I sold my home in the U.S. and moved to France for retirement—here's what I discovered during my journey.

I was ready for the major changes: a new language, a more relaxed lifestyle, and a different currency. However, what caught me off guard when relocating from the U.S. to France were the subtle nuances—those small details that could easily disrupt my routine.

Years of French classes taught me the essential rules of etiquette. I learned to swap my casual Philly greeting ('yo!') for a more appropriate 'bonjour' when entering a shop or bumping into a neighbor. What I didn't anticipate were the more complex conventions surrounding the greeting. For instance, in a doctor's waiting room: 'Bonjour' to all. In a department store: no 'bonjour.' On the metro platform: no 'bonjour.' Boarding a bus: 'Bonjour.' Passing a stranger on the street: no 'bonjour.' In the courtyard of my building: 'Bonjour.' When meeting an older woman on the street: 'Bonjour, madame.'

Though it may appear trivial, grasping the nuances of a culture can transform your experience from merely existing in a new country to truly thriving there. This learning curve significantly altered my demeanor. In the U.S., I was a sharp newspaper reporter, unflappable and confident. In France, however, I find myself more cautious and reserved, always anxious about misunderstanding or violating a social norm I might not even be aware of.

When a technician came to inspect our broken heating system, he felt the cold radiator and proclaimed the heat was operational. I voiced my skepticism, arguing that cold radiators couldn’t mean the system was working, but he insisted that was how radiators functioned here. Back in the U.S., I would have confronted him, questioning how he could underestimate my understanding. Instead, I reasoned that they do have different electrical outlets here, a separate system of weights and measures, and unfamiliar door hardware. Perhaps French radiators really operate that way. (Spoiler: the heating system was definitely broken.)

My husband and I anticipated experiencing culture shock upon arriving in France, but we welcomed it: relocating here had been a long-held dream. Each visit only intensified our wish to stay. After fulfilling family caregiving duties and enduring COVID-19 lockdowns, we embarked on a seven-week exploratory journey in 2021 and discovered our new home: Rennes, the capital of Brittany. We returned to the U.S., sold our house, cars, and most possessions, applied for visas, and booked one-way flights to France.

Our first year was filled with essential tasks such as renting and decorating an apartment, finding a healthcare provider, and dealing with a mountain of paperwork. Once we secured the basics, we dove into the enjoyable aspects: exploring restaurants, searching for great bars, attending local festivals, and discovering where to find the best baguette.

It wasn't until I had been here for a year that I started encountering unexpected, subtle challenges. These nuanced culture shocks led to mistakes and confusion in every aspect of my life, from housekeeping to healthcare to shopping.

I was clueless about how to schedule a doctor's appointment, which cleaning supplies to use for different surfaces, how to write a check in French, how to properly operate a clothes-drying rack, or which vegetables I could handle at the weekly marché. After months of watching, listening, Googling, and humbling myself to ask questions, I managed to fill in many gaps. (Tip: Always ask before touching any produce.)

As time passed, new questions emerged: How do you shift a manual car into reverse? What’s the exact distance of 800 meters? What does that traffic sign resembling a rocket signify? What shoe size do I wear here? Why can’t I find pre-made chicken broth? And why wasn’t I informed that I needed to add salt to the dishwasher? I ran it for six months before I finally discovered that special salt is necessary to soften the hard mineral-rich water.

One by one, I crossed those perplexing issues off my List of Things That Confuse Me in France. I tackled them in the same way I learned about handling produce: through eavesdropping, observing, searching online, and, naturally, asking others for help.

Gaining the ability to navigate these subtle lifestyle differences hasn't made me appear or feel more French, but it has provided me with the cultural understanding that inquisitive travelers and new immigrants seek. To truly cultivate a sense of belonging, I needed to let go of my preconceived notions and embrace the unfamiliar with an open mind and heart. The only way to truly understand a place is to connect with its people.