Sit down and drink your coffee and other essential life rules I learnt from the French

Roughly two and a half years ago, I moved to Paris on a gut-fuelled whim, arriving with no job, no apartment, and, as I quickly discovered, almost no French (my schoolgirl French didn’t quite cut it). Between waitressing, au pairing trilingual toddlers and eventually studying at a French university, I found my feet – and began adopting a few very French habits.

My first lesson? Sit down and drink your goddamn coffee. The French do not buy into eating or drinking on the go. The keep-cup culture that runs rampant in America and Australia? Non-existent. The French would assume Frank Green and Stanley were the names of some very Anglo-sounding old men.

I’m not claiming that the French, or Europeans in general, sip their coffee more slowly. That’s not always true, especially in Paris. Parisians are accused by the rest of France of being in a perpetual rush. And yet, even in all their busyness, they will sit down (or stand up at the bistro’s bar) to drink their coffee. Even if only for a few minutes.

I once served a man who sat, ordered an espresso, drank it and paid – all within 45 seconds. It didn’t take long for the ritual to rub off on me. Nowadays, I can barely tolerate places that serve coffee exclusively in paper cups, regardless of whether you’re sitting in or taking away. Not only is it environmental nonsense, it tastes … off.

Drinking is for drinking, eating is for eating and walking is for walking. These are not activities you combine. And while takeaway does exist in Paris, you’re immediately ousting yourself as a foreigner the moment you ask for “un cafe emporter”. Also, you’ll find the highest concentration of berets in France inside Starbucks. If most of the customers are wearing berets, you do not want to eat or drink there.

Another vital lesson: activewear should not to be confused with real clothes. Paris reacts to you differently depending on your uniform. There are unwritten rules that one has to break a few times to learn, like experiencing the unforgiving wrath of the city when stepping out in gym clothes.

I once thought myself above these codes. I rolled my eyes at the stares I received as I pranced down Boulevard Saint-Michel in my Lululemon leggings. Changing into activewear before a gym class and changing out of it again to grab a coffee afterwards felt unnecessarily arduous.

And yet, slowly but surely, I assimilated. Whether it was chicness, snobbery, or simply pride, I began to understand the standards that live within the walls and people of Paris. Perhaps I couldn’t hack the silent judgment of sophisticated Parisian women staring at my legging-outlined crotch. But I also came to appreciate the care people put into their appearance, and how the city rewards you when you step out in a considered ensemble.

I realised how much I’d changed when I took the Eurostar to London and my friend met me in grey trackie shorts and Birkenstocks. The outfit felt shockingly foreign to me. I couldn’t help but smirk at how quickly I had absorbed the codes of Paris. A jean and a simple shirt layered over activewear ensures minimal fuss. Pack a change of underwear and a bralette to complete your post-workout ensemble.

Next rule. There’s a reason they call it a French kiss. I always stop to watch couples making out on the streets of Paris. I can’t help it. Even after two years of living in the city of love, my public-intimacy-deprived Australian brain still did a double take at any anonymous street-side passion. Everyone makes out. Everywhere.

I once stood at a pedestrian crossing opposite an older couple locked in a ferocious pash. The light went green. I crossed. They didn’t. They were too engrossed. Another time, a couple sat in my section of the cafe and maintained face-to-face contact for three and a half hours. Even when they weren’t sensually snogging, their faces were somehow always touching. Touché.

Finally, youth-culture is overrated. I met an Australian journalist who told me of her move from Bondi to Paris. “In Bondi,” she told me, “youth is everything. You don’t get a look-in after 30.” In Paris, she found the opposite.“When I’m queuing up for a restaurant here, the host almost always comes straight to me. I’m one of the first seated. The middle-aged woman is prioritised. Style, wisdom and elegance is prioritised.”

This reverence threads through many other elements of French culture. Parisian women let their hair go grey, there’s a certain chic-ness to it. Lip filler and lash extensions are non-existent and not-appreciated. Botox exists, of course, but it’s so subtle that it’s usually undetectable. Foreheads still move.

Crooked teeth are charming. Veneers don’t quite translate. In Paris there’s a deep respect for growing older; for experience, for presence, for having lived. I’ve often wondered why that same reverence doesn’t exist here in Australia.

Grace O’Sullivan is an Australian actress based in Melbourne. She runs Bevs&Bisous, a gathering where people come together to speak French and meet new people.

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