For new arrivals: our bootleg Survival Guide covers the emotional side of adjusting to life in France. Here, we talk about why the French can seem 'standoffish' and why this doesn't mean they're 'cold'.

Sociologists and culture-shock writers often talk about the 'space bubble'; an imaginary but very present boundary for the appropriate physical distance between two people in a public setting: standing in line, on the subway, browsing in stores.

People from certain cultures—specifically the 'anglo-saxon' countries—need lots of space and get very uncomfortable if they feel crowded.

In France—and other 'Latin' cultures—it's more acceptable to stand very close to someone without the other person necessarily thinking they're being hit on or having their pocket picked.

But the French do have what I call the 'privacy bubble', a very strong sense of what information and style of communication is appropriate to share with someone. And this privacy bubble can make foreign newcomers, even those who speak French well, feel excluded.

Friendliness French-style

A lot of new arrivals to France complain the French seem 'standoffish', 'hard to get to know', 'unfriendly', or even 'cold'. And it's true that you shouldn't expect a smiling, openly enthusiastic expression of welcome when you first show up in your new, French office or neighbourhood.

Even the ever-present shutters demonstrate the importance of privacy

But it's not because, necessarily, they're not interested in you or unsympathetic to what it's like to start a new job in a new country: their reserve is an expression of respect for your privacy. It's not being unfriendly; it's simply polite to give you time to find your bearings on your own.

The French have a strict sense of personal privacy compared to some other cultures. Even in Paris, where everyone lives in close proximity to each other, intruding into someone's private life is still one of the stronger taboos.

For example, I once found a neighbour loitering in the lane. Why hadn't she just come and knocked on the door? "I didn't dare open the gate," she replied. To her, opening the gate was the same as opening the door of my house without knocking. To the French, the realm of the private is simply bigger.

This sense of the public and the private as two very separate spheres is partly a concept that's embedded in the language: the difference between the vous and the tu pronous. But it's expressed in every aspect of the culture: from very strict privacy laws that protect everyday citizens, celebrities and politicians alike, to a work culture where colleagues rarely see each other socially.

It's also physically expressed in a sort of volume control.

One of the common French complaints about Americans is how loudly they talk. If you're in a French restaurant, it might be considered imposing if the people at the table next to you can hear you; the 'polite' thing to do is to keep your voice down and even to pretend they're not there, now matter how crowded the tables, not to be unfriendly, but to help preserve the illusion of privacy.

Just as an American might bristle if someone is standing to close to them in line for the movies, or driving too close to their bumper, a French person might feel that talking loudly is a kind of aggression. 

The privacy bubble is also partly why they might not rush to volunteer to help you if you're lost or, as a foreigner, otherwise disoriented.

The classic example is a visitor looking lost and confused on a street corner with a map. And no one offers to help. It's not because (all) Parisians are mean and hate tourists—they may not want to intrude into your privacy bubble. They are waiting for you to ask, out loud and in French if possible, to help them; your question is a kind of invitation into your privacy bubble and then they feel comfortable acknowledging: "Hey, you're lost, aren't you?"

But to volunteer that without having been invited to do so would be, to them, impolite.

Of course, you may be unlucky enough to ask help of someone who really is just impatient or mean-spirited. But I've heard plenty of anecdotes of foreigners with little or no French being literally walked to or given a motorized escort to their destination—once they asked.

If they pretend not to notice that you're lost or confused, it's easy to assume they're just being mean. But it may well be that they're respecting your privacy, your right to stay lost and confused in your privacy bubble until you're ready to ask someone for help.

The Invisible Stranger Barrier

For the French, you don't have to be a different nationality to be an étranger; people from a different town, even a different arrondissement can qualify. And, yes, in France — a country with a long history of antagonistic relations with its neighbours — strangers are often the object of mistrust.

"Ah, the Alsatiens are particulier," you might hear a Breton say. "Oh, you can't trust someone from the South," a Normand will warn you—and a Marseillais will certainly tell you how cold and hostile a Parisian is! So, except among the most cosmopolitan circles, you can imagine their reaction to an actual foreigner.

Newcomers to France must pass the Invisible Stranger Barrier

But the good news is that it has very little to do with how well you speak French, how heavy your accent is, or how 'French' your behaviour; even the most eccentric among us can find our place here. You just have to wait to cross what I call the 'Invisible Stranger Barrier'.

I've moved several times since we arrived permanently in France and each time, this phenomenon has repeated itself, that magic moment where you go from being a stranger to being an accepted part of the landscape. The trouble is that there's no telling how long this process will take in any given situation.

I was living in a suburb of Nantes, for example; I dropped off and picked up my kids from school for a year. I stood in line outside the school with the same mothers every day. And no one ever even said Bonjour to me. But then the school year ended.

One day, after school had started again in September, my husband and I bumped into one of these women who never said Bonjour to me in the grocery store. And she talked our ears off. After we walked away, my husband asked: "So, you know that woman well?" "No, she never said so much as 'Hello' to me before."

What had happened? We had come back for the second year. And that meant, to her, we had crossed the invisible stranger barrier and she felt comfortable being her friendly, chatty self.

A year is a long time; it certainly doesn't always take this long. But it's an unpredictable process and one that's completely out of your hands. One day you're a stranger and object of mistrust; the next day, you're still a foreigner, and maybe still a foreigner who talks funny, but you're not a stranger anymore. And those people who seemed so unfriendly will finally make the effort to get to know you—and to let you get to know them.

This is closely related to but not quite the same thing as the privacy bubble concept; you may have passed the Invisible Stranger Barrier with someone but that person still might maintain a very large Privacy Bubble.

The French may still seem hard to get to know. But it helps a newcomer to France to understand that this behaviour is related to a very different, and very important, cultural understanding of the nature of privacy—and not to personal hostility.

It's just another lesson of the most important rule of thumb of getting settled in France: don't take it personal.

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5 June 2007

Copyright Expatica

Subject: Living in France, Culture Coach, culture shock, French culture