We found an apartment! This is huge news and not a matter of luck but a matter of Italian connections. A friend of a friend’s wife works at the regie (the Swiss name for property manager) and she found an apartment for us. She couldn’t promise the owner would accept us, so we waited on pins and needles for ten days while we continued to apply at other places. Finally, she texted Massimo a date and time to come sign the paperwork - 2pm on a Friday. She scanned the mountains of paperwork in French and gave us a condensed version in Italian. Now, if you know anything about the Italian language, nothing is said in brief. I had a nagging feeling that we were missing something. We signed anyway.
But, we were not done. We left with a list of documents that we needed before 9am the following Thursday when I’d get the keys. If we didn’t have that info, we wouldn’t get the keys.
First we needed to put three months’ worth of rent into an escrow account. That would require a wire transfer from the US for roughly $5,000. It would also require my Mom’s help which we decided would be too stressful for everyone involved, so we opted to use an agency who does this sort of thing for a fee. It was the same agency we had for our renters insurance that we needed for an application even though we weren't renting anything at the time. We called at 4 on a Friday, they sent us paperwork, things were moving. We transferred the first month’s rent to the regie.
Then we needed proof of insurance for our new address, but we weren’t currently living in it yet. That seemed to be a difficult concept for all parties to grasp, most especially me. Don’t they do this all the time?
The deposit hit a snag on Tuesday, and we were asked for additional documentation such as paystubs. I would’ve expected that to be part of step one, but it’s the final step. We weren’t home at the time and the documents couldn’t be sent until after close of business that day. We were reminded that it takes three days to establish the account. We asked for proof that it was in process. We received a “maybe” in response. The clock was ticking.
On Wednesday night, we received the confirmation. I went for my walk-through Thursday morning. The man looked disappointed when I didn’t speak French. We jumbled things together in Italian, but mostly, I watched him walk around and make notes on a piece of paper that was illegible to me. I signed off on it, cursing that Massimo had to work leaving me to this task. The man handed me three keys to our door and one key to the front door. Although, he said, we didn’t need that key because there was a code to enter the door.
Then, I asked about the mailbox key. He narrowed his eyes at me and said, “Je ne sais pas.” (I don’t know.)
Thinking I had used the wrong word, I started to explain in Italian that it’s the box that letters are in. The post offices puts letters in this box. The post office.
He shrugged and left. I followed him out the door, continuing to use every Italian word I could think of to describe mail delivery. We stopped at the wall of mailboxes. He turned his cell phone light on and scoured all of the names on the boxes. And he said, “Je ne sais pas.” He walked out the front door, leaving me alone in our new lobby.
The mailbox may not seem like a big deal, but it’s essential to your identity in this city. The number of people living in an apartment is tightly managed by the city, so you can’t just add your name to a mailbox and get mail. You must have an official name plate on the mailbox. We had worked to change our address by the deadline and now we couldn’t receive any mail from the companies that used it.
To make matters worse, on our last day staying at our friend's house, we received our work permits which lists your address. If we move, we have to get new permits. The regie notifies the city of our new address and legally we have two weeks to do the same. Then, they’ll process our new work permits and send them to us along with a bill for the service. But, we can’t receive mail here!
Massimo texted the regie about the mailbox. They responded that they were waiting for a key, but they couldn’t tell us which box would be ours or when we’d have it.
A week after moving in, I found a note from the post office. There was mail for us, but we needed to verify which box was ours. Massimo went to the post office to get the mail but they wouldn’t give it to him. Our name needed to be on the box! We had three more days of attempted deliveries or it’d be returned. We didn’t even know what it was.
The next day, I heard a terrible racket coming from downstairs in the lobby. I decided not to intervene, but later in the day I went down to check the mailboxes as I had done everyday since moving in. I saw a new door with no name on it. I called Massimo right away.
He called the regie. They were waiting on the key. The next day, they said the key would be delivered, and I could pick it up. I stopped by their office, and no one was there. Massimo got a text saying the key was inside the mailbox. But how do we open the mailbox to get the key? After about a half hour, Massimo came upstairs triumphant. The next day the mail lady delivered our first bill.
At this point, Ikea had made a delivery and we were swimming in cardboard. I had been so wrapped up in the mailbox that I’d forgotten to ask the man about garbage and recycling. There are neighborhood recycling centers about every four blocks around here, but none of them had paper/cardboard. Where we had been staying, that’s all they had for recycling. I could not figure this place out.
At the same time, I met our neighbor and asked her. She said that the garbage and compost was in the cave (basement). We had been told that we don’t have a storage unit in the cave and we hadn’t been shown where it was. She said I should have a key, and it was the door by the elevator. No. I don’t have a key for that door. The man would’ve said so, right?
Unless of course, the key for the outside door was also the key for the cave door. And it was. There was even a storage unit that was empty, but we can’t get a response on if it’s ours or belongs to someone else - not that we have anything to store at this point.
I had found ways to get rid of everything but cardboard and paper, the most common recyclable. My friend had her recycling schedule that she got in the mail. We weren't receiving mail yet, and she lives in a different neighborhood, so it wasn’t helpful. I looked online and attempted to read French. The site stated all kinds of rules. Recycling was a must, but where and when eluded me. So many of the government sites have English translations except the ones I need the most.
The Swiss are sticklers for garbage. They will go through your garbage and issue fines if you’re not recycling or not recycling correctly. Massimo found a neighborhood recycling point about a mile away. In the cover of darkness, he loaded up his bike cart and recycled a pile the size of a Smart car. (It was after work in November, but “the cover of darkness” sounds more dramatic.) That was a short term fix.
It took us nearly three weeks to uncover that cardboard and paper is simply left on the door stoop outside our apartment on Tuesday night and picked up Wednesday morning. We learned this by coming home late on a Tuesday and not being able to reach the door keypad to let ourselves in.
Using that key the man said we’d never need, we let ourselves in, ran upstairs and added our recycling to the mess outside.
So far, life in Geneva has been like a perpetual scavenger hunt. We think we’ve found the final clue, open the box and discover ten more challenges. We’re up for it though.
Most days at least.