They Don't Hate You. They're Just French.
If readers learn one thing from this American’s French adventure, let it be this: It may feel like the French hate you but that’s not a bad thing.
We have regional stereotypes in the United States; how Southerners can be polite to your face and mean behind your back (“bless his heart…”) and Northeasterners can be rude and impatient (“I’m walkin’ here!”). France has similar regional stereotypes. Where we live, in the Southwest, the Basques are known for being kind but closed-off to outsiders. Parisians are considered haughty. Regional clichés are debatable but for the entire country of France I have a solid expectation: French people come across as cold until basic social rules are established and your character is assessed. It takes time but once you’re deemed a friend or even a friendly acquaintance you’ve earned the title for life.
This was a really hard concept for me. As an American I am the human equivalent of a labrador retriever: Everyone I meet is a potential best buddy and I want to eat all the food all the time. The French are more like poodles: They aren’t especially warm but they’re extremely loyal to their family and friends and have particular eating habits. Here in France I’m a bumbling lab in a land of proper poodles.
I had to learn not to say “bonjour!” like Belle in the opening song in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. When I moved to France Lumiere didn’t roll out the red carpet. I’ve had to develop patience for strict meal times and making friends.
Our best friends here in France first invite us to coffee at a cafe. We level up with apéro in their home. Then we start to get party and dinner invitations. It takes at least three scheduled interactions before our French acquaintances start being friendly in the American sense of the word. It’s been a year since we moved here and I only have two friends I can casually drop in on. In America this would devastate me. In France it feels like an accomplishment.
Texting is a perfect illustration of how long it takes for a French person to warm up. At first the texts are extremely formal, like this example invitation for a 6yo playdate:
"Bonjour. J'aimerais inviter votre enfant à venir jouer chez nous samedi. Veuillez me faire savoir dès que possible si cela est acceptable. Nous attendons votre réponse avec impatience. Très sincèrement..." complete with punctuation and formal sign-off.
The woman who cleaned our rental texted me literal paragraphs of formal greeting before asking if she could clean on Wednesday. I didn’t get a single emoji-only reply from a friend until after a year of correspondence. I began mirroring the tone and length of texts because, lol smh, I felt uncivilized.
The French are also culturally inclined to complain and criticize and they will do this to your face. If you make a mistake with pronunciation they will correct you, like my neighbor who somehow materializes and shouts “ça se prononce cor-eee-an-drehhhh!” when I mispronounce “cilantro” at the market. If you walk on the wrong side of the sidewalk a stranger will probably tell you with a tone of exasperation and hand gestures. If you show up somewhere that requires a reservation there will be a not-so-gentle reminder that one is needed.
The first time I made a reservation omission we had walked into an unassuming restaurant for lunch and asked for a table for two. We were asked the dreaded “avez-vous une réservation ?” Non, we did not. What ensued felt like the end of our French experiment. I was ready to leave not just Bayonne but the country. The bartender/ host/ server began a very loud, exasperated French diatribe, complete with exasperated hand movements, about how we had some nerve to just walk in. This restaurant served wine. Good wine. And there were courses.
“Il s'agit d'un déjeuner de 2 heures. Le minimum,” he practically spat, explaining that the restaurant served proper two-hour lunch. Then he spoke in English. “This is not an American lunch.”
I am used to apologetic American restaurant hosts, who say they are “so sorry” before saying nothing is available or there’s a wait. I was shocked by the uncordial, unapologetic French host. But I am a human labrador and despite the shock of being yelled at I was hungry.
“If it helps, we are vegetarian so we can just eat sides and we like to drink really good wine,” I said, in English. After all, he called me out for being American so may as well be American and speak English. I thought the vegetarian confession would break the bartender/ host/ server but maybe take pressure off the food prep and get us a seat. I hoped the promise of ordering a good bottle of wine would earn a little respect. With an eye roll, he quickly checked with the chef and returned saying my favorite French phrase: “Installez-vous.” Take a seat.
We had the best meal I have ever had in France. And that’s saying something. It was unforgettable. Not just the food and wine but the bartender/ server/ host went from yelling and eye rolls to questions about why we were in Bayonne. He taught us about the wine and took pride in presenting the vegetarian menu. We left happy and almost friendly. And here’s the kick: The bartender/ server/ host now greets me on the street and even raises a glass to me if we’re hanging out in the plaza.
He didn’t hate me. He was just French. Our mantra was born.
I have been scolded and reprimanded by the man who fixes our boiler (I didn’t clear the boiler room of boxes before he arrived and he threatened to leave. I moved all the boxes and made him a coffee and he told me I remind him of his daughter.), our former landlord (We left the front porch light on during the day and was told “Americans hate the environment.” She later created a special open lease so we could secure our visa.), the women who run the bakery around the corner (They thought I was a tourist. It wasn’t until I lived here for six months I realized they’d been giving me bottom shelf baguettes.), the cheesemonger next door (I opened a refrigerator and got something myself. She now tells me if she has a cheese I would like so I should come by.), the secretary of the Bordeaux school district (Do not, ever, pack potato chips for school snack.) and even, on one occasion, our dearest friend (We browed her car and unknowingly got a slow-leak flat. Based on the texts I thought we’d been demoted. Turns out she was just being honest to our face.). It wasn’t until our attorney, to whom we pay a lot of money, seemed like she hated me that I decided to test my mantra. I felt like she owed me an explanation.
“Madame, excuse me, but did I do something wrong? It sounds like I am an inconvenience,” I said as she condescendingly explained particularly frustrating and expensive aspects of getting our second French visa. She made it sound like I should have known all of this and that I was a waste of her time. She is a carbon copy of Philippine Leroy-Beaulieu’s character in Emily In Paris.
“No! Pas du tout!” she replied. She then asked how our dog was doing and if we had found a dog sitter. She offered to take him while we flew back for our visas. It was a sincere offer. She didn’t hate me. She was just being French.
In America the customer is always right. There’s a national habit of overpromising and underdelivering (ahem, the American Dream). Capitalism drives customer service. But in France it doesn’t matter that you have money to spend: The restaurant is not open between 16:00 to 19:00. The employees deserve as much respect as the customers. And as a customer you’ll probably get a couple “c'est impossible” before accomplishing anything. Underpromising and then delivering is the French way, from dining in restaurants to making friends.
It stung at first but now I find it refreshing. When people are warm and friendly it’s because they’re real. Friendship is earned and properly established. They don’t hate you. They’re just French.