I Sold My House in the U.S. and Retired in France — Here's What I Learned Along the Way

The only way to know a place is to know its people.

I was prepared for the big items: new language, slower pace of life, different currency. What I didn’t expect when I moved from the U.S. to France were the subtleties — the slight nuances that carried an outsized ability to throw me off my game.

Decades of French lessons schooled me in the strict rules of politesse. I knew to dump my usual Philly greeting ("yo!") for the more proper "bonjour" when entering a shop or running into a neighbor on the elevator. What I didn’t know were the word’s other, more sophisticated rules. Walking into a doctor’s office waiting room: Bonjour, everyone. Coming into a department store: No bonjour. Walking onto the metro platform: No bonjour. Getting onto the bus: Bonjour. Encountering a stranger on the sidewalk: No bonjour. Encountering a stranger in the courtyard in front of your building: Bonjour.  Passing an older woman on the street: Bonjour, madame.

It might seem inconsequential, but mastering the finer points of a culture can bridge the gap between merely surviving in a new country and thriving in it. Navigating that learning curve was deep enough to impact my personality. In the U.S., I had been an astute newspaper reporter who was rarely flustered or timid. In France, I am circumspect and shy, always wary of misinterpreting or breaking a social rule I didn’t know existed.

When one guy came to check the broken heating system in our apartment, he touched the cold radiator and declared the heat to be functioning. When I expressed doubt that cold radiators meant the system was functioning, he insisted that’s how radiators here work. At this point in the U.S., I might have confronted him, asking him exactly how clueless he thought I was. Instead, I thought, well, they do have different electrical plugs here, an entirely distinct system of weights and measures, and unfamiliar doorknobs. Maybe French radiators do work that way. (Spoiler alert: The heating system was, indeed, broken.)

My husband and I knew we would face culture shock when landing in France, but we were up for it: Moving here had been a dream for many years. Each time we visited, the desire to stay grew. After family caregiving and COVID-19 lockdowns ended, we took a seven-week exploratory trip in 2021 and found our new city: Rennes, the capital of Brittany. We came back to the U.S., sold our house, cars, and most of our belongings, applied for visas, and booked one-way tickets to France.

Our first year was consumed with tasks like renting and furnishing an apartment, finding a doctor, and filling out more paperwork. Once we had the essentials, we branched out to the fun stuff: sampling restaurants, looking for good bars, attending festivals, and figuring out where to buy the best baguette.

Related: 7 Destinations in France Where the French Love to Go

It wasn’t until the first year had passed that I began bumping up against unexpected, nuanced challenges. Those subtle culture shocks caused missteps and confusion in all facets of my life, from housekeeping to health care to shopping.

I didn’t know how to make a doctor’s appointment, which cleaning products to use on which surfaces, how to write a French check, how to expertly use a clothes-drying rack, or which vegetables I was allowed to touch at the weekly marché. During months of observation, eavesdropping, Googling, and swallowing my pride to ask questions, I filled in many of the blanks. (Hint: Don’t touch any of the produce without permission.)

More quandaries arose over time: How do you put the stick shift into reverse? Exactly how far is 800 meters? What does the traffic sign that looks like a space rocket mean? What size shoe do I wear here? Why can’t I find ready-made chicken broth? And why didn’t anyone tell me I had to put salt in the dishwasher? I ran that dishwasher for six months before I stumbled on a mention of the special salt needed to soften the high mineral content in the water.

One by one, I knocked those quandaries off my List of Things That Confuse Me in France. I did it the same way I figured out about touching produce: eavesdropping, observing, Googling, and, of course, asking someone.

Learning to manage these inconspicuous lifestyle variants hasn’t made me look or feel more French, but it has given me the kind of cultural insight curious travelers and new immigrants crave. To create a true sense of belonging, I had to release my expectations, open my mind — and heart — to the unfamiliar. The only way to know a place is to know its people.

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