Webmaster: Gregor (Krek.) Hakkenberg. | |||
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Welcome, inquisitive visitor. I would like to present myself. I live in the Burgundy region, France since July, 2001 with my wife and two children. From there I work as freelance copywriter for Dutch advertising agencies. For those who are interested: you will find more information about this emigration below. It started in a quite impulsive way. We were in France, it seemed to us that living there would be nice (and affordable) and we thought: “Why not?”. Eight months later our emigration was official. The beginning In the last few years several new clients have contacted me and now work with me without even knowing me in person! On top of that I now started Immogo, the site where people can put up for sale their place in France. A lot of service, a beautiful presentation in three languages, including translation on a no cure - no pay basis! At first Immogo was just intended to fill my spare time, apart from my copywriting that sometimes suffers from the economic variations. But in the meantime it has become s ‘serious’ business, taking up more of my time than I sometimes could spare. This is particularly so since the Dutch economy is on the bettering hand and my copywriting clients do honour to my talents as a writer. And to be honest: I largely prefer copywriting to putting houses on-line. But of course I am doing what I can! Because if you do something, you’d better do it well. In this personal corner of my otherwise rather business-like site I report on the fortune and misfortune of the Hakkenberg family in The Bresse. For your instruction and pleasure. But in fact just because I like to write (and be read!). Living as a webmaster in France. The preparations Columns Your own campsite in France? Think before you act. We are getting a bit on our nerves now. So many things to take into account when emigrating! Buy new stuff. Ask the bank’s permission to let the old house, for the moment. Move some vital things to France – like beds. Get information about schooling and day-care centres, phone- and internet connections. And by the way, what about water and electricity? We even make lists of lists to be made and still have the feeling that nothing is organized yet – it will surely all end up in a mess! And all those people who fail to return our e-mails! I buy a nice Philips ToUcam (webcam), in order to install it and practice so I will be able to stay in the picture (literally) concerning my Dutch clients. And then it appears to be incompatible with my i-Mac’s sound extension. Crash after crash after crash. The Philips’ helpdesk never heard about the problem before. Even better, the gentleman I spoke to had never seen the camera, personally. He asks me where it can be found and what its price is. He says: "Only FL 229,-? Wow, I have to get it for myself! " So, Philips considers Mac users as guinea pigs, who have to find out for themselves what the bugs are in their new programs. My e-mail to the Philips help-desk had received no reply after a week. And the brochure that was promised to me by a company who would be willing to let my house was never received. Things are going too well, apparently. But all right, sometimes I take a look at the picture of the house. That helps. And the Dutch estate agent over there just told me the sun is shining! The weather is dry and chilly, perfect for wearing a fleece sweater. (Heavy sigh).
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Practice makes the perfect e-migration 1 You may be able to move to France, but you will not be able to flee from modern life. Over here too, appliances are unmanageable and program’s incomprehensible. Take for example a simple thing: a subscription to an Internet connection through Wanadoo. You can surf for 30 hours a month, for only 100 francs. That should be enough. And it is, only… It starts with an installation disk with a special New Year's offer: 'Wanadoo vous offre 100% de temps en plus' (whereby the zeros of the 100 on the cover are Christmas decorations. Do you get the picture?). That disk modifies – as it appears after installation – all my parameters and without asking It reconfigures my Internet settings, installs a French version of Outlook Express and Explorer on my hard disk and appoints these Microsoft products as the default programs for e-mail and browsing. But I want Netscape! And the Dutch version please! Or, well, Dutch, the international kind of web speak-mixture we Dutch are used to by now. Where is program is called ‘software’ and not ‘logiciel’. Where ‘folders’ are not called ‘dossiers’ yet and where ‘courier’ is a font, not the French word for 'mail'. In brief, I deinstalled everything again, reinstalled Netscape as my default mail-program and browser, and tried to call in directly in order to subscribe. Does this work? No, of course not. The line dialled automatically (without divulging it, of course) by the cédérom (yes, that really is the word), is occupied. Occupied! Wanadoo, which is French Telecom, distributes hundreds of thousands of cédéroms with automatic dialling. And does not make sure the dialled number has enough capacity to accept the calls! And if you try to call in indirectly (I still connect through Euronet in Maarssen, Holland, which is far from perfect because awfully s l o w) and try the find the number on the Wanadoo site, it appears to be so well hidden it's impossible to discover. At least, I can’t find it. But then of course, that may be my own fault. And on top of all that it’s raining. Up
Practice makes the perfect e-migration 2 Wonderful, finally on-line. Well, mostly half on-line and half off-line, since the connection is abominable (never say ‘abominably bad’). Wanadoo let’s me down all the time, preferably in the middle of an e-mail download session. My e-mail provider gets very nervous about this and as a result, refuses all access. 'Ze serveur est bizzy'. You know, I think it’s the inhibitory advance problem. They have had Minitel in France for over 20 years, a kind of national Internet you can connect to through a terminal-screen phone. It shows you mainly angular letters, but it has been enormously popular in it’s time. The sex chat lines were very hot... as it seems. But Minitel was far more profitable to France Telecom than the Internet, or so I am told, so why should they be in a hurry to install an adequate infrastructure for the Internet? Keep on using your Minitel, please! It worked so well, didn't it? Well then! The bad connection may be cause by the fact that we are kind of far away from the civilised world. It takes about 20 minutes from the ‘big city’ Louhans to reach our place and during the whole trip you can see the telephone lines accompanying you along the road. High up concrete poles, enduring the natural elements. Result: When a sparrow takes a rest on the line, your .pdf file arrives scrambled. Or Wanadoo does not receive a strong enough signal and rings off. Which does happen. So I am sure. I don’t care who I have to bribe for this, but in April we will have an ISDN (or Numéris, as they call it here) line here in La Chapelle-Thècle. If only because now I can only upload text on krek.nl. Because the band with is not sufficient for uploading images.
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Now look what is cool! Today I received an invoice from France Télécom and look what is the case? Here I am known as M. Grégor Hakkenberg Van Gaasbeek. I was given an accent aigu, for free! And the Van is now written with a capital V. Just to let you know. That is the way it works. Once you are registered in a computer somewhere, there's nothing to be done about it. That is you. Not that I mind about the accent. It does give the name a certain ‘style’. Just pronounce it and sense the taste of a full, woody Burgundy wine with a ripe, cat-pee like subtlety: Grégore Akkenberge Van Gaasbecke. As you knaw, married to the honorable Iromi Nakaï and wiz the tweu childrèn Colette et Guido. Alors, you think this pompeux ? Vaile facke iou, aise eaule! Ok, let's get back to earth. Not too many silly jokes about French accents on this site, is what I promised myself. It’s only funny once. And perhaps even twice. But that’s it. I do have another nice story to share with you. This afternoon I had to pick up two handsets at the local BT shop (which is not called like that, but you understand what I mean). Five to six, closing time and I came empty handed. But the two handsets were follow-up orders and part of a special offer with a 20% discount. And I did not remember if I had paid for them or not. So I just took it for granted that I had. But not sure at all and unfortunately, no proof at hand. In Holland, I admit, they would have sent me back home, without any doubt or handset. Sorry sir, can’t help you, please bring your ticket next time you come to see us? But here? The lady at the desk had a look. She found two handsets and a pile of invoices. At least 100. Then she went through all of them to find mine. That took at least ten minutes, the shop was closed by then and I had even offered to come back with the ticket. But no, no problem, she was going to do this thoroughly. And behold, there it was. The ticket. And no, the handset was not paid. And Oh, the rest was. So how was she going to input the special offer in the computer? In the meantime there were two grey-haired ladies looking at the screen and into my problem. No, it’s impossible. And what if we … A smile, no, a one hundred percent true radiance showed on their faces. They are surprised! Really, truly surprised. It is possible, with France Télécom. Their employer has thought of everything is his computer. Now all I have to do is pay the amount minus the discount and we can all go home, relieved. Now of course you are waiting for a cynical conclusion. That after all it was all wrong and I was being had. The handsets were not working or something like that. But I have no cynical conclusion to this. It really is a happy end. Is that nice or what? So much helpfulness, after-hours, without for one moment giving me the feeling that I am 'a silly foreigner with annoying questions’. I went home happily. With my two handsets, a good feeling and a perfect evening to look forward to. Call +33 385 74 26 39 and hear loud and clear: 'Allo? C'est moi, Grégore.' See?
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One thing is sure. We move to France. And everything will be going according to plan, without problems. We hope. And what if all is not going according to plan? Or worse: not going at all? Upon our return from our last visit to Frettichise, early January, we started doubting again within a week. We did have enough time to start doubting, since I had nothing else to do. Usually I adore not having to work had for about a week. I ‘work’ on my site, take care of all overdue correspondence. Enough time at last to enter all those business cards into the system and clean up my desk. Great! But no work or almost for a whole week, just after three weeks of winter holidays … that’s a bit scary. And when clients call my usual address in Huizen (Holland) asking questions like: "Will you have a fax over there?" and "Are you still in France or could you do something for us?", then you do tend to panic a bit. Hello, cold sweat! We will only leave at the end of March and work is already slowing down now. Apparently, clients thin that I am in France already and ‘therefore’ cannot work any more. And that I don’t even have a fax! So what to do when we really do live 900 km South of here? At the end, it is all my own fault of course. Communication is a profession. All my mails and the informative texts on this site apparently said too much about 'leaving' and not enough about 'work goes on!'. Apparently I gave the impression that I wanted to flee my work here. The main message: ‘I STILL NEED YOU!’ got lost somewhere on the way. So now there are doubts. Do I have to start looking for new clients? But won’t they receive the same message from a freelancer who is still here but also almost and later on completely over there? Then do I have to send another e-mail to our monthly Adformatie in the hope that they will publish my story about the freelance trendsetter in the filed of e-migration? I never did receive a reply to my last mail, addressed to the editor. And am I an item or completely mistaken? Or did that Van Os think: "Gregor Hakkenberg... who is he?" True, I am not a ‘name’ in the publicity world. I am a writer of intelligent long copy, praiseworthy and appreciated by his own clients. I have invented a nice little concept every now and then. But I never scored a "Heineken refreshes parts other beers can not reach", nor a "Got Milk?" or a "Happiness is a cigar called Hamlet". After all, apparently I have not created enough 'visible work' to be 'someone' in the limited group of Names in the (Dutch) publicity world. So I’ll just send my clients another e-mail to tell them I’m still here and have no intention of disappearing completely. And then I’ll see if business gets more or less back to usual, next month. In the meantime I will put my time to profit by working a bit on my sites and take care of all overdue correspondence. Enough time at last to enter all those business cards into the system and clean up my desk. Great! Sure. Or not?
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How much does it cost to move house? About five years ago we moved from Amsterdam Slotervaart to the city of Huizen. At the time I picked a nice looking advert in the Yellow Pages. It showed a truckload of smiling big guys dressed in overalls, of which at least three were brothers and one the father. A family business giving an impression of reliability. So I engaged that removal company without asking for an estimate. It came to about 2000,--, so no problem. And the guys proved to be very neat indeed. No scratch on what so ever. From a certain feeling of faithfulness I asked the same company to make me an offer for this big move of ours. A gentleman, still very kind and serviceable, comes to have a look at our stuff. What goes and what stays? I quickly make some rigorous choices (someone needs a cute French art-deco kind of buffet with stand?) and wait for the estimate. It arrives and amounts to FL 15.370. HOW MUCH???? 15.370 Dutch Guilders, that is, not Italian Lira. Wow. It must be possible to find anything cheaper. Fortunately the estate agent gave me another address. Reliable company, “specialized in national and international removals, carried out with the utmost care by our expert collaborators". Well, I do write this kind of brochures myself, so I know it’s only words. But still I let myself be convinced by the professional lay-out and printing. A nice and serviceable gentleman comes in and is shown around, from the cellar to the half-empty loft, where some of his competitor’s boxes have been waiting to be unpacked for five years. What goes and what stays? I remember most of the choices, show him out and sit down. Two days later … that’s fast! An estimate of 13.506,50. WOW again. It is a bit cheaper, but still a lot of money. What now? I remember I have an aunt and uncle who moved to Spain several years ago. They give me an address in Weesp. So I call Kuiper The International Movers. Would they please be so kind as to make an estimate…? OK, no problem. A few days later a Mr. Schouten shows up, all nice and serviceable, who would like to take the tour of the house. My wife starts to make coffee. This goes, this stays (someone interested in a beautifully carved Dutch desk?...), I now know it by heart. And before you know we're having coffee again. Without us asking him Mr. Schouten tells us that Kuiper The International Movers can offer competitive prices because one of their trucks goes to the South once a week. Loads can be combined, which leads to cheaper prices for each. I remain silent. Let’s wait for the estimate first. And it arrives with amazing speed. So, what do you think? Fl 8.353,80! Almost seven thousand guilders less than the first one! Thank you so very, very, very much, uncle and aunt in Spain. Have one on me! I was so happy with the result that I asked Kuiper if their ‘expert collaborators’ would also be willing to pack for us. This will give us time to receive our friends from overseas in the last week of March and we still save a lot of money. So, if you want to move to France, contact Kuiper The International Movers. And if you say I sent you, perhaps they’ll give me a percentage!
Up Taxes, health care contributions etc. Mt French bookkeeper had it all written out: With an income of 300.000 French francs, I would only have to pay 8,75% income tax. I was so happy, until a friend woke me up. An informative message from the Middle East. Although my work is ‘virtually’ mainly in The Netherlands, I live in France permanently and have to pay my income tax here. So how do I get to 8,75% with an income of 300.000 francs? First of all, by registering with an ‘Association de Gestion Agréé’, in my case the Association des Professions Libérales pour la Region de Lyon (APLRL). As a member I get an immediate 20% discount on my gross taxable income. But I engage myself to mention on my letterhead and on a sign in my office that I am a member and accept cheques in payment. No pain, for a 20% discount. And then I am a lucky man: I have a wife and two children. Which is a nice situation as such, but also from a tax point of view. My wife counts as one extra member of the family, whereas my children both count for ?, together they increase my tax-free income by two steps. So you can understand my happiness. Earning three hundred thousand francs a year and pay only 27.000 francs worth of income tax! But too bad, with one little phrase: “have you thought about your social contributions?”, my friend Olivier spoils my beautiful dreams. I had not. And because the French have not saved for their old age pension (because they expect their children to take care of that later), these amounts can be quite substantial. Now my compulsory registration with three ‘Caisses’ is a fact. There is the Union de Recouvrement des Cotisations de Securité Sociale et d’Allocations Familiales (URSSAF), expecting a contribution to cover the social security costs. And widows and orphans benefits (or something like that. I refuse to look into this kind of dull matter, unless I am paid for writing something readable about it). Apart from that there are ‘Caisses’ for medical expenses and old age pension, which also wish me to share my income with them. Which leaves me with less than in The Netherlands, finally, so the 8,75 has proved to be a vain joy. But after all, je ne regrette rien. If only for my income, I would have been better off staying in the Beethovenlaan in Huizen. It will be less here, as expected. The workload will be a bit lighter, due to the distance as well. Because I can’t just ‘pop by’ for a briefing or a brainstorming session. On the other hand, enough faithful clients remain and some new ones have arrived (thank you, thank you) who find my texts more important than my presence in the flesh. And the ‘project development plans’ with real estate here start to take become more and more concrete. My contractor-friend Olivier and myself created a SARL, which now has two fermes bressanes for sale, to be renovated. That might increase our revenues a bit in the future. By the way, I do have a nice tip for real estate buyers in France: Negotiate, always! The estate agent or the solicitor will certainly say that in this particular region negotiating is just not done, but in most cases you will manage to get the price down by 10 or even 20%. And that does pay for your buyer’s costs. But of course, this tip does is not valid for our own place on Immogo. In The Bresse, and particularly in La Chapelle-Thècle, negotiating really is not done. At least, the estate agent who sold us our house was very, very sure of that.
Up Faits divers in South-Burgundy Elections for the parents association It was not easy at all to find six members for the ‘conseil des parents d’élèves’ during the parents association’s meeting. But fortunately that strange Dutchman could be convinced. One week later … a secret looking envelope. In it a list of six names (one was mine), two envelopes and a note. It concerned the elections for the parents association. If I please would vote by putting the note in an envelope and sticking this envelope, without writing on it, in the second envelope mentioning my name, address and signature. All of this to be delivered at school. I did not understand. There were six candidates for six posts. Not much to elect, in my opinion. I threw the whole bunch in the basket. On election-Saturday I was invited to come to school. I thought it would be a meeting. But it appeared I had to be present to check, as a candidate/parent, the validity of the election. The teacher confirmed that there was nothing to vote about, really. But elections are compulsory for the parents’ association. And guess … 34 out of 37 parent/couples exercised their right to elect the parents' association. And thus it was elected. Discovery of a new currency! Apart from Francs and Euros and as you will know, in France you pay with ‘ancien Francs’ or ‘balles’, the value of those currencies being one hundred to one Franc. But there is a fourth currency, commonly used, which is the 'oblaque', ‘au black' meaning ‘on the side’. Depending on the situation, this currency if worth between 1,2 and 2 francs. For exemple, a gardener will tell you: “C’est mille cinq cents euros... à peu près un million balles.” Upon your total lack of understanding, he will follow up by saying: “Dix mille francs, quoi.” And with a hopeful smile: “Ou huit mille oblaque.” This knowledge will come in handy if you have some of this currency exempt from tax waiting in a drawer... Les écologistes du plomb During the loading, in a downpour, of about 10 stere of firewood, a hare sets off like a shot. Apparently the poor animal had been shivering in its burrow nearby for half an hour. I cast a wondering look on Olivier. “Sorry you don’t have your gun?” He shakes his head. “A young female. You have to let her go. Too small for dinner and better give her a chance to get us some nice, young hares. Yes, Gregor, a hunter is a bit of an ‘écologiste’ as well! And he looks at me, waiting for my comment. I won't say anything. We have had this discussion several times before. All those men roaming through the woods on Sunday, hunting guns ready, are protectors of nature. About 10 Sundays a year. The rest of the time they bury all their rubbish (including asbestos) in a hole on their land, spray their crops with poison and annihilate sprouting bushes with aggressive defoliants. This erratic moral is also perceivable in my hobby as a seller-renovator-buyer of old houses (www.bresse.nl). UPDATE: This is no longer correct. Bresse.nl is dormant; I am doing Immogo in stead. According to a new law a seller has to engage a consultant who will check the whole house for lead-containing paint, which has to be removed officially if found. Against ‘saturnism’, because there is always a possibility that a child might start nibbling the woodwork and get lead-poisoning. So every old house is inspected. In the meantime, the ‘écologistes’ rid Mother Nature of dangerous species like deer and hare, enriching the soil with thousands of kilos of environmentally friendly lead. Integration by serving I left The Netherlands in order to lead a less stressful life. My emigration was the cause of my having to leave my function as chairman of the Volleyball Club of Huizen. But of course I will train and play here. And how! In Holland I just managed to reach the third level, here I am allowed to play the ‘Promotion Excellence Masculine’. Which is quite a promotion! And the Dutchman in me is happy too, because it’s cheap! I pay 270 Francs per year, receive a free club shirt, free transport by club-bus to the matches, plus - thrown in for free as well - - a drink afterwards. And all of that because the community pays for the accommodation. Which does have its disadvantages, by the way. We play in Louhans, in a nice gym. But not long ago we had to pay in St Aubin, where they covered the dance-floor in the village hall with a mat, with a volleyball field painted on it. The corners of the room were so dark, you had to serve groping around. But we won and had a tepid beer afterwards, so no less fun!
Up Dear Arie, thank you for the article you sent me on 'The dreamed paradise', the book written by Cees van Lothringen and Maurice Bood! Living in France is once again described as 'quite a fuss'. Well, how would they fill a whole book, otherwise? But in practice it really is no problem at all! At least, I did not think it was. Of course there are too many civil servant keeping each other and us busy, but they found a solution to that: bookkeepers. And the fact that it’s difficult to make friends and visit your neighbours… Há! Just let them try to keep me out, if I happen to stroll into their kitchen just in time for drinks! Just yesterday, as it happened, I was visiting the parents of one of my son’s friends. Very hospitable and pleasant people, great sense of humour. The father was joking about the attempted suicide of his 19 year old son, several months ago, whereby he shot off his cheek, half of his jaw and a piece of tongue. “And all because of women”, he continued, winking at his wife, "we just go crazy on their account". The son in question had been abandoned by his girlfriend, who what’s more (as it appeared) has been bragging around afterwards that he tried to access eternity because of her. I have to say, they may have a bit of a point there, concerning the girls. Another villager killed himself not so long ago, for the same reason. On New Year’s Eve, with a piece of rope. Happy holidays. His wife had left him and all of sudden there was no turning back for him. He was found in the barn. Ours is not a happy village. Even this week, an elderly man from a nearby village fell into our river while fishing, and drowned. One would almost start thinking about medieval curses or other Stephen King-like scenario's, because in a few months’ time three people (almost) died in a village of 491 souls. I did ask my host if people happened to die of natural causes here, but he assured me that happens too. And then, the fisherman, as it happens it was probably a ‘crise cardiaque’ too near the water. And that brought him back to the old 'village drunk' who left the village bar one evening and was found in the river later on. They think he must have been peeing into the water, or was in a crouching position and has lost his balance, because when they found him his pants were down. Couleur Locale! But, to get back to our non-existing integration and acceptation problems … we really are fine, thank you for asking. We are healthy – although we eat too much and do not get any slimmer – and enjoy ourselves very much with our new friends and neighbours. My work as a freelance copywriter does continue nicely. Even better, I have lots of work and January is a great month! Which is not superfluous, because I just received an estimate for the coming renovation of our farmhouse. You could buy a whole house here, for that amount! But alright, we will have a habitable surface of 280 m2, with three big bedrooms, a third bathroom, a spare room, a television/gaming room and an office space on the added mezzanine in the barn. Furthermore, the 17-meter veranda in the back will have a double-glazed picture window and floor heating, and a huge terrace outside. And we will pull down the pigsty. I even think I have found a legal (but probably not cheap, since the representative drives a fat BMW) solution for the asbestos containing roofing, and that was not easy. I expect the estimate to arrive by the end of this week. We shall see. I hope to be a bit less busy soon, so that I can upload some new pictures for the site. See you soon!
Up Fortunately that our dream about France was not a very old dream, complete with a shiny, idealized image of it, because of course daily life here is as great and irritating as it was in The Netherlands. You just trade some irritations (traffic jams, La Pim*) for some different ones (the slowness of the French, Le Pen). And it does rain here, sometimes for a whole month in a row. Although I have to say that the weather has been bright for almost two months now. Sunny, not too cold. But unfortunately far too dry for our vegetable garden of a now considerable surface. Why can’t it just rain, merde! And those who feel that we talk about the weather far too often in Holland and think they can escape these eternal discussions about meteorological conditions by emigrating – how wrong you are! The French hardly seem to talk about anything else. But perhaps that is because most of my neighbours are farmers. They start every conversation with 'Fé paw bo, ah?' and lately, when I mentioned the continuous sunny and warm weather to a neighbour, he casts a worried look at the skies and said: “Yeah, we could use 12 cm of rain this week." For he has cows that eat – as you may know – grass. According to me he can stop worrying, because you can almost see the fresh, juicy grass grow. I myself have no cows so I mainly think of mowing. In Huizen we had 500m? of land, of which about 100m? lawn. Here we have one hundred times that surface! And also, I have to mow more and more often. Until lately a neighbour, who got to keep the hay, mowed down our meadow. But now we have transformed it, partly into a vegetable garden (10 x 20) and partly – by planting some pear trees and cherry trees – in an orchard! The neighbour can’t pass between the trees with his tractor, so the surface to be looked after by yours truly has greatly increased. The motorized manual mower has been replaced this week by a 16hp Honda mower. One you sit on. Great. You push the motor and when you switch on the two blades (102 cm width mown in one move) by means of an electronic switch, you hear this nice industrial increasingly strong humming: "zjwwwwwwwooeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiii." And there you go, like a wobbly prince on a red horse, leaving a perfectly straight trace. Mowing the lawn almost becomes a job for fun. Even though I expect the fun to fade in some time. And there you go, the next problem arises! Moles. The prince is wobbly because of the many molehills. Their height diminishes a bit with the rain, but they remain firm. Bad for the blades and my back. Something has to be done. And what does a countryman do about annoying moles? Right: kill. To that end I acquired a ‘mole-gun’. This devilish apparel is loaded with a cartridge pointing straight downward. Then you clear a fresh molehill and point the mole-gun into it. The mole thinks: ‘Where does that draught come from” and checks on any doors left open. He hits the trigger and BOOM! Dead. A bit sad but OK: Let’s bury the issue.
Up The letter below is an email I sent to one Eline, a lady unknown to me who found krek.nl via an interview with me in a magazine. She wanted to move to France with her husband and family and asked herself if it would be fair on her children. Therefore she wanted to know how our children reacted to the huge change. This is my reply: Dear Eline, Guido (now 8) and Colette (5) arrived in France just over 15 months ago. Colette did not have much problems with it. Toddlers do not talk much and 'allez jouer' were the first words she earned, very quickly. But Guido had to attend elementary school, called CP (Cours Préparatoire). He had learned the basis of reading and writing in a Montessori school in Huizen, now he had to switch to a very classical and conventional system, and on top of that everyone spoke a language he did not understand. I have to say he has made us proud of him. We were lucky in the sense that some of the parents already prepared their children that Guido would need some help. The mayor’s grandson’s father is German, he went to school in Germany for some time so he knew all about the horrors of being an ‘alien’. That boy really took Guido under his wing, so he had a friend right from the start. Furthermore, in the classroom Guido was seated next to another boy and allowed to copy from him. Official copying, that is. He did have a small advance in arithmatic, and is still the first on that subject. Not so long ago I spoke to his teacher (maître), who said Guido had reached the same language level as the other children. So, even if the beginning was not easy, out children certainly did not experience our move as torture. And what do they get in return? A house with one hectare of land around it. A meadow. A vegetable garden. A tree hut. A pond with real carps and frogs (fishing allowed). Two hot meals a day, whereby the meal served in ‘la cantine’ is sometimes better than at home – according to Guido. A (small) pool. Fresh air. And a pony coming up. I was visiting Amsterdam last week, for business, a advertising agency in the Sarphatistraat. Next to the office was a day nursery. I saw the yuppy fathers carefully closing the coats of their pale-faced children on their way to the subway-station, where you have to zigzag your way through a crowd of junks to find the platform. So, I feel that six months worth of integration problems a not too high a price to pay for life in paradise. Of course, they will probably curse us when they have reached the age of 14 or 15. Because there is nothing whatsoever to do for adolescents. But the biggest advantage of living here, for our children, remains the fact that their parents are relaxed and happy. That is always fair to any child, so no regrets. But I have to say that I am lucky in being able to continue working here. And my French was good, which is an advantage as well. Better, it was not even a Dream of Our Lives, but just a question of ‘that would be fun, yeah, why not?’. And before we knew it we had moved over here. So it was more rashness that guts. But doesn’t everything start with doing what you feel like? Just do it. On the other hand, I don’t want to be responsible for your happiness, so: Disclaimer: Results obtained by others in the past do not offer a guarantee for your future. Good luck. Gregor Hakkenberg PS: I just read this to my wife, she says: 'pooh, you only mention the positive parts.' On my question which negative parts I forgot to mention, she replies: The school really is very collective. Much less fun than the Montessori-school. When Guido has finished a certain assignment, he is bored. (my reaction: a class of 12 children for one teacher is an advantage, though). And the days are long for the children. Which is true. A bus comes to collect them at 8.30 and they don’t come back home before 17.00 hrs. A bit heavy on the children, perhaps. But quite relaxed for us… We get to work the whole day. And then the goûter, the afternoon snack they take a lot of sweets into school, because that’s what the others do and you don’t want them to be different. We, as responsible parents, do not agree and I have presented a kind of an anti-proliferation agreement in the parent’s association. Because the children outbid each other with chocolates and super candy etc. But it seems to be part of the game. And Guido and Colette don’t really object to the chocolate cakes they have to eat twice a day. So, even if not all is perfect in a perfect world, It is alright, really.
Up I received a letter from the village mayor. Or to be precise, from the president of the Fishing Association ‘La Perche’, because Mr Pacquelier wrote to me in that capacity. As owner of a fishing permit I was invited to take part in the emptying of the Fox-pond (vidange de l’Etang Renard). And please would I not forget to bring my boots. AT first though I did not feel like it at all. Also because a sauerkraut-lunch was offered afterwards, to thank the participants for their efforts. Sauerkraut! The only think my mother never forced me to eat was sauerkraut, because it just wouldn’t stay down. And it was not exactly clear to me what the proceedings were, but it was evident that it would involve ‘cold and wet’. On the other hand it did have its interest, a local event like that. Finally my curiosity took the overhand on my dislike of wet, cold and sauerkraut. So I went to the pond (1,5 to 2 hectares) at the indicated time. I was right on time, so I expected to be the first one there. To my surprise, however, there was a whole crowd present already and they had even started. You can see here how the assembled fishermen made themselves comfortable. They just pull the plug of the pond, the water flows out through a huge sieve. Two men with landing nets stand in the water to take out the fish and put them in containers. The containers are put on the barrier, where the fish is sorted. Small catfish out, young perch and carp in containers to put back in later and big carp and pike on a truck to bring to the fishing pond, where they can be caught next year. But with a line, that time. And about one third of the catch goes into the river, to contribute to the general fish life. Without hesitation I joined the queue, in order to take the correct fish out of the container and put them in the right bucket. Under the approving eye of several elder villagers who apparently were excused from work, like our carpenter's father 'Tarzan', in the lower right corner with cap and cigarette. Everything went smoothly. There was just one moment of general surprise when one person caught a turtle in his landing net. The mayor said resignedly: “Oh, we see him every year. Apparently someone dumped him in the pond once. Let him go, we’ll get him again next year”. After redistribution of all our swimming friends, everyone got to take a few fish home. I choose some whitebait of about 40 cm, to add some life to our own pond. Most of the other went home with a big carp, for diner, without any doubt. Well. Finished. Time to shower off the fishy smell and off for my appointment with sauerkraut. The get together was in the mairie, where we were served by the ladies of (probably) the elderly association. The sauerkraut was preceded by an aperitif and showered in wine, wine and more wine. And I managed to keep it all down! Yes, even the sauerkraut, crammed with huge potatoes, sausage and pork scratchings supplied by our neighbour, the afore mentioned butcher. For digestive purposes we were offered a few glasses of 'gnole' before going home. Pear alcohol distilled by André (Dédé) Boudier, proudly posing in the picture below. On the bottle is written, in pink metallic nail polish: 'Poire de Dédé, 2000'. Up to that point it already had been very interesting, amusing and cosy morning. But the poire de Dédé was the highlight of the day! We said our very cheerful goodbyes around four in the afternoon. And I drove the two kilometres home, very carefully and with a slightly spinning head. It was fun. But… I would prefer a pot-au-feu next year.
Up Winter in the south of Burgundy. This is a very bad thing for former vegetarian, but this morning I set out to buy some cheap and very fresh veal. A neighbouring farmer was going to kill a suckling calf. You know, those cute little faces, with a wet nose, who start sucking your finger in a baby-reflex when you stroke them. They taste very good, as it seems, since the animal at this age has only had milk for breakfast, lunch and dinner. So we subscribed for 10 kilo’s a various parts of a dead baby cow. Tender, juicy and very tasteful meat, fresh as can be. To make your mouth water, so to say. You still there? Great. So I set out. As it happens, I had received an e-mail that morning from a certain Mr Hans Beumer, who apparently found bresse.nl and asked me if he had to buy snow tyres for his February holiday in The Bresse. Because he could not mount snow-chains on his type of car, that’s why he asked. It did make me laugh a bit. Snow tyres in The Bresse. Well, as it happened it was very cold that week and there was a little bit of snow, here and there, but snow tyres? And yes there was now school bus that morning, because of the black ice. But snow tyres? In The Bresse? Haha, I did think that would be exaggerated. So I told him so. And I set out. Well, I suppose you have got a hunch of what will follow. At two kilometres from my house, in my four wheel drive Subaru Legacy with the active security system Vehicle Direction Control, I complete lost control of my vehicle. I skidded to the left, tried to keep steering straight on and not to brake, managed to get back on track, but then I skidded to the right, in the direction of a two meter deep ditch, I tried to accelerate in order to activate the Vehicle Control System and to brake to let the ABS do it’s job, touched the right shoulder, bumped to the left, did magage to honk for the good order but then I slid into the ditch without hesitation. Fortunately the ditch on the left was not as deep as the one on the right and I did not go very fast anymore after 50 meters of sliding and zigzagging, but the car slid in sideways, the front bumper was stuck in the ditch and badly damaged. As well as my self-esteem and the ditch. Where's the Stig when you need him? Well, I got out of the car on the passenger side. I did remember having seen the community civil servant salting the road, several kilometres earlier. If he had started an hour earlier that morning, I would not have been in the ditch but OK, I was not going to insult him because he had a tractor and I needed help to get me out. To cut a long story short: half an hour later I was on my way to the calf again, slightly dented. Upon my arrival at the farm and to my relief, most of the blood had been cleaned away and the calf had taken its more usual butchers-appearance. Several neatly sorted pieces were laid out on the table, blocks, rolls and pieces of pink meat. Don’t ask me what they are called. And certainly not in French. I washed my hands and started to pack the pieces in the freezer bags I brought with me. The meat was still warm. Meueueuh! Twelve kilo of meat, more than expected. All together not even 100 euro, but not really cheap considering the state of my car. When I came home I first put the meat in the freezer and then I sent Hans Beumer another email. Snow tyres? Good idea! Don't hesitate!
Up Something to do with a feast, as it would seem, I would think it appropriate for springtime. But I think it really means something like ' hurry slowly'. In which case it remains appropriate for springtime, which is the perfect season for doing nothing. And in honour of that, you can find e on my terrace regularly, watching Mother Nature working the hell out of herself. Fresh grass struggling up through the dried soil, buds budding until they burst and tulips shamelessly exposing themselves, still breathing hard from their last sprint up. And by the way, the animals get busy as well. If you thought only rabbits knew how to do it, just take a look at our neighbour’s cat! All three of our female cats come back into the house several times a day, with a wet neck and start licking themselves quite indignantly between their hind legs. The brute! Fortunately they’re on the pill. And me? I stay put. Well, I do some writing every now and then. And I look for houses for people who are looking for a house. Which is quite a relaxed job, which comes down to driving around in my car and enquiring about the owner of every empty-looking house I encounter and if it's for sale or not. That way, I even find houses that are not for sale yet. Not so long ago neighbours told me about a cute little farmhouse with a million dollar view, of which the owner had passed away shortly. So I made a few calls. It appeared that the good man had not even been buried yet! I apologized most profusely, assuring them that I did not know and wrote a letter of excuse to the solicitor – trying to talk my way out of this one. I hope I will be able to contact the family in a more appropriate way soon, out of respect I will have to observe a period of at least two months. And not five days! Apart from that, I try to lobby with solicitors and estate agents. The latter don't get it at all, by the way. My mediation so terribly for free for them, it does not fit their way of thinking at all. Some time ago I stepped inside an agency with a list of about ten clients. All Dutch people looking for a house in the neighbourhood, with sometimes quite an amount to spend. If they could help me. The perfectly outfitted estate agent (female) cast me a distrusting look. “You have clients looking for houses? Bien sûr we will be able to help. But how much will it cost us?” I stuttered that I did this for free. She lifted her brows. “So you bring me almost a million euro worth of turnover, for free?” This seemed like a very incredible story to her. There had to be something wrong with me. I explained that I would not only see her with my list, but other agents as well. I wanted to reach the whole estate market. I also explained that I could not accept a commission, because then I would not be able to give an objective advise to my clients. If a high price would be in my favour, I could not logically help my clients to negotiate to lower that price. "Aha!", she seemed to understand at last: “You want us to engage you to look for clients?” No, that was not it either. I just wanted to help my clients to buy her houses, eventually. That’s as simple as it was. “But then I have to pay you a commission?!” she maintained. Well, it took some time, but finally I managed to convince her that I was really for free and that she nor the seller would have to pay me, not even a cent. Well, that seemed to suit her. But she did see some obstacles. “Yes, but how do I know I can trust you?” I looked at her, not understanding. “Well, you could be spying for a competitor!” My expression did not change. She explained: “If I show you several houses I have on sale, you can go to another estate agent to tell him – in exchange of payment – which houses are for sale, so that he can go to the owners to ask them if he can sell the same houses!” I got it. The estate market in France is a jungle. Several estate agents can put the same house up for sale, and only the one who sells it gets paid. The others have worked for nothing. Therefore the estate agents like to remain in charge and a sales agreement has to remain a secret. Because if the other estate agents learn about the object for sale, they will ask the owner to enter into an agreement with them as well. It may even happen that so many parties have an interest in the sale, that it is difficult to know just who deserves the commission. If you’re looking for a house to buy, estate agents will want to write your name down as soon as possible. Even if you only cal for information, one of the first questions always is: “May I have your name, please?" If the agent learns later on that one of ‘his’ houses was sold, he will always try to find out to whom. If he has the buyer’s name in his database and has indicated the house to him, he will ask for his commission anyway. So she thought I would ‘sell’ her houses to other estate agents and get my part of the commission, if the other agents were able to sell a house. By then I did get tired of all the distrust she showed me. Apparently my slim agent had had a bad experience with people wishing to see several houses in different price classes. I tried to reassure her. When she seemed more or less convinced, I gave her my list with clients and my business card, and left. Never heard from her again. Well, I do have a look at their site every now and then to see if they have something interesting for sale. And until I find it, I write. Or I enjoy the sun on my terrace, observing life raging all around me. I am glad that I’m not an estate agent, it seems like a very tiring existence to me, lots of cave canem and no carpe diem at all. And certainly no festina lente. UPDATE: Since I wrote this, local estate agents threatened me with the police. What I did – looking for houses for foreigners – is protected by their professional code. Since they were not allowed to pay me, they could not control me. And they have no use at all for a free, objective advisor for buyers. So, since 2004 I shifted my activities to purely advertising property put up for sale by private persons. On Immogo. Now (september 2006) it advertises over 200 houses, which can be bought without the intervention of an estate agent. So they are comparatively cheap. That will teach them!
Up Your own campsite in France? Don't! You dream of running your own campsite in France? You're not the only one. As the Immogo webmaster, a site full of property put up for sale by private owners, I do get a lot of requests in that direction. People mail me: “We are interested in that house and land. Would it be suitable for starting a campsite?" And this also happens with adverts for big houses with lots of rooms: “Is this object (I don’t know why a house would be called an ‘object’ all of a sudden) be suitable for a bed&breakfast? There are some key-in-hand campsites and tourist objects on my site Immogo. In that case people always want to know about the annual turnover. “Because”, they confide a bit huskily, “we will be selling our house in the Netherlands and start all over again in France. Something completely different.” (Heavy sigh). Of course all this is none of my business. I advertise houses, that’s all. Just like with all the other requests, I just give the person who is interested the coordinates of the seller, so that he can ask all his questions directly. But I am groaning inside. I would want to tell them: DON'T! In most cases it is not funny at all to start something completely different, if only because people usually don’t know the first thing about the something different they have in mind. And where did you get the idea that you would be happier as a tourist entrepreneur in France? I admit, running a campsite in France seems to be the perfect job, at first sight. Quietly talking to your clients on the front porch of your cute little farmhouse, having dinner all together under the trees in the evenings, while the children are playing about in the pool. But reality is a bit different. Guests arrive at the most inconvenient times on your private ground and always ask the same stupid questions. Is it alright to drink the water from the tap? Where is the next flee market to be held? Do you have a brochure with set-out walks? How do I get the sticky stuff from the maple trees off my car? Nja-nja-nja-nja... You don’t have time to have dinner with them, because there is all the cooking, serving an washing up to do. They happily break all your stuff (and don’t leave their names, of course), their spoilt offspring are screaming all day long and the ones peeing about happily are the drunken fathers, who preferably choose your cute clay wall behind the kitchen to do this, thus slowly changing it into a smelly, muddy thing. Apart from that you have to get up very early each morning, before the first guest wakes up, to clean out the toilet area with a hose, a floor cloth and Lysol, scrub the toilets while gagging and fish the hairs out of the shower. Including those unrecognizable bits. Shampoo. You hope. Well, you can count on it: you will really be longing for the dull office job you had in your former life. And that is all for the better, because it is difficult to make any profit out of a campsite – in particular a small one. Those few euro per tent per day won’t make a rich man of you. So you will have to find additional sources of income, like meals and drinks. And as soon as you do that in a serious way, the food hygiene control will pay you a visit. Your kitchen has to meet the highest hygiene standards. You have to prove that the cold chain is respected from supermarket to frying pan. You have to take samples of all the food you prepare, in order to be able to prove that your guest's dysentery (get out the Lysol) is due to Le Toque Blanc and not your terrace. With all the investments that implies. So there is a big chance that your campsite will go broke within two or three years and you - broke but much richer in experience - will go back home to Holland. With your head high, of course. Because at least YOU tried. And all the other slaves of the office can't claim to that! Well, this is of course a worse case scenario. Not everybody is in that position. Of course I hope that you too – through Immogo or not – will realise your dream in France for a perfect and maple-free campsite, where all the obstacles you might meet will be overcome without pain and where you will be very happy. But still, if it doesn’t work - don’t forget you can always put your campsite up for sale again with me, on Immogo. For I do get a lot of requests in that sense.
Up Why do the Dutch move to France? Apart from my job as webmaster of Immogo, I have also taken the initiative for Hollandais en France, a web log with daily tips about France, with an ongoing discussion about France in a alternately humorous, vivid, knowledgeable and ignorant atmosphere. The nice thing about it is that people are evidently interested in France for many different reasons. First of all, of course, you have the real Francophiles. They know the wine atlas by heart, have their own addresses for monks cheese, goats cheese and she-ass cheese, blue veined or not, and only have the perfect Chateaubriand with a Médaillon de Veau aux truffes. They are the people who bring home stories about obscure restaurants with a divine cuisine, where they have thought themselves in an olfactory and tasting paradise for a few moments and only a few sous. Those who happened to come by a chambres d’hôtes owned by a dying countess, who showed them a cellar full of oenological masterpieces. And who would not want to live in France for anything in the world, because their stories would not be considered as interesting by the French as by the Boeotiens in Holland. Then you have the sunbathers. They only want one thing: Go south as quickly as possible, to the same campsite every year, to get undressed and lie down on the beach or in front of the caravan. Mostly they don’t speak a word of French and they don’t have to, because the owner of the campsite is Dutch and the French waiter in the restaurant is able to recite the whole menu in Dutch as well. With an awful French accent, but we won’t mind. But then, Dutch is a difficult language for the French. You can’t blame them. At least they try. They do so because we’re not German. And of course there is an intermediate category, of people who just like touring around France, do what they can to speak French and enjoy culture and nature at least as much as they enjoy the sun. They don’t count the cathedrals they’ve seen and will also take refuge in a hotel if the weather’s too bad to set up the tent. A very sympathetic group, with only one disadvantage: You can’t make fun of them. That’s all about the holiday people. Then you have the emigrants. One of the visitors on our forum, Jørgen/Alien8, tried to sort them in categories. He arrived at – in a free rendering – adventurers, pensionado’s and economic refugees. So let me try as well: Adventurers. Yes, some people move to France just because they have that possibility and because they want to give it a try. I am one of them. But this category is much more complex than that. In my opinion you’re not very adventurous if you - like Jørgen and myself – can just bring your work with you and do speak some French to begin with. Your basic income is maintained and you just move within Europe. You could have gone to Friesland instead, that would have been the same thing. Although at second thought, it might have been more adventurous with all those Frisians. No, I think the real adventurers are the ones who give up their job in The Netherlands, sell all they have and start all over again in France. I have friends in the Morvan who did just that. At the time, their daughter was three years old and their son several months. That’s what I call adventure! Fortunately everything turned out well for them, but it could have been much worse. Concerning the pensioners, they are either permanent movers who do not fit into the adventurers because they have a fixed income in The Netherlands. Or they are holiday people, who can be sorted in Francophiles, sunbathers and the category in between. A second important category of emigrants, in my opinion, is the refugees. In his text, Jørgen cites the example of the people who were unable to make a living in The Netherlands and have left for that reason, many of them farmers willing to reinvent the milk quota over here. But I think a much bigger group moved to France because they went mad in Holland. They did not choose to go to France, they chose to leave Holland. They are the people who are fed up with ‘Holland with all the rules’, ‘the insecurity’ and ‘the immigrants’. They wake up quickly here because in France the paperwork is even worse than in Holland and teachers are not safe here either. And then, more and more foreigners arrive here as well, refusing to integrate. These immigrants often stick together and keep speaking their own language. They also bring dozens of their family members to France every year. Who bring in as much stuff as possible from their homeland, since these badly integrated immigrants can't live without some essential things like Gouda cheese, peanut butter and liquorice.
Up Everyone who has been surfing around in the small Dutch world of sites about France, encounters the same names again and again: Wim Bavelaar of Living and Working in France, the informative site Hurktoilet, the listing FrankrijkToplist and of course the discussion site Frankrijkforum. To mention only a few. Immogo does not fit in this list, since it not necessarily meant to be an informative site. Immogo is a purely commercial site where people can put up for sale their place in France. It is not important that this commercial objective has a personal, even idealistic touch. Yes, advertising on Immogo.com is 100% No Cure No Pay. Immogo conducts its business without contracts or paperwork. Based on the confidence that people who are successful and sell their house through Immogo, will be willing to pay 1% of their initial price for that purpose. And the best thing is: It works. Several happy sellers have received an invoice and paid it. Isn’t that beautiful? "But", I hear you ask, "Why the 'quarrelsome' bit?" Give good advise! Never lie! Keep smiling! Well, I think the quarrelsome one is I, really. Which means, I am not looking for arguments for argument's sake, but I do have the very Dutch tendency to point an accusing finger. And I have this web log, ‘Hollandais en France’ A dangerous combination, because that stage allows me to point my finger at people who are not doing honest business, in my opinion. Particularly when, during an earlier personal approach, for example by email, have shown that they do not care a bit about the fair play rules. They are just like the show-offs in the schoolyard, pushing everyone around as if saying: "I'm untouchable?" I don’t like bullies. So, you understand that my pointing finger is not always to everyone’s liking. They threaten to send the gendarmes. Or take revenge by trying to hurt me in a public spot. Someone (anonymously, of course) once called me ‘a really quarrelsome guy’ on a site dedicated to France. A nickname that I proudly used for quit a while. Clear? Let’s get back to looking at houses, then. Up
© Gregor Hakkenberg | |||
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