Sometimes It's Scary

11 ways France can strike fear into the heart of a newcomer.

Living in France is spectacular. It’s also scary. Not everything. Most things are safe. Soothing, even. Like wine, brooding gray skies, warming soups, universal healthcare.

Other things, though, are like that screaming ghoul who pops out in the haunted house on the boardwalk. Most of them fit into the I’m Scared of What I’m Not Used To category. Others are scary because they are messy or uncomfortable.

Here’s a rundown of the French jumpscares – from mild to ohmygod no! – that I’ve encountered since moving to France.

1. Dog Shit. This Number Two problem is definitely my Number One. Dog poop is everywhere. I spend every walk looking down at the pavement to avoid the vile piles when I should be gazing at all the stunning architecture and delectable pastries. Although things have improved greatly in the last 25 years, crap on the street is still a sad tale. One big pile of poop seeping into the crevices of your good walking shoes can ruin a perfectly fine day in France.

2. Fancy boutiques. I’m working to conquer my fear of small, curated French clothing stores because I really love to shop. I don’t know what all goes on in small French boutiques, but I’m suspicious. My trepidation stems from the fear that a chic salesperson will give me the once over, then tell me she is sorry but she just doesn’t carry anything in my size. Or, what if they do have my size and I find a really cute skirt that costs €615, but I don’t figure that out until after the salesperson rings it up, then I’m in too deep to back out?

Fancy boutiques. Sexy underwear. Delivery trucks.

3. Sausages. I don’t know what is in them. I am afraid of what is in US sausages, too, but the Andouillette in France takes sausaging to a whole new level of trepidation. Andouillette are pork intestines stuffed with what smells like what pork intestines are usually stuffed with while still being used by the pork. I know the French are prepared to die on that sausage hill. I respect that, and I also suggest that they might like Scrapple.

4. Underwear. This fear is based on a stereotype I most likely picked up from old movies, where beautiful foreign women show a little lace peeking out of their sweater. Now it is stuck in my head that French women wear sexy underwear, while I prefer Jockey briefs and sports bras. The store window displays here confirm my beliefs. Aside from the fact that I’m unsure of my bra size in Europe – although I know the metric system turned it into a three-digit number, which is just an outrage – I worry that I’ll get talked into with some €200 va-va-voom brassiere that I won’t have the courage to wear or return.

5. Wet cobblestones. They are slippery. I have no idea what those Medieval peasants were thinking, but their bright idea for paving the streets with uneven river rocks has caused me to trip at least once a day. It also required me to replace all my footwear.

6. Deliveries. They might stick the package in your mailbox, or they might call you and say they are on their way and you should go outside to meet them. If you can find them. The delivery time could be from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. You may have to sign for it, show a code, or present an ID. Possibly all three. They might decide not to deliver it the day they said they would because, according to their text, “something happened.” Or, they might pretend you weren’t home to receive it even though you sat inside waiting for 14 hours. You can try avoiding the wait and uncertainty by choosing to have the package dropped off at a pickup location. This can be at the post office, a supermarket, or a weird store that sells only sports trophies. Then again, they might decide at the last minute to leave it, instead, at some dank bar several kilometers away.

7. Toilets. My most traumatic toilet experience was at least 25 years ago, when I peed all over my pants trying to squat over a hole in the dirt floor of an otherwise lovely Parisian restaurant. Toilettes à la turque, or Turkish Toilets, are rare these days, but the memory still stings. Especially when I encounter public toilets without toilet seats. I’ve heard a couple reasons for the seatless toilets: either it’s more hygienic, or people steal toilet seats so establishments forgo them. I’m not sure why a public toilet seat would be a prized acquisition, but to each his own.

8. Electric scooters. These scooters, called trottinettes, are popular modes of transportation here. Many drivers ride safely and use bike lanes, but others try to share the sidewalk with pedestrians at 20 mph – completely without warning. That’s how a 51-year-old woman was killed in 2024, just steps from our apartment building. The scooter driver, an 18-year-old soccer player for our city’s team, was sentenced to two years in prison for involuntary manslaughter and driving a scooter without insurance. I think of that woman every time a scooter zips by me.

9. Phone Calls. Even advanced French speakers like me will tell you that they are afraid to answer the phone. Understanding telephone French, with its formal structure and fast pace, is extremely challenging. You can’t see the person’s expression or watch their lips move. Sometimes you can’t hear them well. It may be difficult to tell the difference between a wrong number, a spam call and your doctor’s office. Consequently, the sound of my cell phone used to cause an unpleasant tightening in my stomach. I am proud to report, however, I recently have made great strides in overcoming phone phobia, with the help of many agonizing phone calls from confused delivery people, and a special French course devoted to managing the phone in France.

10. The Prefecture. The official headquarters of the Prefect, the government representative of a region or department, is where we go yearly to pick up our new residency permits. I get all dressed up to visit the Prefecture, even though I once saw a guy pick up his card wearing a tank top, short shorts and flip flops. The government workers there are very nice and efficient, but I’m still scared, possibly because they could deny me permission to continue living here.

Which brings me the biggest thing in France that scares me:

Being denied permission to continue living here. While this one is very unlikely, unsavory political influences have the ability to sour any country’s stance on welcoming US immigrants. I worry that we’ll all get booted out and I will end up desperately missing, not just the produce, architecture, language, spirit of France, but even the slippery cobblestones. This fear goes deeper than current politics. Its origins stem from a long-established panic that I – the daughter of a judge – would get caught committing a horrible crime, endure an agonizing trial with tons of bad publicity, then be sentenced to a long prison term. And you know what you get when you go to jail? A toilet without a toilet seat.