The Four-Ink Pen

When I moved to France, I thought I was ready for the quirks. The two-hour lunches. The cashiers who stare at you like you just insulted their grandmother. The grocery aisles dedicated entirely to yogurt. But nothing prepared me for the pen.

Not just any pen — the BIC 4-Color Pen. You know the one. White top, blue bottom, four little plungers around the barrel. Blue, black, red, green. The Cadillac of school supplies… assuming your school year was 1978.

In America, these things disappeared somewhere between knockers/clackers (didn’t Cindy Brady get killed by those?) and the Walkman. But in France, they’re everywhere. Grocery stores. Pharmacies. Post offices. Even my doctor had two of them in his pocket like surgical instruments.

I finally asked him, “What’s the deal with these pens?”

He looked at me, genuinely confused.
“But it’s the best pen,” he said — the way someone might respond if you questioned gravity.

And he’s not wrong. They are kind of brilliant. Click for blue. Click again for red. If you’re feeling wild, go green. No digging through drawers. No losing pens to mysterious forces. One pen. Four moods.

What fascinates me isn’t the pen itself, though. It’s what it says about France.

This country doesn’t chase “new.” It perfects what already works. The BIC 4-Color pen was invented here in the 1970s, and half a century later it’s still the standard. Because if something is functional, elegant, and a little bit nostalgic, why change it?

There’s a quiet comfort in that kind of loyalty. A sense that not everything needs to evolve — some things just need to endure.

I’m almost tempted to buy one myself. And every time I click between blue and red, I imagine I’d think the same thing.

Maybe the French are onto something.
Maybe life doesn’t need an upgrade.