Montpellier, south France. I have just arrived as contractor for a large enterprise. It so happens that I am sitting alone in the cubicle. My project team is remote. There might be a hundred people in the building here, but I don’t know anyone - they all work on different projects for different clients. One group sits right nearby, but we don’t talk. Over a coffee break, I walk over and say, in French:

“May I introduce myself? Pablo, new here. Just started working on a new project…”

They look at me as if I were an alien. “Okay” comes the response. Exactly this: one word. I linger for a few seconds, but there is silence. We just look at each other. Not knowing what to do, I give a silly smile, mumble a few confused words, nod, and walk away. Somehow it did not work. Maybe I have interrupted an important dialogue? Next time I should be more observant.

I spot another group talking casually at the far end of the hallway. I walk over and repeat my intro. Their reaction is similar. After my little exposé, the conversation freezes and silence falls. “Okay” finally says one man, as if echoing the first group. A woman next to him is slightly more talkative. She says: “Okay, bienvenue” [okay, welcome]. But again, the second part of the sentence never comes. The part in which I would expect something like: “…I am Charlotte from accounting, nice to meet you.” Maybe even “ … and how do you like Montpellier? The buses are always late here! By the way, my desk is just round the corner -- come over if you need something”.

Walking away, I hear from distance that the conversation, awkwardly paused when I approached, resumes.

I try to gather my thoughts. What has just happened, twice? I’ve spent twenty years in consulting, across Europe and Asia. I thought I had a solid grasp of office etiquette, including the cultural nuances. But clearly, this time something was off. Driven by bad feeling, I walk in men’s bathroom and scrutinize my reflection. Ketchup on my shirt? Unzipped pants? No - everything is fine. Then what had gone wrong?

Over the coming days, the uneasy feeling begins to fade. One morning, the site manager walks over. He is relaxed, outgoing and radiates good energy. He greets me very warmly and walks me through the building, so I shake hands with many folks. Some of them later initiate conversations and I make my first acquaintances. The monthly Thursday afternoon apéro (a social gathering with drinks after work) also helps.

In the meantime, I discover all kind of activities in town. I meet dancers, martial artists and a group of self-proclaimed acrobats who practice handstand on the street. In those informal situations, I don’t notice anything unusual. People are open and easy to talk to. The aikido team, in particular, is very welcoming: we end up altogether in a bar right after the first training.

But in the professional context, I keep encountering strange situations that make me uneasy. Two weeks later in the corporate canteen, I walk with my lunch tray looking for a place to sit. I spot some of my new colleagues in the corner. They wave, so I walk over and sit down with them. There are four persons at the table. I know three, but had never met the fourth, a gentlemen in his fifties. I start timidly “Bonjour, je m’appelle…”

“Maintenant je mange” [I am eating right now] comes the response.

*** *** ***

The revelation comes a few weeks later. In a private setting, I meet someone who also works for a French corporation, but a different one. I share my story and ask for advice. What have I been doing wrong? She puts me on the right track immediately.

“It’s not about HOW you introduced yourself. It’s the fact that you did it! That’s already quite unfortunate. By the fact that you’ve said your name, we know right away that you’re a stranger. Here, we don’t introduce ourselves”.

I thought I misheard. “Excuse me?”

“Some people see your name is something private. Especially in the professional context, you don’t casually share it - unless there’s a good reason”.

At that point, I felt like a thunderbolt had struck me. I instantly understood so much of what has been happening over the past month. At the same time, I lost so much of my earlier confidence. Is it possible that here, in the heart of Old Europe I had landed in a place more culturally distant than anything I had experienced - even more so than Muscat, Tehran or Tokyo?

I asked: “Then what do you do, if you’re new somewhere and need to talk to people?”

“SOMEONE needs to introduce you,” she said. “Someone whom those persons respect. The higher their rank, the better”.

*** *** ***

All this happened a few years ago. To this, I would like to add a few more thoughts, now that I’ve lived a bit longer (but still not long enough) in the country.

I feel (but it coud be just my imagination) that the French society is held together by network of invisible barriers, links, and connections. There are also bubbles, spheres, and portals. All invisible. It’s a spider web of numerous, nuanced, sophisticated and unspoken rules that define what behavior is considered appropriate. The way you navigate this web earns or loses you invisible points - because all the while, you may be observed and judged.

These things, to some extent, exist in every society. But in France, I feel they may be an order of magnitude stronger.

One of these unspoken barriers are the personal boundaries. You should know that every French person lives inside an invisible bubble - a cocoon of safety. You never, ever pierce that bubble. If you do, you are either a troglodyte or a foreigner (which partly explains what the French generally think of foreigners). This bubble of personal safety is multi-dimensional. And you’re expected to understand all its dimensions. Let’s explore a few.

For instance, the French lunchtime at 12:30 is absolutely sacred. Any interruption of this routine can provoke a reaction close to a panic attack. Me, out of the sudden talking to a man over his plate of soup - this was a perfect example of such disruptive, invasive behavior from a barbarian from distant tribe.

To understand it better, imagine a Cro-Magnon man who has just hunted a deer. (Cro-Magnons were the first human race to settle in Europe). While preparing to skin it, he is taken by surprise - ambushed and surrounded by a horde of hungry, savage Neanderthals. “Maintenant je mange!” becomes a perfectly valid response from the man who, with his back against the cliff, is desperately defending his last stand: his plate of soup. Mind you, Abri de Cro-Magnon (the original cave where the prehistoric deer paintings were discovered for the first time) is not far from Montpellier.

Another example of invading a Frenchman’s space, is to approach him with an unsolicited introduction. Sharing your name, when no one was asking - is a bit like dropping your pants in public, at random moment. You generally don’t do it.

But this is not universally true. Context matters. There are specific situations in which you’re expected to introduce yourself—and in those cases, you can.

For instance, you can walk in the post office, introduce yourself and ask if there is a parcel waiting for you. The clerk won’t have a heart attack. You can also introduce yourself at job interview. But you never, ever introduce yourself like I did.

Then comes a social context. I observed that during a party, a festival or a bal, you also are socially permitted to introduce yourself. But usually not in the first sentence. It is nice to engage in some small talk before mentioning your name. In these situations, French savoir-vivre is almost the opposite of customs in many other countries. In most of Europe, stating your name upfront is seen as polite, while failing to do so can seem rude. In France, it’s often the reverse: starting a conversation with your name can feel awkward, abrupt, or even intrusive.

There are exceptions. Here is one: it is generally fine to share your name with a new dance partner before a dance. If I understand the logic correctly, it’s because dancing inevitably creates a sense of closeness—and it feels safer to "know" each other, at least by name, beforehand.

It’s also okay to introduce yourself more directly when you’re having a drink with friends and someone else—a friend of your friends—joins your table. Your friends haven’t introduced you, but since you’re already sitting together, it’s fine. And then comes a surprise: in this particular situation, not only do you say your name, but you immediately kiss with stranger (regardless of their gender). This is deeply confusing: while in the certain context introducing yourself to a stranger is a faux pas, in another context it is an offence to NOT kiss the stranger. The confusion does not end here because the kissing itself, like most social situations in France, is complicated. In the North of the country, you kiss twice. In the South, you kiss three times. There are also some regions with different etiquette. And there’s even a subtle science to which cheek you start with—left or right—which also varies by region and by context.

And on top of that, please don’t think that the fact of having kissed someone creates any sort of closeness or familiarity. In my observation, it does not. What the ritual does accomplish is this: the safety bubble disappears and one of those invisible portals opens: you can now talk to the person.

I’ve talked enough. Here’s the final scene - which now shouldn’t surprise you.

On one Sunday afternoon, being new in another, small French town, I was looking for a coworking space (a shared office space where you can rent a desk). Google maps showed one which was very close, so I walked over. I rang a bell, a girl opened the door and I said “Hello, is this a coworking? I just arrived in town and looking for a place to work…”

A moment of silence came, during which the girl was paralysed, staring at me as if I were a zombie. Another one of those French a-ha moments—when you realize, instantly, that you’ve just poked a hole in someone’s invisible cocoon. What had gone wrong this time?

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Here is what went wrong - and a little tip: : if you want to visit a new place in France, prepare the person mentally for the encounter. Send a courteous email. Make a phone call. Even if it’s a business, think of it more like visiting someone’s private home. I often think French doorbells aren’t made for just anyone. They’re devices reserved for those with an appointment. If you don’t have one, you don’t touch the bell.

Of course, this isn’t always true. In some businesses, ringing is fine. In others, it’s not. It depends on context—and might be too complicated to explain in a short story. But next time you meet what feels like a “rude” French waiter, stop before judging. Could it be that you just walked into a restaurant where reservations are sacred? Maybe you were the rude one. Maybe you showed a basic lack of manners—simply by showing up. Did you at least apologize…?

Post Scriptum

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