Oddly Enough . . .

I moved back to the U.S. one year ago today.

It's hard to believe that it's been a year already, but it's also hard to believe that it's been only a year. I never experienced any huge culture shock with my move, and yet I still don't feel fully settled into my life here in Minnesota.

To mark the day (and cross something off my interminable list of things I need to do to re-integrate into American society), I went and got my Minnesota driver's license today (my DC license was still valid until 2011) and also updated the address on my car registration (the title had my temporary address from Minneapolis last summer). They asked if I'd ever had a MN license before, and I told them yes, but the last one was cancelled in 1997. That was too long ago for the number to still be in their system, but they said, "Welcome back!" just the same. That was nice.

I have been welcomed back with great affection and openness by many friends here, and that has made my transition much easier and more pleasant. And while I've rediscovered many things from my homeland and my native culture which resonate in my soul, there are also many things which make me long for France. To name a few: intrusive service at restaurants and stores; bad yogurt; the difficulty and cost of finding decent bread, pastry, and food in general; . . . topics I've been meaning to post about for some time and may still get to one of these days.

One year back, and my home is still where my heart is: solidly divided between two countries.

OBG: Frencher and Frencher

OBG = Oldies But Goodies (recycled material)


I've finally begun my formal reintegration into the American Healthcare System, but before I start pontificating on that, I thought I'd share (or repeat, if you've known me long enough) one of my more memorable interactions with French Healthcare. The following true story is from an e-mail that I sent on February 1, 2005:
__________


Hi everyone,

It occurred to me recently that it's been a while since I've sent out one of my mass e-mails regaling you all with Tales of Life in France, simply because I don't seem to have many tales to tell these days. Why is that, I wondered? Is it because I'm unemployed, and now that I've discovered a channel playing reruns of "Law and Order" every weekday (you really haven't lived until you've seen Briscoe and McCoy dubbed into French!), I've become a total recluse and no longer have any interaction with those wacky people known as the French? Or . . . is there something darker at play here? Could it be that I no longer NOTICE the wackiness that surrounds me? Could it be that I'm (gasp!) getting Frencher?!

The degree of my cultural integration was thrown into sharp relief last week by the arrival of a newcomer from the States. "L" is the friend of a friend, and she's in Paris for 5 months to study French. I've been helping her get settled in and figure things out . . . how to get an internet connection, where to buy oatmeal, which brands of anti-perspirant don't sting after shaving . . . you know, all the basic information needed to survive as an American in Paris.

On Friday, L and I went to a movie and out for a drink with a German friend of mine who's lived here for years. We were all sharing funny stories, and I began to recount an odd-but-true incident that happened to me a few months ago. The following is a vaguely approximate transcript of that conversation. Any alterations were made for the amusement of my readers.

*****
Stephanie - "My doctor always has her dog with her at the office, and . . ."

Others (interrupting) - "WHAT?! A DOG?! In the DOCTOR's OFFICE?!?!"

S (confused) - "Yeah, well, you know . . . French people love their dogs. They take them everywhere."

L - "Isn't having a DOG in the DOCTOR'S OFFICE kind of a hygiene issue?"

S (thinks about it) - "Huh! Well . . . I don't know. I don't think the dog normally comes into the EXAM room, he mostly just hangs out in the office, under her desk. He's just a little lap dog, a bit yippy, but cute. Really, it seems pretty normal for him to be there. . . . But anyway! One day I went to see the doctor because I had the flu or something, and Sasha (the dog) was really nervous and yipping every time anyone moved. The doctor said that that morning, some workers had been installing a new window in an upstairs apartment--she just has a small office in a residential building--and they dropped a sheet of glass, and the noise totally traumatized Sasha, which was why he was acting so nervous. He was lying on a chair right behind the door, and when I got up to leave, I guess my opening the door scared him, because he flew out of the chair, latched onto my leg, and bit me! The doctor didn't see it, she just heard him yipping and said, 'Sasha, be quiet.' Stephanie: 'Doctor, your dog just bit me on the leg!' Dr.: 'Really?' I point to my thigh, from which I've just removed the vicious little fur-ball, and say 'YES!' The doctor glances down at my pants leg, doesn't see a hole, pats me on the leg, and says, 'Oh, you'll be fine. Have a good day!' And all I could think was, 'Do you not understand that, as an American, my cultural instinct is to sue you for this?!' "

Others (stunned silence) - "?!?!?!"

Stephanie - ". . . I mean, don't you guys think that it's kind of weird that the doctor didn't even want to look at the wound, to see whether the skin had been broken, and maybe disinfect it or something?"

German friend (finally regaining capacity for speech) - "Stephanie, do you still go to that doctor?!"

Stephanie - "Oh. Well, yeah! I really like her! I mean, in the end, the doctor was right, it wasn't THAT big a deal. The dog only broke the skin a LITTLE, and of course I had a big bruise on my thigh, but I had actually forgotten about it by the time I got home that day, and later it took me a while to figure out where the bruise came from. I just think Americans get too paranoid about germs and stuff, you know?"
*****

To recap: I was bitten by my doctor's dog, in my doctor's office. I was surprised that the doctor didn't offer to look at and disinfect the bite. However, I didn't think that (a) it was strange that my doctor brings her dog to the office with her, or (b) this might be a reason to find a new doctor.

So, does this mean that my attitudes are becoming Frencher? Get back to me on this!

Hope you're all doing well!

Love,
Steph


_________

And here's a photo from last January of Sasha in the waiting room, trying to get back into the doctor's office:

TIMM: Bisous

TIMM = Things I'll Miss the Most

There is another thing that I miss about France: the kissing. (No, not that kind of kissing.)

Les bisous or la bise is the kissing-on-the-cheek that the French do as a greeting, as a good-bye, as a thank you, as almost any expression of goodwill or affection between friends and acquaintances. There are lots of little rules about how bisous are done that you learn over time (Isabelle and other French experts can feel free to add or correct):

1. Generally, it's not really a kiss. You just press your cheek briefly against the other person's cheek and perhaps make a vague little kissy noise. Once in a while, you'll come across someone who does actually kiss you on the cheek, but this is usually the French equivalent of your grandma or great aunt pinching your cheek. My friend A and I have a mutual acquaintance who gives a big, wet sloppy bise, and A and I always complain to each other about it.
2. If both people are wearing glasses, at least one of you will have to take them off, otherwise you will inflict and receive injuries to your face (and possibly your fashionable frames). If only one of you is wearing glasses, they can remain on, but the glasses-wearer will need to tip her/his head very carefully, to avoid scratching the other person. The truly considerate always take off their glasses, even if the other person is eyewear-free; I am not that nice and feel that the possibility of scratching the other person is much less important than the hassle to me of removing my glasses.
3. Most people begin with their right cheek to the other person's right cheek. Going in for the wrong side can lead to disaster, or least a sore nose.
4. The number of bisous given (alternating cheeks) varies according to region and social class. Two, three and four kisses are the most common, although in Rennes, Brittany, where I spent a semester abroad in college, a single bise was the norm. There's definitely an element of social hierarchy: two-bising people will usually tell you that giving three or four bises is low-class or for country hicks; four-bising people say that those who only give two bises are stuck-up snobs. Two is most common in Paris, and when in doubt, I generally do two bisous and then pause, pulling back only slightly, so I'm ready if the other person keeps going. You don't want to be the person trying to keep kissing while the other person is pulling away--that's a real faux pas!
5. Women give and receive bisous more than men. Bisous are generally shared between any two women who have an even slightly warm or affectionate relationship (relatives, friends, colleagues, acquaintances), between a woman and a man who are friendly, between two men who are family members or very close friends of long standing, and between an adult and almost any child under 12 or so. Otherwise, the default greeting or good-bye is a handshake. In professional settings, you always shake hands with people on a first introduction and generally continue to do so with colleagues until you've established a "work-friend" sort of relationship. I was often surprised at casual parties at friends' home, because almost everyone I met would immediately give me la bise as soon as we were introduced. Women who don't want to receive a kiss from someone can pre-emptively stick out their hand for a handshake instead.
6. On special occasions, bisous are even more freely given. Every year at Christmas, my building superintendent in Paris, along with his wife and their two children, would all line up in the hallway to give me bises to thank me for the tip I put in their Christmas card (I was never sure if this was normal or a sign that I was tipping too much). And when I was moving back to the U.S. and went to say good-bye to the people at my boulangérie, we all exchanged bisous for the first time.

As a good Minnesota girl who was brought up hugging close friends and family, all this kissing weirded me out at first. It seemed far too personal and intimate. But over time, I came to see bisous a warm and heartfelt way to express affection for the people in my life. And hugging--pressing my body against someone else--that seemed like a weirdly intimate thing to do with relatives and platonic friends!

After six months back in the U.S., I'm used to hugging again, but what I really miss about la bise (or even hand-shaking) in France is the constancy of it. French etiquette requires that you consciously greet and say good-bye to those around you, every time you see them, and every time you leave them. Families generally exchange bisous every morning when then get up and every evening before they go to bed. Friends give la bise every time they get together. Colleagues make the rounds of each others' offices to shake hands or kiss or at the very least formally say hello when they get to work every day. Not to do so would seem cold and rude.

You know that reputation that the French have for being cold and rude? Part of it may stem from the fact that the French see Americans as being rude, every time they enter or exit a shop without greeting the people there. That's right: in France, it's considered polite to say "Bonjour mesdames, bonjour messieurs" whenever you enter a store or a public room and "Au revoir" when you leave. I once heard a crotchety old lady on a French bus complain at great length about the rudeness of kids today after a group of teenagers got off the bus without thanking the driver and saying good-bye to the other passengers!

And the thing is . . . taking a second to acknowledge other people is nice. It makes me sad that when I reflexively say "Hello" or "Thank you, good-bye" to the cashier at a restaurant in the U.S., I often get a strange look. And it makes me sad that I'm starting to lose that lovely French reflex. I miss the unquestioned certainty that each and every time I greet or say good-bye to a friend, there will be a physical acknowledgement of our friendship and affection for each other, whether the acknowledgement be a kiss or a hug or a handshake.

I miss les bisous.

Minnesota Things

A few random observations after my first three months here:

1) They play a lot of Prince on the radio. (Those of you not from Minnesota should know that Prince is.)

2) "Minnesota Nice" is not just a myth.
- If someone so much as brushes against you when they pass you in a crowded store aisle, you get the kind of profuse apology that, in other places, you only get when someone runs over your puppy. (This probably explains why for the last 14 years in NY, DC, and Paris, it's made me so unreasonably angry when someone bumps into me without even saying "excuse me": here where I grew up, invading someone's personal space is practically a felony.)

- When you're driving, if you turn on a blinker to signal an upcoming lane change, the car in the next lane will often slow down to let you in. The other day, I was discussing this with my best friend from high school, who now lives in New York. We both agreed that at first, this phenomenon is so disconcerting that we didn't even change lanes, assuming that it could only be some kind of Machiavellian ploy on the part of the other driver.

3) There are many people of Scandinavian descent here.
- Long ago at my very Norwegian, very Lutheran college, a classmate shared a very funny anecdote of going to a wedding in New York. Most of the guests were what she described as mafioso types, and she said that a woman came up to her and complimented her hair, asking how she had it done. The classmate shrugged and told the woman it was just a normal bob, nothing special. The woman said, "No, I mean the color." When the classmate replied that the color was natural, the woman looked stunned and then said, "Where are you from?!" We all thought it was hilarious that someone couldn't believe that blond hair could be natural. Now I realize that with the possible exception of Stockholm, there are not this many natural blonds anywhere else in the world. This point was clearly emphasized to me a few weeks ago at my great-niece's volleyball game when I was having trouble finding her on the court. Her team had their backs to the spectators, and I realized that looking for the girl with a blond ponytail was not going to help me. At all.

- Also at the volleyball game, there was one girl that was wearing a different color t-shirt from the rest of the team. Instead of a number, it said "Ingalls" on the back, so I assumed she had lost her uniform and was wearing a souvenir shirt from a "Little House on the Prairie" play or something. Then I saw the front and realized it was just a different uniform, and that "Ingalls" was actually her name.

French Seasons

My movers have come and gone, and the packing and loading went very well. This end of my little street was very crowded with moving trucks for the past two days, however: according to my building superintendent, the residents of six apartments (out of about 60 total in the building) were moving out this week! I guess we were all trying to beat the rush and higher cost of moving once summer vacation has started.

This got me thinking about the seasons of life in France, which generally revolve around the school year and vacation.

In order to give children regular breaks from their intensive studies, the French school year is broken up into cycles of roughly six weeks of classes, then two weeks off, six weeks of class, two weeks off, and so on, with two months off in the summer. The school vacations are Toussaint (All Saints' Day; time off in late October or early November), Christmas, winter break (late February), "Easter" (in April, so when Easter falls in March, the vacation and the holiday don't coincide!), and summer ("les grandes vacances").

This system may be good for the children, but it can be complicated for parents who have to find extended childcare at regular intervals throughout the year. Many parents end up taking at least a week off at each of the school vacation periods (the 35-hour workweek, which many companies have implemented by giving comp days off rather than actually shortening working hours, has facilitated this practice).

In addition, the French national school system divides the country into three zones, and all the public schools in that zone have an identical calendar. Vacation periods among the zones are staggered but usually overlap by at least a week. This means that in any given city, almost all the children and many of their parents are all on vacation at the same time. Which means that a lot of small "mom and pop" shops will also be closed, businesses slow down, etc.

So while it's not true that the entire country goes on vacation at the same time (not even in August, as legend would have it), the regular vacation periods are noticeable and affect everyone to some extent. I'm single with no kids, but the above link to the French school calendar is one that I've had bookmarked for a few years, because so many things in my own life are affected by the school vacations. For example, my regular committee meetings at church were often rescheduled to accommodate school holidays.

Part of me finds these mass departures a bit lemming-like. So many people leave for their "big" summer vacation on either July 1 or August 1 that those days are always "red" level traffic days nationwide, and all the news programs remind people to bring enough water, etc. in the cars, since they'll most likely be sitting motionless on the highways for hours! Why not just leave on August 2? And some people do that, but they generally seem to talk about it like it's some big radical idea. Single people vaunt the fact that they can go on vacation in June, when it's cheaper. Oh, the craziness!

But part of me also thinks that it's nice to have these noticeable seasons and rhythms to life. It's ironic: ever since I left the Midwest, I've claimed to miss having real changes of seasons, the ebb and flow from a hot, sunny summer, to a cold, snowy winter. Yet living in France, where both summer and winter are much milder, the seasons seem to affect my life in more ways: winter is time for soups and scarves (all the time, even indoors), and summer is time for salads and light cotton skirts (no need to carry a sweater in case of excessive air-conditioning!) and fewer people on the metro.

The American writer of Parler Paris newsletters (which I read more out of morbid fascination than anything else) often marvels that so many small businesses and restaurants in Paris simply close down for vacations, rather than the owners finding a way to keep them open and earning money. I understand her logic, but after six years here, I also understand why many French would be disdainful of this "commercial" attitude. What's the use of earning a better living if it doesn't give you a better life?

I'm looking forward to the change of Minnesota seasons, but I hope I'll be able to hold onto some of the pace of French seasons. Tonight I plan to spend some time wandering around listening to street musicians playing everywhere for the Fête de la Musique, celebrating the beginning of summer and the longest day of the year, when it will stay light until about 11 pm.

Code Name: Folgers

(Whispered voice of narrator):

From June 2 to 10, we are sending Stephanie to work in the U.S. Capital of Washington, DC. Because Stephanie lived and worked in DC from 1997-2002, when she was still wholly American, this nine day period will provide an interesting pilot test for her planned re-integration assignment. Watch along with us as the significantly modified Stephanie attempts to fit it with past friends and new co-workers.

Will she be able to assimilate new vocabulary such as "fierce" and remember that Americans no longer say "No, thank you," but instead respond to offers by saying "I'm good"? Will she be able to consume the "half-size" restaurant portions which are clearly still far more than any one person needs to eat? Will she be able to smile, for absolutely no reason, at everyone around her, ALL the time, in order to convince the other Americans that she is really one of them?

Will she start to remember how to read all the social clues in this society which was once her own, or will she continue to feel like the kid on the playground who can't play the game because she doesn't remember the rules and has no one to explain them to her?

How many people will notice that regular Stephanie has been replaced with partly French Stephanie, and which one will they prefer?

P.S. Stephanie's Mom is having back surgery today, so please think good thoughts for her.

The Mean French

One of the most common American stereotypes about French people seems to be that the French are mean and rude. Let me say upfront that I do not think that this is true. Like people anywhere, some people in France are nice and some are not, but generally, I find people here to be pleasant and gracious, and I am at times overwhelmed by the kindness extended to me.

So where does the stereotype of "The Mean French" come from? I think part of it stems from very specific French-American cultural differences that I'll talk about some other time. Part of it stems from the fact that most Americans' principal experience of France is in Paris, where they encounter typical big-city brusqueness--New Yorkers don't exactly have the reputation of being the nicest people in the U.S., do they? And part of it stems from the fact that there is often at least a little, tiny grain of truth behind most stereotypes.

A few years ago, my friend Isabelle and I were comparing notes on the book Almost French, by Australian ex-pat Sarah Turnbull. I liked the book, but Isabelle did not. She thought the author was too whiny: "It seemed like she spent most of her time crying in the bathroom because someone said something mean to her at a party!" I blinked. I paused. Then, with the trepidation of someone revealing top-secret, classified, intercultural information, I said, "Isabelle, I think every American woman I know here has at least one story about how she broke down and cried because of something a French person said or did to her. Often at a party, where she had to go to the bathroom to hide." Stunned, Isabelle exclaimed, "Why?! What do we do to you?"

Well, that's kind of hard to explain. All I can say is that some French people can sometimes be critical in a way which many Americans find hard to deal with.


NOTE: The following story is purely anecdotal and should not be used to make sweeping generalizations about an entire country and its people. Even if that's kind of how I'm using it.

Two summers ago, I took a beginning ballroom dance class in Paris. It was a one-week intensive course, with an optional second week, and I signed up for both weeks. Now, I know that I'm never going to be the most graceful girl at the gala. I have many talents and strengths; physical coordination is not chief among them. However, I do not think that I totally, completely sucked at ballroom dancing (I remain open to the possibility that I am wrong about this). The first week of the class was fun. There were about 50 people, which meant that the room was very crowded, and the instructor couldn't do much besides show us the basic steps and then circulate among us to give the occasional comment. On the last day of the first week, we danced with one partner for the whole session, and I was fortunate enough to be paired with a man who had taken lessons before and was quite a good dancer. With him as my partner, I left the class feeling that I might have a bit of Ginger Rogers in me, after all.

Then the second week happened. The class was down to about 20 students, which meant that the instructor could give us more individualized attention. On the second or third day, I got his special attention, and not in a good way. When I was dancing with him, he started telling me that I was doing the turns wrong, and that if he weren't such a magnificent dancer, able to strong-arm us back in the right direction, that we would be dancing astray. I didn't really understand what I was doing wrong, and being criticized in front of everyone did nothing to improve my box step. We were changing partners every few minutes, and when I danced with one of his assistants, she told me that she understood what he meant, and she very sweetly started to show me what I needed to correct. But then we had to rotate again. When I had worked my way back to the instructor, he apparently decided that his Nice Guy act was over. He told me that he would just let us go wherever my terrible turning would lead us: straight into the wall. At least, that's what he said he was doing (and perhaps he was right; he was the expert dancer, after all). But what it felt like he was doing was physically throwing me against the dance barre along the wall, which, by the way, kind of hurt! So I got more and more upset and danced more and more badly. Finally, the Dance Lesson from Hell ended, and I went home to regroup.

I was determined to learn the basics of ballroom dancing, so the next night I bravely returned to the scene of my trauma. Fortunately, the instructor turned his evil eye on someone else: a poor guy whom I knew to be a slightly clumsy, but not horrible, dancer. The instructor berated the guy's every move, and he was getting visibly flustered and making more and more mistakes. By the time That Night's Victim rotated to dance with me, he was such a nervous wreck that the two of us kept getting hopelessly out of step and having to stop completely. He'd stutter and apologize, and I would try to reassure him that it was no big deal and that we'd get it figured out. After the third or fourth try, he said, "I'm sorry, I just can't do this," and left. The instructor turned to me and asked what had happened. I shrugged and said, "He was just too upset. He said he couldn't do this tonight, so he left." The instructor was outraged: "How rude! How inexcusably rude, especially to his partner, who was messing up so badly!"

Excuse me? Up until that moment, all I had seen was a guy who was upset about being ripped apart by the instructor and subsequently lost courage. It hadn't even occurred to me that it might be my fault, that I was so horrible that he couldn't stand to dance with me and was forced to leave! Once planted, however, the idea rapidly took root and blossomed beautifully.

There was no bathroom handy, so I had to wait until I got home to cry. I skipped the last dance lesson and stayed home, trying to figure out why some French people are so mean.

Manif'

Coming back from the doctor's office a little while ago, I saw notices taped to all the métro exit doors: RDV MANIFESTATION 13H LYCEE ARAGO ("Rendez-vous Demonstration 1 p.m. Arago High School"). Inner groan.

I've been in a bit of a bubble recently--I haven't really watched or read the French news for several days, and since I'm only in the office one day a week, I don't get much "water cooler" news. So I had no idea if this demonstration was an isolated one or part of something larger. I just checked Le Monde, and it turns out that there's an education strike today, with something like one-third to one-half of school personnel on strike nationwide. Strikes (les grèves) are usually accompanied by a demonstration (une manifestation, or manif'), but there are often demonstrations about some cause or another, with no strike involved.

I live a few blocks from Place de la Nation, a big public square. It's a popular spot for demonstrations, so I've seen quite a few since I've lived here. They're mostly peaceful--more like a parade than anything else, but there is generally a large police presence, just in case things start getting out of control. I always find it disconcerting to have to walk past groups of police in full riot gear when I go out to buy a baguette, even if the police are just standing there chatting, leaning on their clear plastic bullet-proof shields. It's one of those things that didn't often happen to me in the U.S.

Another thing that didn't often happen in the U.S.: having my doctor hand me a glass slide with my cell sample on it, for me to mail into the lab myself. This is standard procedure with French gynecologists. Anyone else have their Pap smear in their purse right now?!

(Sorry, Scott. I should have warned you to bring your smelling salts to this blog.)

Never Quitting

First and foremost, please train yourselves always to click on (and add to!) the comments at the end of each post. This will be very important here at Native Observation.

Early commenters have suggested that they are going to quit their jobs in order to keep up with this new blog, assuming that that's how things are done in France. Mais non !

But it does remind me of A Story . . .

When I first moved here, back when I was Young and Innocent, before I had learned all The Ways of France, I had to negotiate my first French employment contract. The HR person--let's call her Glinda--at nGo where I was working (I'd already been working there for a few months before we negotiated the contract, but that's A Different Story) was very kind and patient, explaining all the things that were strange unto my American eyes. "Why doesn't the contract say how much vacation time I will have?" I asked. "Because," Glinda told me, "French Labor Law requires everyone to have five weeks of vacation, unless the Collective Agreement for our sector provides for more. Anything in this contract that contradicted Labor Law or the Collective Agreement would be invalid, so there's no point in mentioning it." "But the contract doesn't say if I have health insurance!" I worried. "Stephanie, you're not in America anymore! Everyone who works in France is covered by French social security. Plus, of course nGo has private supplemental health insurance," the Good Witch told me. And on and on she went, assuring me that my every need would be taken care of by the Wonderful Wizard of URSSAF*.

Then we came to the contract clause which specified my place of work. The clause stated that I was assigned to work in Paris, but that nGo could transfer me on a short- or long-term basis to anywhere in the world, without invalidating the contract. Glinda seemed to think that this would be a sticking point, so she gently explained that while nGo did not foresee transferring me, it might need me to help set up foreign offices in the future, so nGo felt it was important to keep this clause in the contract. I shrugged and said, very matter-of-factly, "That's fine. I took this job because I wanted to live in Paris, so if you ever transferred me to a place I didn't want to live, I would just quit."

Glinda's eyes got huge, and she gasped, "Stephanie! You never quit a job in France, you always negotiate being fired!" I thought that was the funniest and most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard.

Six years, and two "negotiated departures" later, I begin to see her point.

So, gentle readers, please do not quit your jobs. If you need more time to devote to this (and other) worthy blog(s), please negotiate an alternative work schedule with your benevolent employers. Of course, those of you in America will probably just need to accept that you're going to be getting less sleep from now on.


*URSSAF is the French Social Security administration. One minor point that Glinda neglected to mention to me about life Over the Rainbow is that instead of a pay "stub", I would received a "bulletin de paie" that would be one to two pages long, to list all the deductions for social security and other benefits. But not income tax! Income tax in France is not withheld from your paycheck by your employer; you have to make quarterly or monthly income tax payments directly to the tax authority out of your take-home pay. So "net salary" in France means after social charges (about 25% of your gross salary) but before income tax (which may be from 0 to 15% or much more of your taxable income, depending on your salary level and tax deductions). Yes, French taxes can be high, but in my experience, it evens out: the French have many public benefits, paid for by taxes, which Americans have to pay for privately, out of their (higher) take-home income.