The Bonjour Effect

The most important word in French

“The Bonjour Effect,” a delightful book that dissects the rules of French communication, takes its title from the requirement to begin every conversation in France by saying hello. I harp on this myself because saying Bonjour has opened many doors for me to friendly, respectful exchanges. 

I’ve discovered that it’s really more than that. 

Bonjour and its closely-related, Merci, Au revoir, and Bonne Journée, create community — not necessarily among like-minded individuals, but among sick people in the doctor’s waiting room, early-risers in line for the best strawberries at the marché, dog lovers itching to pet that good boy under the next café table. It is such a vital part of the cultural structure here that I’m hardly exaggerating when I advise that, if you ever need emergency assistance in France, say, Bonjour, before screaming, “Help!” 

Sure, it feels odd to walk into the dentist’s waiting room and say hello to everybody. In Philadelphia, I happily stayed in my own digitally-assisted bubble, keeping my root canal anxiety to myself, because it felt unseemly to encroach on anyone else’s silent waiting–room vigil. Here, the greeting feels like an invitation to sit together, even in that same silence, with the warmth of connection, camaraderie. 

We may have a toothache, but we see and acknowledge each other. We all are sick waiting-room companions. We all are excited about the arrival of the white asparagus. We all can’t believe the beer store is so late in opening! We all are worried about our loved one in the operating room.

I’m still working on broadening my social network here, so whenever someone includes me in their group of elevator riders or waiting-room agonizers — no matter how tenuously — I feel less isolated, like I just may belong in this foreign country filled with strangers. Or, at least, I belong on this particular elevator. 

As with most things French, however, there are rules governing the use of Bonjour. They aren’t quite as confusing as the rules controlling how to cut certain types of cheese during a cocktail party, but they must be learned and followed, nonetheless. 

Getting onto an elevator: Bonjour. Walking into a doctor’s office waiting room: Bonjour. Coming into a department store: No Bonjour. Entering a small store: 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. 

The waiting-room thing can be especially hazardous because sometimes you are just too anxious to say hello. Maybe you are sick. Maybe you are scared. That is no excuse. Consider Don, returning to the waiting room immediately after being told he needed emergency eye surgery. He texted me to tell me the news. And this: 

Oops. Forgot to say Bonjour to everyone in the waiting room. Got the stink eye. 

That’ll teach him! (Not to mention that he did, indeed, have a form of stink eye at the time.) 

Lest we get carried away with all these warm feelings toward mankind, I would like to remind you that the mankind we are talking about lives in France. This is the land where citizens believe something is amiss with the mental aptitude of people (and by “people,” they mean Americans) who walk around smiling all the time. Needless to say, I do not walk around smiling anymore because the French look at me like I’m goofy.

I think there is a line — the Maginot Line of Manners — between politeness and forwardness. Nice stays on this side. Enemy invaders on the other. Say hello to a stranger at a party but don’t go asking about her job. Don’t argue about money, but you are welcome to get into a heated argument — if it’s about a philosopher or a soccer team. 

Getting it right takes watching and listening and imitating.

One day not long after we moved, I automatically said, Bonjour. Ça va? (Hi, how’s it going?) to the concierge of our building. I cringed inside, afraid I had gotten too informal, too fast. Instead, he smiled, and asked the same of me. We’ve been closer ever since. 

Not so close with the checkout girl at the supermarket, though. I complimented the creativity of her eye makeup. She looked at me with what my friend Christine calls, “the three-headed look.” Perhaps she was startled that I had wandered, without a licensed guide, beyond the sanctioned exchange. She gave me a suspicious smile. Then she asked if I had a store loyalty card. 

This tense exchange did not, however, impact our sincere Merci, Au revoir, Bonne Journée-ing. Because, after all, that would warrant the stink eye.