I Think Just Then We Got Frenched
During our first week of moving to France, we had to drive from Paris to Lot-et-Garonne — our temporary home for the next month. We’d rented a house in a tiny town called Bourlens and figured the drive would take six or seven hours. But with a dog in the backseat and a whole country to discover, we decided to break up the trip by spending a night where somewhere no one really vacations. Something “real France.”
So we picked Limoges. Porcelain capital of the world. Middle-of-nowhere-adjacent. Also, on the map.
We left the comfort of Paris that morning. And I say comfort because for those first few days, we were basically tourists. English-speaking waiters, hotel breakfast, no real responsibilities. That was about to end. The move was getting real. No more playing around. Time to carve out a life.
We took an Uber to Orly Airport to pick up our leased car. The Uber dropped us in a weird part of the airport — cargo bays and broken signage. Four huge suitcases, two backpacks, and a Golden Retriever named Sully. The “SUV” they gave us was, to put it politely, French-sized. Somehow, we got it all in. Sully had to wedge himself into a yoga pose in the back.
The guy at the desk didn’t speak much English, but he had the courtesy to program the dashboard into English before handing us the keys. Also, he made sure we had just enough gas to leave the airport… but not enough to get anywhere else. How thoughtful.
We were off on our adventure.
Our first stop was the most American of things to do. We were headed to Costco. There are two around Paris. I’d read that the Paris-area Costcos have amazing French wine, cheese, charcuterie, and other “this is technically for the road trip” items. Plus, I really wanted to see what it would be like there. I needed to buy a cooler. And we really needed gas. That gas light was threatening to ruin everything.
It’s funny that something as mundane as heading to a Costco can feel so odd when you’re in a foreign country. It was the little things. In America, I was accustomed to getting bumped and blocked with carts as people herded around the free food stations.
Costco was familiar… kind of. No one was elbowing me out of the way at the samples counter, which made me oddly emotional. But here’s where it got interesting — at the checkout, there were no boxes. No bags. Everyone brings their own, or just wheels the wine out raw-dog-style in their cart. Luckily, I had the cooler, so I shoved everything in there.
It’s funny that something as mundane as heading to a Costco can feel so odd when you’re in a foreign country.
Gas, however, was not so smooth. At the pump, everything was in French. There was no English language option. I went for it. I inserted my card. Nothing. I tried again — still nothing. Using a translation app, I realized my card was being rejected. Fantastic. The Costco Visa didn’t work in the Costco gas pump, even though I had told them I would be in France. A line of Renaults stacked up behind me, each more annoyed than the last. I finally used another card, faked confidence, and got the hell out of there.
Time to get to Limoges.
D took photos. I white-knuckled the wheel and checked the speedometer every six seconds. A British couple we’d met warned us that you can get a speeding ticket in France for going 1 km over. I’m used to Southern California freeways where speed limits are just a suggestion.
We made it to Limoges by late afternoon. The next day was May 1st — a major French holiday — and we’d heard everything would be closed. We drove by what looked like a grocery store, called Casino. We decided to grab some food for the next day when we got to Bourlens.That’s where my brain melted.
Inside Casino, everything was unfamiliar. The brands. The layout. The vibe. I grabbed some chicken breasts, a salad kit, herbes de Provence (of course), and water.
As I headed toward the checkout, I was horrified to find that it was all self-serve. No cashiers. Just machines. In French. How was I going to check out? What if I don’t understand what it says on the screen? What if someone is behind me? Why did we move to France?
After scanning the next day's dinner, I scanned the water and froze. Total mental shutdown. What now? What button? Where’s the “Help: I’m American” option?
Over to my right I saw two security guards standing in front of the roping around the checkout area. I walked toward them, water still in my hands. Sheepishly, I asked, “Parlez-vous anglais?” One of them said something fast — maybe helpful? maybe sarcastic? I pointed helplessly at the machine. He walked over, clicked a few buttons, and motioned for me to pay. I handed him a twenty. “Non.” He pointed to the machine again. Right. Put the money in the machine. Got it. Change spat out. “Voilà,” he said.
I could’ve hugged the guy.
When I got to the car, D asked how it went. I told her that I have never been so confused and helpless in my life. But it was over now. We just had to get to our hotel.
The map said we were four minutes away. As we were pulling out of the parking lot, my phone rang. It wasn’t an American number. “Hello?” I said gingerly. A machine-gun of French came at me. “No parle…” I started, but the man on the line instantly switched to perfect English.
He told me he was the owner of the building where we were going to stay. He also said that he was very sorry, but our room was not available now.
Excuse me?
It was a holiday weekend. In a city we didn’t know. On a Sunday. And we had a dog.
We pulled over next to a park. I opened Booking.com, muttering and venting. D sat quietly, probably questioning all of her life choices.
Ten minutes later, the original host called back. He said he felt really bad and had called around and found us another place to stay at a nearby hotel. Phew.
We parked outside the new hotel, grabbed Sully, and went inside to check in. There was a large wooden door that opened up into a courtyard-sized room. At the end of the room was someone sitting at a desk with a guest opposite him. We took a couple of steps toward him. The moment he saw Sully, he started shouting: “No chien! No chien!”
What the…?
D and I locked eyes. I mumbled, “Let’s get out of here.”
We got back in the car. D asked me what we were going to do now. I had no idea. I looked at her, and it finally occurred to me what had just happened. I said, “I think we just got Frenched.” She laughed, “Oh my God, you’re right.”
We sat there for a few minutes to regroup. Once again, I started to look for a room that would take a dog on short notice. Everything I found was in other towns that we didn’t know anything about, 15–20 minutes away.
Soon thereafter, the original host called me back. Miraculously, the room was now available. He told me there was parking around the corner from the building. We parked in front, grabbed Sully, and went in to find our room and drop off our backpacks. I’d grab the four monster bags afterward. Luckily, our room was on the first floor, so I’d be able to just roll them in.
We went inside and found the key to our room right where the host said it would be. Then we looked for Room 12. Room 12 was up a 34-step winding double staircase.
Of course it was.
In France, the first floor is really the second floor. Just then We Got Frenched again.
A Tale of Baguettes, Bureaucracy, and Broken Dinner Dreams You’re Closed for What Reason This Time?
Do you know how fun it is to plan the perfect dinner? I’m talking fresh vegetables from the best shop in the next town, a crusty baguette still warm from the oven, a meal that practically makes itself. So you get in the car, drive 15 minutes to Bléré on a Thursday… and the gates are locked. Closed. No reason. No explanation. Just a sign that might as well say “not today, friend.”
And then last week, friends came to visit. I wanted to show off our local boulangerie — the one whose croissants win the "Best of the Central Val de Loire” every year. Took them down the street like a proud tour guide, only to find the shop dark, the shutters closed, and a handwritten note on the door:
“Fermé jusqu’au 20 mai.”
Here’s my theory: they’re making too much money. The baker, the veggie guy — cash-heavy businesses. And if there’s one thing the French tax office doesn’t like, it’s success without receipts. So what do they do? They shut down for a week or two. Cool the books. Let the debit card transactions settle. Go camping.
It’s the French version of a tax strategy: vanish just long enough to stay invisible.
This is France. You don’t make the schedule, you submit to it.
Where France Ends and the Ocean Gets the Last Word
Cancale is one of those places that sneaks up on you. We stayed at a manoir just outside of town, tucked among pastures and horses. It felt like a French countryside dream — quiet, green, dignified. Breakfast was served in a sunroom. Birds chirped. Someone may have been named Béatrice.
And then we drove five minutes to the port and got slapped in the face with salt air, seagulls, and the smell of oysters being shucked by a guy who greeted us with a perfect smile, trilling French like he was born in a vineyard. The second he heard my French? Straight to English. But still with that Gérard Depardieu growl and just enough dry sarcasm to remind me I was definitely not the first American he’d seen that week.
He was behind the bar, cracking shells and cracking jokes, switching from French to English with the precision of a man who’s judged thousands of tourists and forgiven none. It was perfect.
Cancale doesn’t try to impress you. It doesn’t have to. The food is absurdly fresh, the tide rolls in like it owns the place, and everyone working the waterfront looks like they could gut a fish and win a staring contest.
It’s where France hands things off to the ocean… and the ocean goes, “I got this.”
You have to visit. It is a great town, near St. Malo and Mont St. Michel.
ONE FRENCH QUIRK
French Showers: A Wet Test of Character
The hotel we’re at right now has one of those very French shower “solutions” — a three-foot-wide glass panel hinged to the wall that covers about a third of the tub. It swivels, but let’s be honest: it’s not protecting anything. I'm built like a linebacker, when I shower, I’m pressed against the wall like I’m trying to avoid sniper fire — all in the name of keeping the floor dry.
This isn’t new. The very first time D and I visited Paris — way back in the ’90s — we splurged on the Intercontinental Grand Hotel. It was over $400 a night, which was absolutely not in our budget, but hey, we were young and wanted the full Paris experience. And we got it. Even there, in that elegant, high-ceilinged, five-star establishment… no shower curtain. Just a tub and a hose. After one shower, the entire bathroom was soaked. Even the toilet paper was soaked.
Seriously, it looked like someone had done 360s in the bathroom with a water cannon. When I walked out, D gave me one of those looks. I was like, how could I have avoided it? Look at me. No shower curtain. The bathroom never stood a chance.
At least now, some places have those tiny glass doors. A small improvement. Still wildly ineffective. But progress, French-style: inch by inch, as long as no one’s in a rush and it doesn’t ruin the aesthetics.
Honestly, at this point, I think the flooding is part of the design. You don’t just wash. You participate.
Until next time, savor the chaos.
Thanks for reading. If you’re enjoying the stories and want to help us grow, forward this to someone who dreams of moving to France — or at least wants to laugh at someone who already did.
Thanks for being here.
Paul
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