Karen Fawcett

It’s become a growing trend. Rather than being cramped in a hotel room, an increasing number people are opting to rent apartments when they come to Paris or cities. They may be on vacation, but even business travelers are going the rental route if they’re going to be in the city for more than a few days.

When Americans rent Paris apartments, invariably they’ll echo the same refrain. They wonder how people can live in such tight quarters. Many rental apartments are in the 40-50 square-meter range; multiply by 11 for the number of square feet.

Besides a living/dining area combination, a kitchen and a bedroom, there’s usually only one WC (toilet) and one bath (a tub and/or a shower) plus a sink.

Sound good? You bet. This size apartment isn’t terribly unusual if you want to stay in central Paris. But the agent or ad states the apartment is large enough to accommodate four people. Few Europeans flinch nor will people on a very tight budget.

Americans tend to have different expectations, unless they’ve sailed together in an under-30 foot boat and have experienced truly close quarters. People from the U.S. expect to be able to spread out unless it’s a family of four or very good friends—and then, Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice had a king-size bed.

Well, hello, and welcome abroad! The American way of life including living in big houses or large apartments isn’t the norm. City dwellers in many parts of the world don’t have excess space to burn. But here’s the bottom line: A week or two spent living in what seems to be half the space or less than you need can be an illuminating moment. I can’t predict that you will shout Hallelujah or just Eureka, but you might learn something about how to live.

This idea is already taking hold in the States. I don’t know how many magazine articles I’ve seen recently about how to adapt to small quarters and live with less and more efficiently. Then there are the television shows that focus on downsizing, and designers and space planners engineering small spaces so they fit their clients’ lifestyles. With the advent of the green movement, many groups are advocating that people should downsize in order to conserve resources.

Okay. Now, the French have traditionally been energy conscious because of the high cost of electricity. As an American, I applaud this and turn lights off and the heat and air conditioning down no matter where I am. It’s become such a habit that I turn out lights even in hotels where utilities aren’t the issue. This doesn’t mean that it isn’t.

They utilize space very differently even in other rich countries. Few people have enormous family rooms with media centers plus workout equipment discreetly tucked into a corner. People tend to buy less because closet and storage space is at a premium.

Many people in the U.S. are spoiled. I count myself among them. But the idea of having a big house for which to care has become increasingly less appealing. Having had those pleasures and responsibilities in both France and in the U.S., it’s no piece of cake, and for the few times a year guests want to stay (and vice-versa), booking a room in a nearby hotel is more sensible.

When someone shows me their château or mansion, heating bills and maintenance costs immediately shoot through my mind. The next question is who is going to clean the digs? It’s amazing how some people don’t appear to factor in that someone is going to need to be responsible for cleaning the premises or, perhaps as I did, work at full gallop in order to pay a housekeeper and a gardener or two.

How many people spend their weekends and time when they’re not at work pushing vacuum cleaners and scrubbing floors? If they have children, their time is spoken for. Sadly, most children aren’t into being neat or mopping floors.

If you live in a small apartment, there are so many ways to maximize space. If the ceilings are high enough (which many are in France if the building is more than 100 years old), you might add a mezzanine. Even though built-in furniture can be expensive, IKEA and other stores lessen the cost. Even if you don’t buy a thing, purchase a catalogue and use it as a textbook in addition to providing inspiration as to how to utilize every inch.

Europeans might partition rooms by using screens to separate space or have beds that go up and down on a hydraulic lift. In addition, having furniture that’s moveable can allow flexibility when entertaining. Consider sectional seating that can be shifted, and thank goodness for mirrors that make spaces look larger.

But please, whatever you do, if you’re coming to Paris, please don’t send an email complaining about the size of your rental apartment. If you’re space driven, ask the owner or the agent for the precise number of square feet (or meters) of your temporary home and go (and pay for) bigger. Or, hey, you might consider renting a suite at The Meurice.

Some people may think the French are rude. But they certainly aren’t Bonjour Paris readers. Nor did the readers of last week’s article here and in the blogosphere of social networking. There’s no way everyone can be a Francophile.

Our email box looked as if we were offering a free trip to Paris that included two first class air tickets, ten days at the The Marriott on the Champs Elysees and breakfast, lunch and dinner at two- and three-star-rated Michelin restaurants.

Each comment was read and re-read. To be honest, they supply inspiration and serve as an incentive for all of our contributors. We’re conveying the message that the French aren’t rude. Or if they are, it’s a lapse and the exception rather than the norm.

Frequently repeated comments:

It makes an enormous difference if visitors attempt to speak some French—even if their accents are terrible. No one should assume the French speak English, but you should be able to say Bonjour, merci and s’il vous plaît.

If you treat people with courtesy, they’ll respond in the same way. Don’t think if you raise your voice, the French will be charmed. They won’t be and you’ll have a harder time dealing with them. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out.

Visitors should have the courtesy of familiarizing themselves with the cultural differences between their native country and France. Don’t expect things to be identical to what you experience at home. If that’s what you’re looking for, don’t bother making the trip.

Gwyn Ganjeau said, “I think many Americans go to France and expect the French to be the same as us—but with an accent. But there are significant cultural differences. Reading about those before my first trip was like receiving the secret code. I learned there were so many ways I could have inadvertently been considered a stereotypical ‘rude American.’”

Another person commented that as a former New York City resident, she’s found Parisians not to be any different from other big-city residents.

Some observations:

Amy Gruber commented, “I think Parisians are delightful. Let me give you one of example from my six-week-long stay in Paris last year when I didn’t meet one rude Parisian. One morning, I was waiting outside of a shop, which was late opening. A woman arrived and we began talking. The owner’s phone number was written on the door and the woman phoned her to let her know clients were waiting.

“Then, she asked me what I was looking for. When I told her what it was, she said she had seen something similar at a nearby store. She couldn’t remember its name and asked me to wait a few minutes. Ten minutes later, she returned with the card. Did she have to do that? Not at all.”

William Cover posted that they’d rented an apartment near the rue Montorgueil. Each time they would purchase something from the merchants, they attempted to speak a bit more French. “A small gift of a rose or flowering plant was also a big hit with our favorite vendors. A young girl sales clerk at Stohrer’s, with whom we became friends, spoke some English. She appreciated our trying to speak French. If we passed by, she would say ‘Coucou!’ and wave. When it was time to leave she used her fingers to signify tears going down her cheeks. That was followed by a big hug. We exchanged email addresses and she always writes, ‘Miss you! Kiss Kiss!’”

There were so many additional comments, many having to do with political differences, the Americanization (rather than globalization) of France and other perceptions as well as misconceptions. The reality is that people everywhere have the right to, and do, disagree.  I so wish people would travel more so they could experience people on their home territory and acquire first-hand knowledge of different customs.

Bonjour Paris’s Margaret Kemp, who writes each week for the site, said she believes as most food lovers do, that many of the world’s ills could be solved by sharing a meal together, adding that “French cuisine is alive and well and showcased in every corner of the globe.” Perhaps food could be the common denominator.

There were so many thought-provoking comments….  to be continued

For years I’ve been denying the French are rude. People simply don’t understand cultural differences. Tourists who come to France should remember they’re guests. It’s their responsibility to learn about French culture and mores, before making grand pronouncements that they’re not well treated as soon as they land on Gallic soil.

There have been times I’ve nearly waged battle over what I believe to be massive misperceptions. Some people assume I’m a representative of the French Government’s tourist office since my mantra has been: smile, shake hands, say “bonjour” and “merci” and don’t assume your being here and spending money entitles you to jump to the front of the line.

The analogy I’ve made is Parisians tend to be like people who live and work in Manhattan and don’t necessarily make nice-nice to strangers—you know, the ones who look lost and ask for directions, in a foreign language no less, about how to travel from the lower East Side to the upper West Side without changing subway lines.

Imagine my upset when the results of a telephone poll conducted by the CSA (France’s Conseil supérieur de l’audiovisuel) of 1000 French adults, who live outside of Paris, were made public.

The findings were devastating. But there had to be a reason. It was a sample of those who were willing to take the time to answer the questions, undoubtedly because others were too busy. How many times have you said no to a telemarketer or a survey-taker because you had other things on your plate—like dinner? I’m skeptical of the results, but here they are:

Parisians were found to be: arrogant, aggressive, snobbish, flirtatious, chauvinistic, feel they’re superior to people who live outside of Paris, and—dig this, Lotharios who hang out on the Champs-Élysées picking up women. It didn’t mention whether or not women were guilty of picking up men.

Thank goodness, “Marianne,” a political magazine ran an editorial alongside these findings. It was quick to say Parisians are under substantially more stress than people who live in other parts of France. Many have longer commutes to their jobs, work longer hours and, if the truth be told, they tend to be unpleasant to one another.

In addition, Parisians may have tourist fatigue since the city is a major tourist destination. Among the French, people from Brittany frequent Paris more than people from other parts of the country.

In spite of the fact that I constantly defend the French, Parisians are different from residents from other parts of France. When I split my time between Paris and Provence, I was constantly irritated by how long it took me to accomplish the most mundane things. I’d go into town to buy newspapers, bread and a few other things and it would invariably be a two-hour foray when I was in the country.

Why did people want to discuss everything and anything? I’d look behind me (when I finally got to the counter) and wonder whether or not these conversations were really necessary.

If I ran into a neighbor, it was considered rude if we didn’t stop for a coffee or a pastis. If I had a drink at 11 a.m., well, so much for the rest of the day. What I had to remember was that many of our neighbors were retired and that’s precisely the reason they settled in Provence. They were doing what they loved, and bless them. But I wasn’t into planting gardens (that was my husband’s passion) and please please, let me get home so I could access my passion Bonjour Paris.

As someone who loves to travel, we all have to learn that people march to their own drummers and at different paces. No matter where you go, rhythms are different.

When I spend time in Washington, DC, my pace slows down compared to Paris. Another thing I’ve learned is that no matter where I am, taxi drivers tend to be rude. It may be because they’re tired from having to fight traffic, busy listening to the radio and invariably are carrying on phone conversations— rarely these days in a language I understand.

My question (I’m ducking) is do you find Parisian rude? If you do, how could they change their behavior to make you more comfortable? Most people (and certainly ones in the hospitality industry) speak English. What can tourists learn from Parisians?

It’s rare I have revelations in the true sense of the word. But recently, I realized I’ve seen and experienced so much of Paris simply by peering out my windows. And looking into them.

If this makes me sound as if I’m a voyeuse, it might be deserved. I’ve never considered myself one, but perhaps I should reconsider. Spending hours looking out of my apartment’s windows has given me insights into how the French live. It’s a very personal microcosm on Parisian life.

This view isn’t unique to France unless you live in the country or far enough away from neighbors you’d need to sneak around for a look-see or resort to binoculars.

However, when you live in Paris, few people have clear vistas. That’s one of the city’s charms. People talk about its rooftops and, yes, they’re lovely and do change according to the light, the weather and shadows. But they remain essentially the same if you live in central Paris. Rooftops aren’t living theater unless your thing is watching birds and where they perch.

Parisians rarely close their shutters unless they’re away and, if they’re home, why pull down shades or close curtains unless they want to darken their bedrooms when they’re sleeping. The French, at least in my quartier, don’t appear to be instilled with the same sense of modesty as Anglo-Saxons.

When I first moved into our home 20 years ago, many of our neighbors were older and lived predictable lives by the clock. The kitchens were functional, but that was about it. Many of them had racks where people would hang laundry to dry.  Many French didn’t believe in dryers because of the cost—they were expensive to run—and they could possibly ruin clothes.  No self-respecting French woman would put underwear in a dryer because undies are a true investment. Some people had maids and left the laundry to them.

Five years later, some of the apartments’ residents began dying off. If they were living in some of the smaller apartments across the courtyard where my bedrooms and kitchen are situated, more than likely a younger relative would move into the premises. As a rule, the French don’t like to sell property because of inheritance taxes and they feel better owning bricks and mortar.

Contrasted to Americans, most French didn’t redecorate for the sake of redecorating. Family furniture was cherished. Much of it was period and may have been recovered, while the walls were given a fresh coat of paint—but that was it.

The surprising thing is I didn’t know the name of my neighbors even though we were a part of the others lives. One couple had a cat and our kitties were brought to the window each morning to say hello.

There was a deaf woman who lived across the way who would always smile. When she first moved in, she had a lover. When they broke up, my heart ached for her. After approximately a year, another woman moved into the apartment and it was apparent their relationship was more than platonic.

We’d bump into each other on the street and always nod and smile but we never knew one another’s name. When the apartment was sold, I was sad when she moved out. A woman, who has covered every wall with purple wallpaper with tiny flowers, has bought it. She dresses and behaves to match the décor.  In other words, boring.

Babies have been born and I’ve seen them grow up. One teenager, whom I’d watched since she’d moved into the apartment with her parents, made the family’s apartment headquarters for all of her friends.  They’d come home after school, go into the garden and light up and they weren’t smoking cigarettes.  I did know the parents and debated as to whether or not I should tell them what was taking place while they were at work because the air was being permeated with smoke from cannabis and you could get a contact high. After a few weeks of ongoing parties, I did tell them and questioned my decision.

In recent years, many of the apartments have been sold and the area has made more than a few contractors and architects rich. Designer kitchens equipped with high-tech appliances and super chic bathrooms are now the rage.

New owners are gutting the apartments, and after they’ve completed the rehab, frequently decorated with Italian furniture mixed with antiques, they entertain. But they never close the curtains.

Which means you can see things at all times of the day and night, including parties.  They could be parties anywhere, except the French serve far more champagne and far less food.  I’ve attended so many of them, but from afar—across the courtyard or the street.  I’m tempted to organize a block party, but that would be so very un-French.

Discussing the know-your-neighbor-but-not phenomenon with the building’s guardienne, she laughed and told me that everyone refers to me as the American who’s always sitting in front of her computer. They’re right.

However, that doesn’t mean I miss so many of Paris’s nuances. Still, I’m becoming increasingly tempted to throw that party. If no one shows, so what? I’m betting it will be a mob scene since so many French have become increasingly Americanized.

Recently I offered the use of my apartment to an American friend for a reception.

Jerry heads a global think tank, The Millennium Project, that does admirable work in the field of future studies and research. It was a no-brainer to host a gathering chez moi and was the least I could do. It required minimal work or wear and tear.

Even though all of the attendees would be guests of this group and I wouldn’t know a soul, what did it matter? It would be an opportunity to meet new people, the majority of whom I assumed would be French.

As it turned out, people were from all over the world. In that way, it was similar to parties in Washington, D.C., where it’s rare to meet someone actually born there. Only one guest was a native Parisian, but many had lived here for the majority of their lives. Each person had a mission and that was to make the world a better place through committed dedication and not simply talking the talk.

The one thing the women had in common is they all wore black. If you’re in Paris during cold weather and want to look Parisian, black is it no matter what the fashion gurus are trying to have us believe.

The evening was a success. But upon reflection, I realize it might have gone more smoothly had my American side not surfaced.

Two weeks prior to the “cocktail”, custom-designed and elegant invitations were sent. So far so good, right? No, probably wrong. Call it the Green movement or laziness, they were sent via cyberspace. The invitation composition program is ingenious and tracks who’s received the invitation, whether or not they’ve opened it and even allows people to RSVP on the spot without having to send an extra email or pick up the phone to respond.

Don’t get me wrong. The French are incredibly Internet savvy and use it with a vengeance. They send mails, and on-line communication isn’t the enigma it was ten years ago.  The French have not only taken to computers but they’re frequently glued to iPhones, Blackberries—and lord help you if you’re not a master at texting.

Ride on any métro (it’s amazing the signal can reach that far down) and you’ll see people typing away rather than reading newspapers as they used to do. Come to think of it, perhaps they’re reading their news on-line.

In the case of this event, people didn’t respond to the invitation. I’ve always found the French to be très correct, but why weren’t they saying whether or not they were attending? It was baffling.

When it came to saying yay or nay to the reception, perhaps it was because the invites were cyber-sent during winter vacation when the recipients had other things on their minds. Or maybe they were holding off in order to see what was on their agendas for that day.

There was no reason to bother fretting (or in my case, obsessing) because there wasn’t a darn thing I could do except buy a few extra bottles of wine and faux-champagne for Kir royals, which would be served in flute-shaped glasses.  People could opt to drink hard liquor, but not ever one person asked for scotch, gin, vodka or anything with high alcohol content.

The French usually don’t serve tons of food at cocktail receptions. Nuts, olives, a few hot and cold appetizers usually do the job. Guests are expected to go out to dinner after an event and usually plan on doing so. The evening was so interesting and people were so involved in exchanging ideas and meeting one another that they didn’t drink and run.

This is where my American side comes into play. The idea of people leaving a party of mine hungry goes so against my grain. Perhaps it’s one of the reasons Americans tend to have problems with their weight since they rationalize that anything they eat while standing up, or that’s been passed (or grabbed off a plate) doesn’t enter into the calorie intake quotient.

If you’re of the Martha Stewart generation, it was only polite that guests could go home without having to stop for dinner or cook before going to bed.

Do you think it’s a fundamental difference between the French and Americans that cocktails mean cocktails and not dinner? Now that I think about it, my French friends tend to bring a bottle of wine or some flowers to an event (don’t believe that those are no-no’s) while my American friends frequently offer to bring food and, even if you say no, frequently arrive with something edible.

I know I always ask what I may cook or bring when I’m in the States. I don’t when I’m in France; perhaps it’s simply yet another cultural difference.

As someone who’s always curious and fascinated by cultural differences, I know that no matter how hard I try to stay au courant, it’s hard (O.K., impossible) to keep up with rapidly changing trends as the developed world becomes increasingly global.

May 1st is the twenty-second anniversary of my moving to Paris. It’s hard to believe I’ve been here so long and how many things have changed—especially me.

I’ll never be French in spite of feeling very much part of the culture and loving so many aspects of life in France. The global insights that accompany relocating to a new country are both mystifying and enlightening.

No matter how long anyone remains in a new country, no one assimilates one hundred percent even if they’re totally comfortable in their adopted home. Scratch the surface, and invariably you’ll unearth a raw nerve.

For example, strikes are irritating and will always be. Even if they’re announced (as they’re legally supposed to be) and you plan accordingly, there are times when the best made schedules will crash and burn.

How well I recall the day I spent at the Gare de Lyon not going to Provence, even though the departure board showed my train would be pulling out of the station within the next 30 minutes. Sure. Had I been smarter, I would have returned to the apartment after a couple of hours. But that would have ensured the train would leave within minutes of my climbing on the bus heading to Boulevard du Montparnasse.

During strike season, working at home has its advantages albeit isolating. There are days when I stay put with my computer—even though I know it’s important not to become a hermit. I may become lazy (or absorbed) and sometimes have to force myself to get up and go.

I’m still irritated when I can’t accomplish things during the vacations and days off that are a part of French culture. One of the things about being an American in Paris is that French holidays aren’t necessarily holidays because I’m working with people in the U.S.

Ditto for American holidays. When all of the U.S. is observing Thanksgiving, I’m invariably working or preparing a Thanksgiving dinner to be served after 8:00 p.m., when friends are available. I’ve never heard of a multi-national corporation telling its American employees to take the day off even though some U.S. expats do return home to eat turkey and the fixings with their families.

More likely, Americans wait until the Christmas holidays to make a beeline to the States. It’s well known that not a whole lot gets accomplished during Christmas and New Years even if you don’t observe them.

But wait. I’ve done nothing but cite negatives. After all these years, more of me is French than American. For example, it’s hard to see into my closet because ninety percent of my clothes are black and it feels as if I continually buy the same ones.

The moment the sun appears during the dreary months of January and February, I make a mad dash outside to soak up a few rays. After all, if nothing else, we all need vitamin D, and if you’re someone who feels better after absorbing natural light (and who doesn’t?), you can rationalize the escape is precisely what the doctor ordered.

My French self is really evident in how and when I buy clothes and housewares. If something isn’t on sale, forget it. Retail has never been my thing (yes, I miss discount stores that are in practically every U.S. shopping center) but unless I’m desperate, I never buy anything unless it’s discounted.

Food has assumed more significance since I’ve moved here. Iceberg lettuce is no longer a staple. Don’t laugh: that was one of the few fresh vegetables you could always count on finding in a U.S. supermarket more than twenty years ago. Discovering French cheeses was a revelation. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven—and will unless I eat substantially less of it because of my cholesterol count. Unlike the French who eat tiny portions, my innate reaction is (was) to pig out.

Wine is an affordable commodity. It’s easy to experiement with different ones and you don’t have to spend more than a few euros per bottle. It’s not a major budget item and I’ve developed an anti-snob attitude and rarely spend more than ten euros per bottle in the grocery store when I buy it. What’s dinner with a glass or two of red wine? It’s good for your heart and it’s my contribution to France’s wine economy.

Flowers are a must in where and how I live. This isn’t a new phenomenon. I used to buy inexpensive ones at sidewalk vendors in Washington, DC, but soon nicknamed them graveyard flowers since they always died within 24-36 hours. There are incredibly expensive florists (ergo, artists) in Paris where you can drop a bundle. But there are also chain stores where you can purchase flowers that don’t make you feel as if you’re robbing a bank. My most recent purchase was forty white roses that cost ten euros and gave me ten times the pleasure.

This may seem odd, but the French are incredible when it comes to packaging. It’s a sense of aesthetics that brings me such intense pleasure. If you purchase something and say it’s a cadeau, the vendor usually wraps it as if it’s worth a million dollars using tissue, cellophane paper, ribbons and imagination.

Yes, there are irritations when living in France and it’s not for everyone. But, it’s captured my heart and part of my soul.

(c) Karen Fawcett

Many Bonjour Paris readers question if there’s a way to beat the French system. Well, oui et non. If you’re going to live here you need to acclimate yourself to the country’s customs, recognize there are cultural differences, and grin and bear it.

If you’re trying to get a Carte de séjour (a legally required resident’s card if you’re from a non-EU country and plan to stay in France more than six months a year), the rules say loud and clear (and in black and white) that you must apply for one before you leave your country of residence.

Some Americans have come to France, bought a house, even married a French spouse, only to be told they must return to the U.S. if they want to become legal. During the process, which can easily take six months, they’re not entitled to enter France. It goes without saying this can cause more than a fair bit of aggravation.

A freelance journalist, who’s a frequent contributor to the New York Times, was ousted from Paris and sat in the U.S. waiting and waiting for his papers to be stamped, sealed and delivered. He wasn’t asking for a work visa since he wouldn’t be working for French companies. The French government isn’t quick to hand out work permits to people who might take a job away from a French citizen and who can blame it?

Then system D comes into play. Another friend married a Frenchman, for love and not for papers, only to be told she had to leave the country and it didn’t matter whether or not her husband might miss her—much less his children whom she was helping to raise. This came as a shock since she’d inquired at the French Consulate in New York City and was told not to worry.

System D, which stands for débrouiller or disentangle, came into play. Perhaps it was due to her screaming and her husband’s persistence that the mayor of the town where they live intervened and she didn’t have to return to the States. One never quite knows exactly what takes place. This is why I advise people to seek the advice of a lawyer, who will cost money, but hopefully can save you more in time and aggravation.

Don’t get the idea the French aren’t frustrated by French red tape and stalling, even in domestic life. One taxi driver told me he no longer makes dates with his brother, because he’s consistently late and doesn’t bother to call or excuse himself when he arrives. His compromise is that if they’re going to see one another, his brother has to come to his apartment—and no, not for a meal. Claude said his wife was done with serving overdone food and had gone on strike. You can’t blame her.

When we had a home in Provence, dinner guests frequently turned up more than an hour late, which did nothing for my cuisine or my disposition. My late husband was far more forgiving than I, and ultimately assumed kitchen duties and hoped I would open the door.

Those dinners went on forever and more than a few times, I’d rudely say goodnight at 11:30 and excuse myself. When people say goodnight after two-plus hours in the U.S., I’m surprised. When I lived in Washington, D.C., invariably I ended up walking around the block for 15 minutes so not to arrive early.

In France, people don’t show up precisely on time because invariably the hostess won’t be dressed. As a result, when I’m in the U.S., I have to readapt to the on-time habit.

Another shocker in France: If you call an office and try to leave a message, forget it. You’re usually told to call back and when you do at the appointed hour, the phone line is invariably busy. During an appointment yesterday, I voiced how frustrated I was over not being able to leave a message and having no alternative but to put my phone on automatic redial. The recipient of this minor diatribe explained his office receives 600 phone messages per day and it would be impossible for the staff to field all of them.

Much to my amazement, my response was that if he didn’t want to hire more personnel, his phone system should have voice mail for individual employees. He replied he’d look into it since he found it frustrating when he was out of the office that he was unable to contact his staff by phone.

Go figure and take the good with the bad. If you live abroad or for that matter in the U.S., please register and post your frustrations. But I keep thinking that the French would do themselves a big favor by figuring out how to apply System D to all facets of their lives and, instead of tying everything in red tape, get to the point.

How many times have I heard the words “it’s vacances scolaires?” And why does France appear to come to yet another halt? Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for rest and relaxation. But there are times when it seems as if the French actually go overboard. This February and March feel like that.

People are conditioned not to expect to accomplish much (okay, practically nothing) during August. Executives, who want to stay in Paris and take their summer vacations at different times, cave into the masses. They say it’s hard to accomplish a lot if they’re operating in a vacuum and most meetings are out of the question. Like the old joke: “Meeting? With whom?” But that’s August, a tradition and you can’t fight tradition in France.

However, the French government stages winter vacation over three periods depending on which part of the country people live. This is logical since it would be impossible for all French vacationers to leave home simultaneously. It also makes sense for the hospitality industry. Can you imagine every ski area and vacation spot (and the French tend to travel in large groups) simultaneously being inundated? Or how would you like to show up for skiing near Grenoble to find all the hotel workers had gone for sun in Guadeloupe?

The good idea of staggering vacations has the unfortunate consequence of making a two-week vacation nearly six weeks long. For example, Paris’s winter vacation began last week. So when attempting to set up a lecture for March 15th, the response was it wouldn’t happen because the decision-makers would be away—all of them. You would think in this day, when Parisians walk around with iPhones and Blackberrys they could make decisions and set an agenda a few weeks in advance. So would I, but I guess not. When the person who was in charge of organizing the meeting said, “Don’t you know, all of Paris is leaving on vacation?” I suspect my look was one of puzzlement or confusion—or just Americanism.

Other consequences are mixed. When you walk into a restaurant and ask for a table, you’ll more than likely be able to snare a table because it’s vacances scolaires even if you haven’t reserved. All to the good but still reserve. But the corner bakery makes less bread and is even going to close for a week. After all, the employees’ children deserve a vacation that somehow makes it impossible to bake the daily bread. Not so good.

A houseguest took a Segway Tour and had the time of her life, even though the weather did anything but cooperate with rain and sub-freezing temperature. Twelve brave souls zigged and zagged throughout Paris with Myrna and the guide. There would have been more participants if it hadn’t been (you got it) vacances scolaires, but a lot less camaraderie than the smaller group enjoyed. They wound up having drinks after the four-hour tour and getting to know one another. Good again.

Anne and Kirk Woodyard of Music & Markets were in Aix-en-Provence, hell bent on buying the apartment of their dreams. After a week of non-stop looking during this go-around, they returned to the U.S. without having signed a compromis de vente. One property, in which they were potentially very interested because the photos and specifications were precisely what they wanted, was featured in a real estate agent’s window with a sign saying “urgent.” When the agent attempted to contact the owners, they were vacationing in Corsica and hadn’t bothered to leave a set of keys. For that matter, they didn’t even leave a phone number. When the French go on vacation, they’re really on vacation and finding an Internet café on that island may not be so easy. That is, if they’d given their representative their email address. Not good at all.

But the event that has left me the most baffled is that the air controllers decided to strike and they purposely scheduled it during vacances scolaires. The majority of the long-haul flights took off and landed, albeit late. But flights within the EU, to French territories and North Africa were problematic if not cancelled. Numerous smaller airports in France were closed tight as a drum.

What’s amazing is you don’t hear a lot of bitching and moaning. Perhaps that’s an intrinsic difference between French and Americans. The French defend their right to take vacation and to strike and don’t appear to get bent out of shape. Go figure!

Many people ask how I spend my time and it’s hard to answer concretely as I work from wherever there’s a computer. I have a good enough idea, so I’m not really stumped, but no two days in Paris are the same. Even though I may have a careful agenda and a head full of plans, invariably I end up doing something that wasn’t scheduled.

A lot has to do with the weather. As much as I try I go to the Luxembourg Garden each day, if it’s freezing cold or raining, I don’t make it. As a warm weather person, I’ll skip seeing “my” flowers, the children climbing on the play equipment in the fenced-in area, being a cheerleader for the take-no-prisoners tennis players (members of the Sénat have priority booking the courts: well, the senators own it) and forget about watching the men play chess.

I spend a lot of my life behind the computer working on Bonjour Paris. It’s my passion as well as an addiction having spent the past 15 years typing away and sharing my love of, and more than occasional frustration with, France.

I’m desperately trying to stay away from daily pilgrimages to Kayser, the wonderful bakery that’s less than a block away from my apartment. Even though it may only be one croissant, the calories gravitate to my thighs. My money is better spent at Monceau Fleurs, where clients can buy moderately priced flowers and, although ephemeral, give me pleasure.

Rather than going to the gym, my exercise consists of walking and walking some more. When taking the Métro, there are invariably stairs involved and even though I know better, I jog from one platform to another when changing trains as if another won’t come for an hour if I were to miss the one that’s pulling into the station.

It must be a type of adrenalin that’s part of the chemical makeup of Parisians or people who move here. Rarely do you see someone strolling in the Métro as if they have nothing but time. When not rushed, buses are so much more pleasant, since you can actually see the city above ground and observe stores that once were favorites are no longer.

A confession – I do take taxis occasionally even though it’s unusual there’s a legitimate reason unless I’m very dressed up, and that’s pretty rare since Paris has become a substantially less formal city. Unless it’s a 3* restaurant, men often don’t wear ties. But a taxi ride allows passengers to see the city in a modicum of privacy and there’s always the rationalization about how much money people save by not owning cars, not paying parking, insurance or maintenance; not to mention the cost of the car in the first place.

Plus, from the vantage point of a taxi, it’s easier to observe changes. Some favorite haunts have disappeared, with other businesses taking their places. Restaurants seem to come and go – or have been renovated to qualify as BCBG.

As Paris has entered the world of globalization with a vengeance, there are more fast food restaurants where you can eat healthy, such as EXKI, Starbucks emporiums and stores selling “smoothies”—a French word. Franprix and Monoprix have opened boutique outlets where you can sit at a counter and order a pre-made breakfast, lunch or dinner. You can eat there or take your food home, to the office or to a park when the sun is shining.

People who live in France usually have a favorite café. It’s more than a place to drink coffee; it’s a front row seat to observing others and living theater. Mine tend to change according to where’s there’s the most sun.

And as much as visitors assume all Parisians eat out all of the time, those days aren’t as frequent unless you’re made of big bucks. When I first arrived in Paris 22 years ago, I was horrified by the few kitchens I was allowed to see because they looked like dungeons. The French are now into chic kitchen design and all you need to do is walk down Boulevard St. Germain near rue du Bac in the Seventh Arrondissment and have your choice of one uber-expensive kitchen company after another.

More of my friends eat at home, and I eat out far less frequently now because it’s expensive. My main shopping venue is Ed, located at the end of my block on rue Notre Dames des Champs. Initially, the store was kind of a dump where the neighborhood’s residents would pretend they didn’t see each other.

The grocery store stocks its own Dia brand and many generics that cost less than comparable items at Paris’s mainstream groceries. Since Ed opened in 1978, the quality has improved. People go there to buy essentials that are often as good as what you’ll find elsewhere. I want soft toilet paper. I do not crave designer toilet paper at double the price.

That doesn’t imply I don’t go to the food hall at Bon Marche if I want special goodies to serve to my guests. I’ve also become a devotee of Picard, a chain that sells the best frozen foods anywhere. You can order via the Internet and a delivery truck will arrive the next day. One of the joys of living in France is the availability of first-rate food and cheese is one of my greatest weaknesses. It’s hard to say no to a Vacherin Mont d’Or at its runniest perfection.

Whenever I have an appointment anywhere in Paris, I try to factor in extra time to walk around that neighborhood. Like all big cities, the City of Light is changing and unless you take the time to look, you may miss one of the highlights—or sometimes a change that’s less than appealing. It constantly amazes me how frequently I see a detail on a façade of a building I’ve never previously noticed. And it’s a building I’ve passed so many times I wouldn’t be able to count.

At least once a week, I try to make a pilgrimage to a neighborhood with which I’m not familiar. Even though my first Paris home was at the Place des Vosges, the whole area from the Marais to the Bastille has changed. As soon as the weather improves, I am going to recharge my Vélib’ subscription and start biking throughout the city. It’s great not having to look for a parking space (never keep a bike for more than 30 minutes or there’s an extra charge) and zip all over Paris to renew my view of my favorite city!

It’s important to allow your eyes and heart to absorb the city’s beauty and its differences.

It’s common knowledge that France has one of the best health care systems anywhere.  In 2009, the World Health Organization (WHO) declared it the best in the world.

Knowing that and considering my late husband experienced French medical care all too frequently, why did I fall apart over having cataract surgery last week? My English-speaking internist recommended the cabinet of renowned ophthalmologists in whom she has confidence.

I was able to get an appointment nearly immediately—a good thing because waiting for medical appointments is not good for my nerves or disposition. I sailed into Docteur Caputo’s office in the 16ème near the Trocadéro.  Immediately surveying his walls, there were zero framed diplomas attesting to where he attended school, whether or not he was a real doctor, much less one who was competent to make me see clearly again.

Plopping down in his chair, my first question was, “Do you speak English?” Not missing a beat, his response (with a French accent) was, “Yes, my mother’s from New York. She and my Italian father met in the U.S. and they moved to France.”

Georges (by now, we were on a first-name basis—or I was) assured me he goes to the U.S. at least twice a year. And yes, he was qualified to operate on me—for that matter, he makes his living constantly doing surgery and has the newest ultrasound equipment.

Already, I felt better, if still scoring high on the anxiety scale. Georges explained he’d remove the lens and replace it with a new synthetic one. An Acrosof IQ lens was inserted into the “pocket.”  What a coincidence it’s made in Fort Worth, Texas. I wouldn’t have known this if I hadn’t been handed a patient implant identification card as I was leaving the clinic after the outpatient surgery. The nurse instructed me to always keep it in my wallet because it contains the precise information about my new eye.

It’s amazing how the French and most Europeans keep every medical document and the results of all the tests and vaccinations they’ve ever had since they were born.  It’s a complete difference between Europeans and Americans. We’re so used to our primary care doctor keeping our records that when my Paris internist asked me about a surgery I had 20 years ago, I simply couldn’t answer and it was a quasi-major operation. But Nancy, the internist of enormous patience, will simply have to guess about the results.

Another difference between French and U.S. medical care is that it’s rarely one-stop shopping unless you’re a patient at the American Hospital of Paris.  In order to prepare for the surgery, I had to go to three different offices in various sections of Paris and Neuilly-sur-Seine.   Then there were the two trips to the pharmacy for pre- and post-surgery medications.

One of the other things I learned is unless you have family, surgery when you’re overseas and alone makes you feel vulnerable. When the admissions clerk at the clinic asked for an emergency contact, I gave her the name of my son, who was snowed in and under in Washington, D.C.

If there had been a problem, what could he possibly have done except to come and collect my body? I should note this surgery was done seven days after my first meeting with Docteur Caputo and perhaps my thoughts weren’t as organized as they should have been.

Prior to the cataract surgery, I surfed the web and then some. It’s a now-routine procedure with few complications.  But there are always some oo-la-las.

Another conclusion: if you’re at all language challenged, it’s important to have a doctor who can talk to you in your native language or take a translator. It’s essential patients understand all of the ramifications.

During the 35-minute-long procedure, I wanted to know precisely what was taking place, but Georges was having none of it and had draped the surgical area.  If only he and the people who were assisting him would speak up, I would have loved to ask questions.

When I was in the recovery room for observation because I’d had local anesthesia, I started firing off what’s and why’s immediately and guess what?  Amazingly, I was asking them in French. The staff responded in English.

OK, happily this was a simple surgery. But expats in foreign countries should examine their tolerance level and whether or not they should return home if they’re ill.

Patients tend to be nervous and aren’t always listening as well as they should. Line up your friends and support system. Undergoing  these types of procedures are enough to make a calm person nervous.

The morning after the surgery, the doctor wanted to check on how the procedure had gone.  He was pleased with the results. I was a bit tired, but was reassured about my vision since it didn’t slow down my tapping away on my BlackBerry. I stuck around the apartment, but that was more because of the sub-zero Celsius weather than because I didn’t feel well.

When I went for my second check-up, it was apparent I was the only patient who was alone. After all, this wasn’t a dance where it takes two to tango. I questioned Docteur Caputo if that were always the case, to which he responded I’d have to ask the other patients.

On my way out of his office, I told Georges I was writing an article and wasn’t he curious to see what I had to say about my brush with French medicine.  It was only then he gave me his email address. French doctors don’t do that! Hey, merci Georges. First, I can see and second, I realize I can navigate the French medical system and go at it alone. Does this mean I’m a grown-up who can operate nearly anywhere?