French Days: Navigating Life, à la Française

Between Bureaucracy, Bistros, and Baffling Conversations

When Everything Feels Just a Little Too... French

After two years here, I do understand a lot about French culture - I think. Yet there are things a lot of things that I still don’t quite grasp & I run into them constantly. When things go sideways for me, in my head, I call them “French Days.”

When I say French Days, I don’t mean the French version of Black Friday—Les French Days. This is not discount shopping. French Days for me are when France is feeling extra France, and it’s determined to remind me that I’m, well, not from around here. I am not French - and it feels like everyone in France is out to prove it to me on the same day.

Simple errands turn into ego battles. I try to maintain a zenlike exterior when “non” is the start of every single interaction I have all day, after the initial hellos and how are you, etc.

I am waiting in longer lines for some reason, but I don’t know why. I am told to wait until someone can help me, but I am in an empty office. And then the person who told me to wait comes back with a “how can I help you?” that sends me off into detailed fantasies of replying in perfectly condescending French, telling him that he could have saved me 30 minutes of my life.

For all I know, he might not have been off smoking cigarettes and making me wait for no reason. Very likely, he has more to do in a day than just wait for me to show up. Or maybe he was. It really doesn’t matter.

And I know that this is not France, this is me. I am not ready.

Or at the least, these are situations that also drive French people crazy, but today it’s my problem.

It starts small. I’m dealing with some bit of bureaucracy, or the bank, or some situation I’ve already navigated successfully before. I think I know the process. But on French Days, there’s a New Guy with a look that says, “Ah, there will be something wrong with your papers today.” Suddenly, my driver’s license, which worked perfectly fine last month, is scrutinized like it’s the Rosetta Stone. Did I miss an expiration? Is it astrological?

Maybe it’s a simple way for bored office workers to put off having to do something, or spacing out their works so that a handful of appointments will last all day. I once had a job where I was night security at a marina and the job was so boring that we could stretch out our meals for hours on end.

Maybe there actually is something wrong with my paperwork. Maybe the last person just let it slide that one time, but now I’m making a habit of looking for exceptions and I don’t even know it.

They shrug with a polite, “Monsieur, ce n’est pas si simple…” or the classic, “Peut-être, monsieur, you’ll need additional documents.” This country does love paperwork.

Remain calm. Don’t panic.

I’ve gotten a bit better. I used to actually listen when they told me that they couldn’t help the first time. Now, I have developed a series of follow up questions. It’s important to recognize the humanity of the person on the other side of the situation.

Or something like that. I am trying to get something done.

"I do appreciate that you’re busy."
"Je comprends que vous êtes occupé."

"I am sure I don’t understand the work you must be responsible for."
"Je suis sûr que je ne comprends pas tout le travail dont vous devez être responsable."

Or occasionally.

Oh wait.

"No - I understand. You’re a jerk."
"Non - je comprends. Vous êtes un crétin.

But that is actually much, much rarer than I thought. This country is quite precise in its paperwork. Sometimes, I am breaking rules that I don’t know even exist.

But I still need to get something done.

So why was this fine last week? Same place, same papers. Different guy. Fuck. Was I wrong the whole time? I leave without ever getting a clear answer.

French bureaucracy is famous, but on French Days, there are extra rules just for me. I try my usual tactic, smiling awkwardly, seeming outwardly confused - but not leaving. It’s actually been the best strategy I have when I don’t have the vocabulary to explain myself, just looming awkwardly like a piece of furniture that’s just a bit too big for the room, always getting in the way. I had a sofa like that once. It made me uncomfortable just to look at it. It was like the sofa couldn’t breathe and I started to feel short of breath just looking at it.

Awkward looming works for me most of the time, but on days like these, it just drags things out. I am not winning this one.

The ability to sit calmly through an awkward situation is a superpower in France. Yes, there may be a problem, but no, I'm not going anywhere until this works out as I need it to. Et alors...? I will be even more non-plussed than you, mon ami.

This will not affect me.

I will not get annoyed,

but I will get what I need.

Bureaucracy and Bistros

It’s not just bureaucracy. Everything feels slightly off - one or two things wouldn’t bother me, but I feel like the star of a bad middle school musical with actors bumping into each other on stage and singing off key. Then, after the show, you have to talk to the actors and encourage them to do more.

15 years of teaching middle school. I did this a lot.

(“Oh wow! You guys really did it! You did!” - the best line I could offer children. I understand that I need to encourage the children’s efforts, but the results are tragic and should be discouraged for the greater good.)

Yes, days like this happened in New York all the time (probably once a week), but somehow, here it all feels a bit more... French.

I head to my neighborhood bistro, hoping for a quick coffee and a chat with the owner. But it’s closed - despite the hours posted on the door and on the internet. There’s no fermeture exceptionnelle sign, just... closed. Is it a holiday? It really might be. For a secular nation, it seems like every 5 days, there is a Catholic Saint Somebody being celebrated.

The bistro’s schedule is cryptic, open when the chef feels like it. But it also feels like everyone else already knows this.

I decide to give up on going out for a minute and go back to the apartment.

The elevator doesn’t arrive fast enough.

‘But I have an elevator,’ I remind myself. Perspective.

Still, the New Yorker in me mutters, ‘What the f—?!’—a level of impatience that, I’ll remind you, does not translate well here.

Naturally, in just that moment, the lovely older woman from the floor above and her husband walk in, catching me mid–silent tantrum against the elevator, making baby fists and raging impotently at the door and the blinking button that means it’s coming.

I am fighting with the elevator. The elevator is winning.

They both raise their eyebrows as they slowly try to move past me in the small entryway. There is an awkward “Bonjour…” telling me that they have to say hello because we know each other, but please, god - don’t talk to us. They exit with a smile that doesn’t match the worry in their eyes. They will be relieved when this moment is over.

Ding. The elevator door opens, moving as fast - or as slow - as it always does.

It is me. I know this.

The door closes in slow motion.

“Fuck! Faaahkkk! Come on…”

I might try another café later, one where the staff knows me, but for some reason my accent trips me up today. Every request needs repeating and clarifying. I run into another neighbor at the cafe and there’s small talk - the weather, is that about pumping? Oh my god, what did I just say to her?

She tries to glance over my shoulder looking for someone else, anyone else. The cafe might seat 10 people. She would have seen them by now - she’s looking for an exit.

The waiter comes out and they share an excessively friendly Bonjjourruh! that says he might have just saved her from an awkward conversation.

I feel conspicuously not French. Again, this is me. I get it, but I can’t quite keep up; gestures don’t seem to match the words.

Suddenly, I’m not the expat blending in—it feels like it’s my first week in the country. My French hasn’t leveled up, and I’m back at the beginning like the video game reset me at the start all over again.

BEEP! BEEP… boooop… 💀

Rain. Resilience. Repeat.

Some days do come with a hint of isolation. Life here is really nice, and most days it feels almost normal. But on those tougher days, every speed bump feels like a brick wall built in the middle of the highway.

I head home under an overcast sky, wondering if I should have grabbed my umbrella. People here seem to read the weather better. You almost never see anyone just walking around with an umbrella unless it’s actually raining.

As then, just as I am the farthest from home that I plan on going, the sky opens up. Rain pours down and I am soaked to my socks in minutes. I get to the bus stop, but—of course, the bus is running late. Because, why not?

French Days make me wonder if I’m truly cut out for this place. When the language trips me up and every little thing feels like a test I should have studied for, but it also feels like it’s a quiz for a class I missed.

But then, a few days later, the country seems to relax about itself. The paperwork clears without a hitch, the bistro is open and warm, my French flows more smoothly, and someone even laughs at a joke I manage to deliver without stumbling.

It's almost enough to make me believe in astrology.

Gémeaux, attendez-vous à des malentendus amusants et à des messages mystérieux cette semaine. Restez ouvert aux surprises, car des mots entendus par hasard pourraient bien révéler un nouveau point de vue. 2 étoiles

In the end, it ends.

It passes in time, though I’m never entirely sure why. It can be isolating and frustrating, but adjusting to a new place is a dance—sometimes graceful, sometimes clumsy. Maybe the trick is to lean into that awkwardness, to learn patience with it, and to let the setbacks become part of the experience.

French Days remind me that adapting isn’t just about feeling at home; it’s about finding charm in the unfamiliar. It takes time to build a life somewhere, and each day may not be perfect, but the weeks and months get better.

I’m considering this as I arrive at the entryway to our apartment building, and I run into the older woman and her husband from the elevator, leaving again to walk their little dog. She looks me up and down, noting my still-damp clothes making a growing puddle in the entryway.

“Ah, vous avez pris la pluie, hein?” she says with a sympathetic smile. (“Ah, you got caught in the rain, huh?”)

“Oui,” I reply, laughing. “Il semble que je n’ai pas encore appris à prévoir le temps.” (“Yes, it seems I still haven’t learned to predict the weather.”) But I say “Meteo” because the app on my phone says “meteo” for weather. I’m not sure which one is right yet.

She chuckles, “Ça viendra, ça viendra… Peut-être dans quelques années,” she teases with a wink. (“It’ll come, it’ll come... maybe in a few years.”)

Her husband shrugs in a way that makes me think this guy has been graceful every minute of his entire life. “Mais c’est ça, la France! Toujours un peu… imprévisible.” (“But that’s France! Always a bit... unpredictable.”)

Some people really do say, ‘C’est la France.’ Truly.

I laugh with them, feeling oddly comforted, but cold. I’m still finding my way—but maybe, just maybe, I’m getting a little closer than yesterday.