Good day to you

Greeting a friend in France is simple. You say bonjour, fix your face into a cross between a pout and a pucker, and lean in for the bise. In Lyon, one air kiss on each side suffices, but so long as you are alert, you can quickly loom in for more if this seems to be required. The only time when you abandon this ritual is when one of you has a grippe resulting from a cold neck, when you confine yourselves to the verbal part of the greeting to avoid contamination.

So long as you are fairly familiar with someone, this protocol will hold true, even if you are, for example, arriving late for a music rehearsal. In such circumstances, there is no notion of skulking quietly in at the back. Indeed you risk offending everyone if, before even getting your violoncelle out of its case, you fail to do a quick tour of the players, who will stop playing at even the most crucial of junctures to return your bise.

At work the rules have been modified slightly, presumably to avoid the awkwardness of imposing a kiss on someone you manage, or leaning in to embrace a boss who has just told you that your entire annual output was null. Although nobody would complain if you did the bise with a colleague who was also a friend, it is not expected. By contrast, whereas in London my cheery “good morning” was frequently greeted with a combination of perplexity and resentment, neglecting to say bonjour to absolutely everyone in your French office when you first arrive is close to a sackable offence.

Having mastered the art of saying bonjour in the office and in social situations, one might think that I could move on to more complicated aspects of French conversation. But no: I still have a long way to go before I can be confident of passing l’art de la culture française : module 1.

From time to time, you see, Eadred and I employ people to do jobs that other couples can manage for themselves, things like planting une haie to hide the giant cat litter that is the roof of our neighbour’s new house. Despite the fact that I am now very well acquainted with the artisans who do this sort of work for us, the moment when they arrive each time remains supremely uncomfortable because, after three years of practice, I still don’t know quite how to behave.

The first time an artisan, a femme de ménage, or your child’s violin teacher comes round is straightforward enough: you don’t know them at all, so you shake their hand, and you remain firmly in vouvoye-ing territory throughout the interview. On the second occasion, I am still comfortable shaking hands, and unless they suggest tutoye-ing me, I vouvoye with only minimal discomfort.

The violin has not brought familiarity

The problem is that, whereas by the third or fourth meeting, my French friends will have segued seamlessly into familiar forms of address, lost the handshake, and be kissing cheeks left right and centre (well, perhaps just left and right), I am stuck pumping hands and trying hard to avoid calling anyone anything at all in the desperate hope that I won’t have to choose between tu and vous.

When I am not paralysed with shame, I am amused by the reactions I get to my predicament. The prof de violon has obviously given me up as a hopelessly stiff example of the genre Anglo-Saxon, and proffers his hand before I can muster the courage to pucker up (which I nonetheless continue to rehearse doing each week before his knock at the door). The ouvrier who did three months of renovations on our house before we moved in, and much more since, took matters into his own hands after a year, and came in for a bise. I was relieved that he had taken the initiative, but that did not stop his office manager calling me afterwards to check that my British sensibilities had not been offended.

The only cure I have ever found for my profound discomfort at such moments is to think back to a moment at the school gate in London when a lovely English friend of mine welcomed a new French parent to the school with a bear hug. Over my friend’s shoulder, the French woman’s expression was, frankly, terrified, and her posture resembled nothing so much as that of a plank. It took a few weeks, but eventually she started hugging us all back. I still wonder from time to time whether she mistook the hug for the direct cultural equivalent of the bise and started hugging bewildered brickies and football coaches. A very small, shamefully vengeful, part of me hopes so.


Since writing my original post, Diane at Oui in France referred me to her blog post on faire-ing la bise. In it she links to a hilarious YouTube video by British comedian Paul Taylor, in which he goes through the various confusing issues associated with kissing in France. If you are offended by gros mots, you may wince a little, but it really is an excellent way to understand my anxst about the simple act of greeting someone.


14 thoughts on “Good day to you

  1. One way to avoid bise confusion is to be the first to arrive anywhere; it is up to new arrivals to make the rounds and extend the bise.
    The cold neck reference has me chuckling.

  2. I laughed out loud at the “cold neck” reference. But I’m afraid that the bise thing is becoming a bit of an issue in the UK as well. It’s something I try to avoid for fear of giving offence: on the other hand, one might give offence precisely by trying to avoid it. So what to do?

  3. I’d be lying if I said I never faked a cold to get out of doing the bise. Even after 5 years, it’s not natural and I hate it. I don’t want to touch anyone’s face. I never make the kissy noise. I let the other person do it. And I don’t take off my glasses. A simple “hey” and a wave is sufficient for me. Did you read my post on being schooled about my bisous technique? Someone told me I was doing it wrong. Since then I’ve said f it, I’m sick. Always.

    1. Hello there! No! I need to read that post. I don’t hate it, in fact with friends I like it better than the British hug, which is more intimate (though avoids all eye contact) or the handshake, which is a bit odd and way too formal. However, I don’t like its subjunctive shall I shan’t I aspect. I find it stressful! I shall trot off and read that post.

  4. After 13 years, I am FINALLY comfortable with the bise, and have the instinct for when to bise and when not to bise. With that said, I work in a co-working, which means tons of people I should “bise” with, but I refuse. Because I tend to get colds easily (perhaps due to a cold neck?!?!) and these people are teeming with germs (so many parents with young children)… and, fuck it. But I just let them be judgmental – I’m from NJ, I’m judging them at least twice as hard.

  5. One of the funniest examples of the bise I’ve witnessed was at Oullins bus / metro station. One pouty girl was already at the stop, another pouty girl came along, both with puses on (that could be a Scottish expression?), they kissed as unenthusiastically as possible, then stood and completely ignored one another. The tension and mutual dislike were palpable. Well, the cadre is the cadre after all…

  6. I’ve bobbed my way through more embarrassing kissy-face moments than I care to remember, and even after all these years I still forget to embrace in greeting.

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