Immigrant Tales of the Bank

I pretty much hate my bank. Each time I go, something horrible happens, and I leave crying about how imbecilic, awkward, and unFrench I am.
Last year, I opened an account for a variety of reasons. For health insurance reasons, I needed an account. For tax reasons, I needed an account. For pay check reasons, I needed an account. So I went in, sat down with the banker, and understood about 14% of what he said (I did catch, “How in the world do you live on this little money?!) And a few months after this meeting, once my French level was a little higher and I started receiving bank statements in the mail, I realized I'd signed up to open all sorts of things that day. Quelle surprise!
A while after, I went to the bank to try and figure out how to transfer money from my debit account into this newly discovered savings account. The teller at the front desk was a young girl, very pretty, nice clothes...someone you'd expect to see in Paris. So, I patted down my hair, straightened my shirt, and walked up and told her I'd like to transfer money. Of course, I have the impression that my request wasn't as clear or direct as I'd hoped. I imagine it was more of a, “Good day, lady, I think transfer money be good idea.”
She laughed at me, took my card, typed in some information, laughed some more and then asked me a question I didn't understand at all.
I told her I didn't understand.
Agitated, she repeated the question, not slower, only louder.
I lowered my head and explained that I still didn't understand. She shouted the question this time, and by this point, everyone in the bank was looking at me. Then she said that typical French phrase that every French person I know says on a regular basis, C'est pas possible ça! (In France, you see, everything is either not possible or not normal.) I left the bank that day, determined to wean myself off money and never go to the bank again. Later that day, I went to the bank once all the employees were gone and checked my account information from the self-help machine. There was only one euro in my account. The accountant had forgotten to pay me. No wonder she'd laughed.
So, after this (and after another embarrassing debacle where I was so surprised to see money in my account that I ran all the way home and forgot my debit card in the machine. You can imagine how excited the teller was to see me wander back in, head lowered, and say, “Me lose card”), Stephan, my then-boyfriend (now fiancé!), and I hatched a brilliant plan. We'd stagger our entrances into the bank—I'd go in first, he'd count to ten and come in and wait in line after me. I'd do something completely ridiculous, the teller would yell at me, I'd wander out humiliated. Then, Stephan would walk up to the counter, and in his perfect, native speaker French, he'd say, “Well, I had considered opening an account here today, but after seeing how you treat your clients, I'm afraid I'll have to look elsewhere.” It was, admittedly, one of our better formed plans, but we never got around to it. Unnecessary trips to the bank aren't really my style.
A week ago, I got a very official looking envelope in my mailbox. Something very French governmental looking. I opened it and found a tax return inside. The check's arrival was bittersweet.
I put the check on my desk, in my To Do pile, and left it for a day. I looked over at it occasionally but never made any move to do anything about it.
I'd never received a check in France before. What was I supposed to do with it? In the States, I could deposit a check blindfolded. I could even cash the said check blindfolded and with both hands tied behind my back. In France? Well, my track record at the bank has never been so good.
Eventually, I got up my courage and walked into the bank, head bowed, embarrassed as always. But when I got to the desk, I noticed that there was a new teller. She was older than the other teller, less fashionable, but then, this is the Paris area, so let's face it: she was looking good.
I put the check on the desk, explained that i wanted to deposit it in my account, but wasn't sure how to go about doing this. I waited for her to tell me how abnormal or impossible this was.
But she didn't. She asked me to write down my account number and to sign below. I did. And then, she said, “Merci. Have nice day.” I stood there, didn't leave, and finally said, “That's all?”
“Oui,” she replied, “That's all you have to do.”
So, that was it. A pleasant trip to the bank. No humiliation.
I passed by everyday last week to look in and see who's working. My banking nemesis hasn't been back. I'm left to wonder: is this vacation? Or is this a permanent vacation?
I can't say I'm terribly broken up about her absence.
However, I'm hesitant to get too optimistic. My banker called Friday. He wants me to come in this Friday to discuss my banking needs. What banking needs? I'm not sure. But I'm hoping for the best, and I'm listening to all my “Pronounce it Perfectly” CDs in the hope that my bank humiliation is over forever.