Things The French Find Completely Bizarre
The Tiny American Habits They Quietly Judge
The look always comes first.
A slight furrowing of the eyebrows.
The straightening of the mouth.
A tiny shrug.
Sometimes a soft “bfff” under their breath.
Not angry. Not exactly judgmental either.
Just… deeply puzzled.
The first time I experienced this was three days after moving to Aix-en-Provence from California.
It was August. The kind of southern France heat that makes your shirt stick to your back before noon. We had two young children who were sweaty, jet-lagged, hungry, and rapidly approaching meltdown territory.
We found a little takeaway pasta place and ordered buttered noodles with parmesan because it felt safe and familiar for the kids.
Across the street was something called “French Tacos,” which I naïvely assumed meant tacos like we ate in California. Instead, we opened the container to discover fries, fried chicken, melted cheese, and unidentified chopped meat fused together in a strange glorious pile.
We carried our food to a bench beside the fountain in the main square.
Wooden forks. Wooden knives. Kids spilling parmesan everywhere.
And then came the looks.
An older man slowed as he passed us. Looked down at the pasta container balanced on my lap.
“Bon appétit,” he said with a tiny sarcastic laugh before walking away.
At the time, I thought:
Wow. The French are rude.
Now, three years later, I understand what was actually happening.
To them, we looked bizarre.
Not because of what we were eating.
Because of how we were eating it.
Eating Is Not Meant to Feel Efficient
In France, meals are not something to squeeze in between errands.
You do not inhale pasta from a cardboard container with wooden cutlery beside a fountain while checking your phone and wiping sunscreen off your child’s face.
You sit down.
You use real silverware.
You pause between bites.
Even lunch on a random Tuesday is treated like something deserving of attention.
If you absolutely must eat while walking, it should be something held in your hands. A sandwich. A folded slice of pizza. A crêpe.
But pasta with plastic forks on a public bench?
Très bizarre.
And honestly, I get it now.
The Things Americans Carry Around
One of the fastest ways to spot an American in France is the oversized water bottle.
The giant Stanleys. The brightly colored Owalas. The emotional support hydration jugs.
The French seem fascinated by them.
Not in an admiring way.
More in a: Are they crossing the Sahara Desert later? sort of way.
You rarely see French adults carrying water around all day. Water belongs at meals. Served in glasses. Usually room temperature. Never packed with ice cubes the size of golf balls.
The first few months we lived here, I kept placing my giant water bottle on café tables like an accessory.
Now even I can see how absurd it looked next to a tiny espresso.
The Smile Incident
One American friend told me about her first corporate event in Paris.
She smiled warmly at a man she had just met. Big American smile. Friendly. Open.
Later that evening, he approached her at the bar and asked if she was a prostitute.
She was horrified.
But in France, overly enthusiastic smiling at strangers can read as flirtation or invitation, especially from women toward men.
This was shocking to me at first.
In America, smiling is practically social currency. We smile while passing strangers on hikes. We smile apologetically in elevators. We smile while ordering coffee, while uncomfortable, while angry, while exhausted.
The French reserve warmth differently.
It is not immediate.
It unfolds over time.
Busy Is Not a Personality Trait
One thing the French consistently seem confused by is our obsession with rushing.
Running to the métro.
Eating while walking.
Scheduling weekends so tightly they resemble military operations.
Back-to-back activities. Sports. Birthday parties. Errands. Productivity layered on top of productivity.
In France, if you tell someone you had “such a busy weekend,” it is not necessarily received with admiration.
Sometimes it’s met with concern.
Why would you live like that?
The waiter who ignores you for twenty minutes after you sit down is not failing at his job.
He assumes you are there to enjoy yourself.
The table is yours. He will never bring your check unless you ask for it.
No one is trying to flip it quickly for profit.
The meal is the point.
Loud Talking
Americans often don’t realize how loud we are until we move abroad.
I remember sitting at a café terrace in Aix one afternoon when I heard a familiar sound before I even turned around.
An American table.
You could hear every detail of the conversation from halfway down the street.
The volume. The animated storytelling. The oversharing. The huge reactions.
“Oh my God STOP.”
“Literally NO WAY.”
“Wait, tell me EVERYTHING.”
Meanwhile, every French table around them sounded like a soft murmur.
The French speak more quietly in public spaces. Especially in restaurants, trains, boutiques, and cafés. Conversation is meant to stay mostly at your table, not become part of the atmosphere for everyone else.
It’s not that they are less expressive. They simply value discretion.
This applies beyond volume too.
Americans tend to reveal personal information very quickly. Relationship problems. Salary complaints. Therapy breakthroughs. Family drama. The French usually unfold more slowly. Privacy is considered elegant. Mystery is respected.
At first, this felt cold to me.
Now, I actually find it refreshing.
Not every thought needs to be announced.
Not every moment needs to become content.
Not every silence needs to be filled.
There is something calming about realizing you can exist in public without constantly broadcasting yourself.
The Part That Changed Me
At first, all of this felt inconvenient.
Slow service. Closed stores. Long lunches. Fewer smiles. No customization. Less urgency.
But over time, I started realizing something uncomfortable.
Maybe they weren’t doing life wrong.
Maybe we were just living very differently.
Maybe Americans have become so conditioned to convenience, speed, optimization, self-improvement, efficiency, and endless productivity that we no longer notice how exhausting it feels.
The French notice.
That’s why they look puzzled.
Not because you are bad or wrong.
Because to them, some of our habits look strangely stressful.
And honestly?
Now many of them look bizarre to me too.
I‘m French and had the chance to live 6 months in the US a few years back. The smiling and the sharing of private details confused me the exact way around: I met people who I felt were so warm to me I thought we had a real connection. Because that kind of smiling and exchanging only happens if you feel a true vibe with someone in France. When I texted these people to meet again, some declined and most never answered. I was so puzzled in the beginning, then I understood that Americans just have a very different way of socializing.
I love how every article with the thesis of "the French aren't judgemental asssholes like you think" ends up confirming that the French are, in fact, judgemental assholes.