“If you don’t say hello, don’t come in…”

The note, scribbled on what looked like a page torn out of a notepad, sellotaped to the inside of the glass door of a shop near the Nice port, wasn’t just funny; it conveyed the French attitude towards greetings to perfection. Whether you step into a shop, a hairdresser’s, a doctor’s surgery, a café, or even if you just stop someone in the street to ask for directions, saying Bonjour before broaching any other subject must be inscribed in the French constitution and its omission – which, if the citoyens had a say, would probably be punishable by law. Bonjour is the password to anybody responding to you in a courteous manner.

After living in France for ten months, this is something I’ve missed since returning to England eighteen months ago.  Here, you seldom get greeted by Hello, let alone Good morning.  More often than not, the first thing a sales assistant says is Can I help you? You’re put on the spot, pressured to make a decision: do you want help or are you just browsing? You suddenly need to take a stand and fear that your reply will have consequences. Bonjour doesn’t expect you to make an immediate commitment.

A few months ago, I walked into a physiotherapist’s waiting room here in Norwich. A very small, narrow waiting room with only two chairs, facing each other closely. A few minutes later, a young woman walked in and headed to the other chair, eyes down, as though she was alone in the room. I wanted to greet her, but somehow, her body language suggested that a Hello on my part would have somehow encroached on her personal space.  I found the situation ridiculous and, frankly, unnatural.

That is what the French Bonjour is: an acknowledgement of your presence. It’s like saying I see you.  In England, time and again, you walk into a shop and, especially if the sales assistant is busy, you can stand there for minutes on end, the assistant’s gaze fixed on the other customer, and you start to wonder if you’re invisible. You wish he or she would at least say something like Hello. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. You could then relax in the knowledge that you’ve been noticed, that you’re not someone they just wish would go away.  Many times have I fought the impulse of starting to wave with both arms while hopping on the spot.

When we were in Nice last September, my husband, good French etiquette having rubbed off after a year back in England, made the faux pas of walking into a shop and initiating contact with “Excusez-moi, Monsieur, pouvez-vous me dire…“

“Bonjour Monsieur. Bonjour Monsieur. Bonjour Monsieur.” The sales assistant said it three times. Talking over my husband, who was clearly puzzled.

“Bonjour Monsieur,” I said with a smile. Then I asked the question my husband was desperately trying to get across.

The man gave me an almost imperceptible smile and, to my husband, an ever-so-subtle look of contempt.

While living in Nice, I sometimes went swimming early in the morning with a dear friend in a small rocky bay near the port. Usually, the gate to the site would be unlocked by 7.30 or 8 a.m. One Saturday morning, when I arrived, a small crowd of swimmers had already gathered outside the gate, which was surprisingly still locked. There was much discontent and expression of outrage among the regulars. What was to be done? Who could be called? At that moment, the city mayor jogged past us.  Or he would have, if cries of  “Monsieur le Maire! Monsieur le Maire!” hadn’t stopped him in his tracks and made him turn around, clearly picking up on the fact that these Niçois felt their right to the daily morning swim had been infringed. He tried to protest that he wife was waiting for him, but voices rose again, so  he wiped the sweat from his face with the bottom of his T-shirt, took the phone out of his pocket and issued a series of instructions and warnings, before jogging away again to a chorus of “Merci, Monsieur le Maire! Bonne journée, Monsieur le Maire!“

Not ten minutes later, a young man arrived on a motorcycle and, without removing his helmet, produced a key and unlocked the gate. A young man who was probably doing the mayor – and us – a big favour. He then speedily got back on his motorcycle and drove off again.

Did everybody shout thanks and gleefully walk down to the beach? No. Well, they did go down to their usual rocks and corners, but not before some huffing and puffing at the young man “for not even saying bonjour when he arrived.”