The Bonjour Gauntlet

There are a lot of cultural differences you expect when you move to France: the slower pace of life, the long lunches, the strike calendars. What nobody warns you about is bonjour. Not the word itself, but the rules around it. When to say it. Who to say it to. And how quickly things go sideways when you get it wrong.

Let me paint the scene. You walk into a doctor’s office. There’s no receptionist, no counter, no signage, no check-in kiosk. Just five people sitting in plastic chairs and a series of closed doors that give you absolutely no information. You step inside, already unsure what you’re supposed to do next, and that’s when it happens.

All five people look up and say, “Bonjour.”

At the same time.

It’s polite, friendly, and deeply unsettling. You’re already trying to figure out whether you should knock on a door, announce yourself, or sit quietly until someone appears and says your name, and now you’re also expected to greet the entire room out loud. You mumble something that vaguely resembles bonjour, sit down, and immediately feel like you’ve failed a test you didn’t know you were taking.

A few weeks later, the tables turn. Now you’re the one waiting, and someone new walks in. Without thinking, you look up and deliver your best, most confident “Bonjour monsieur,” complete with a nod that suggests you understand how things work here. You belong. Or at least you think you do.

And it’s not just the doctor’s office. It’s everywhere.

At Grand Frais, you walk in through those metal pipe gates like you’re entering a club, and immediately there’s a desk to the left where the manager sits. He’s not doing anything in particular. He’s just watching. You make eye contact. He nods. You say, “Bonjour monsieur,” and only then are you cleared to select peaches. You’re shopping, but you’re also acknowledging the building.

You go to pick up your car from the garage, lost in your own head and mentally bracing for the invoice, when from twenty feet away an older guy in a 1972 suit coat, dressed like he’s on his way to church, looks up from a folding chair and hits you with a slow, deliberate “Bonjour monsieur.” You blink, momentarily unsure whether you’ve entered a religion or a probationary period.

Nope. It’s just France.

And here’s the part no one tells you: once you surrender to it, you start to enjoy it. You feel uncomfortable when it doesn’t happen. You notice people who skip it. You judge them. You start handing out bonjours like ninja stars, instinctively and with confidence. That’s when you know you’ve been fully Frenched.

Just when you think you’ve mastered it, you realize there are levels.

Bonjour isn’t just a greeting. It’s a message. A signal. A soft, Gallic judgment wrapped in a single syllable.

You’re on a bike path and a woman passes by with a cheerful, sing-song “Bonjour!” like she’s sprinkling lavender behind her. A few minutes later, a man comes the other way and his is different. Lower. Slower. More territorial. “Bon. Jour.” It’s not unfriendly, but it definitely says he knows this trail and you should act accordingly. Sometimes you don’t even respond. You just nod, like two grizzly bears agreeing not to fight.

Then there’s the market butcher. Not the one in the shop — the real one. The guy who pulls his gleaming trailer into town every Saturday like it’s a concert on wheels. He sees you from thirty feet away, mid-shave on a côte de veau, lifts his chin, and says, “Bonjour.” Not as a greeting, but as recognition. You’ve been here before. You’ve bought his meat. He remembers that you didn’t waste his time, that you asked questions, that he trimmed your chop without weighing it first. That bonjour has weight. It’s not friendship, but it’s not nothing.

And that’s when it clicks.

Bonjour is the French version of “dude.”

“Bonjour” with surprise means, Hey dude.
“Bonjour” with warmth means, Duuude.
“Bonjour” with a tight smile means, Don’t be a dumbass, dude.
“Bonjour” with disdain means, You again, dude.

The word never changes. Everything else does. The eyes. The pause. The breath before it lands.

Once you start hearing those differences, France opens up in a whole new way. And you realize the bonjour was never about manners at all. It was about belonging.