I’ve been amused and/or surprised by some of the differences between France and America. Here are a few things I’ve learned:

The French don’t use top sheets. I thought I was going crazy my first day in Paris when I couldn’t find a top sheet in the huge armoire of linens. But, my coworker confirmed it—they just don’t use them.

Elevator and subway doors close even if something’s in the way. You know how if the elevator is closing, you can waive your hand through the small opening and the door will open back up? Well, that doesn’t happen here. While I knew that the metro doors wouldn’t reopen (good for commuters, bad for the poor soul caught in the door), I found it surprising that the same was true for elevator doors. I had a near brush with death the other day when I got on a crowded metro. The people in front of me weren’t moving, and the door started closing without warning while my backside and purse were still in the door’s path. A fellow commuter grabbed me and my bag and pushed me forward, literally saving my behind.

Walk signals don’t blink. In America, the walk signal will start blinking to tell you that you don’t have much longer to finish crossing the street. Here, the green walk signal doesn’t flash before it turns red, it just turns from walk to stop. I find myself completing my walk across the street in a dead sprint more often than not.

Margherita pizzas are just cheese pizzas. They don’t have basil, but they have olives. Why aren’t they just called “fromage et olive” pizzas?

The French don’t need as much water as Americans. Ok, that’s not a fact, but you’d think it’s true based on the sizes of drinks here. Everything is miniature. The coke cans at work are 1/3 the size of a regular can. (Maybe they take all their caffeine in shots—shots of espresso and shots of coke?) At restaurants, it seems like tourists are the only ones drinking water. I don’t know at how many meals I’ve asked for water and the waiter just ignores my request. I live in a constant state of dehydration.

The French 35-hour work week is a myth. I know this because there are workers drilling and hammering and sanding in the apartment above me every day starting at 7 am and lasting until 6 pm (except Sundays…on Sundays they start at 8).

The French like their beef raw. Not rare, raw. There’s “tartare de boeuf” everywhere you go. It looks like they just took some ground chuck from the Jewel and slapped it on a plate. Bon apetite!

I could go on. I will in another post later this week.