I can't pay," I think.
Later we return to the flat, where I ask how to use the washing machine. The landlord shrugs. Squinting, I make out the Chinese character for water. "Is that the temperature button?" I ask. "No one uses hot water to wash their clothes in China," George says disdainfully. I can tell what he is thinking. You soft Europeans, with your hot water.
I decide to try again. "Where do I put the washing powder?" By now, George looks patently offended. "I do not know how to use the washing machine, because I am not a woman," he says with a flourish of macho pride, puffing his height to a full five feet. "Perhaps you can get a female colleague to come and help you."
Take the first apartment I lived in after university, with the wild-eyed insomniac neighbor who took aggressive pleasure in playing bass guitar throughout the night. Or the shared house in North London where I spent two years, where mice made their homes in cereal boxes and a green damp seeped sneakily in through the walls.
If flat hunting in London could prove difficult, moving to Shanghai ignites a whole new set of vague, undefined fears.
"What if I hand over vast sums of cash to a fake estate agent?" I start to worry. "What if the heating is poisonous? What if the house itself turns out to be fake, with a whole other Chinese family living downstairs?"
"I know," I think. "I'll do some research. I'm a journalist. That's what we do."
I consult a few expat friends. "How do I find a place to live?" I ask. "I'm not particularly fussy. You know, as long as it's in a great area, good price, quiet but lively, convenient for the Metro, close to a supermarket and near a gym."
Helpfully, everyone has a different suggestion.
"Go to a local agency. The foreign ones will rip you off. And negotiate hard," the first says. "Jing'an is overpriced," advises another. An American friend tells me she saw 27 apartments in three days. "But on that 27th we got real lucky," she adds brightly.
The last person I talk to mentions an area called the old former French concession. It has trees, he says. "That sounds nice," I think. "I'll live there."
I look at some websites where houses are being advertised for rent. "Ikea furnished" the first states proudly. "Ikea-style furniture," boasts another. "ALL IKEA ONLY IKEA YES" screams a third. A white plastic table beams winningly down from the screen. I am confused. In Britain, any furniture that came in a box was for people who couldn't afford the ready-made stuff. Here it is a selling point.
Miraculously, after two days of searching I find a place I like. The estate agent, George, is a Shanghai local who rides a pushbike and does not allow a lack of English to prevent him from extracting large sums of money from foreigners.
Tentatively, I make an offer fractionally lower than the one in the advert. George looks pained. He consults the landlord, a TV executive, who begins dialing a number into his mobile. "What is he doing?" I ask. "He has to ask his wife," George explains.
Before I know it I am signing numerous papers in a language I cannot understand. "This is why you came to China. To get out of your comfort zone," I tell myself.
George drives me to an ATM and waits outside while I attempt to withdraw money. The first, my card is refused. "I wonder if they'll break my legs if I can't pay," I think.
Later we return to the flat, where I ask how to use the washing machine. The landlord shrugs. Squinting, I make out the Chinese character for water. "Is that the temperature button?" I ask. "No one uses hot water to wash their clothes in China," George says disdainfully. I can tell what he is thinking. You soft Europeans, with your hot water.
I decide to try again. "Where do I put the washing powder?" By now, George looks patently offended. "I do not know how to use the washing machine, because I am not a woman," he says with a flourish of macho pride, puffing his height to a full five feet. "Perhaps you can get a female colleague to come and help you."
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