by Jody Trick
I arrived in France in July 2012, intending to stay and make a living, following the break-up of a relationship in the UK. Thirteen years later, I still live there, eking out a living at the foot of the Alps, in Grenoble: one daughter later, one failed marriage later, four apartments later, two jobs later, one Brexit later, one Covid later (or was it two or three?), and many other things besides.
For the first few months, I made my home in the post-industrial city of Saint-Étienne, about 50 kilometres from Lyon. Many French people hold a rather negative view of Saint-Étienne; it’s seen as being down-at-heel and proletarian, especially in comparison with bourgeois Lyon. Coming from a town in the north of England which had experienced economic problems of its own, I rather liked the place.
It was cheap to live there, and I quickly found a decent flat for less than €300 a month. The city is home to a legendary football club, AS Saint-Étienne, which dominates the local sports scene. There are only a few, true football towns in France (Lens, Nantes, Saint-Étienne, Marseilles and one or two others), and I learned that France isn’t really a football country in the way that England is. Yes, statistically, football is the most popular sport, but, to my mind, rugby is the game that gets French hearts racing.
Even as recently as 2012, there was still something recognisably and stereotypically Gallic about Saint-Étienne, and about France generally. Passing by the cafés on the main squares, one encountered the aroma of Gauloises cigarettes and Ricard pastis, whilst the shops continued to stock brands and products that were distinctively French. Telephone booths, stamped with the logo of the national telecoms provider, lined the main thoroughfares. This has all changed in the time I have been in France, as the country has globalised and become increasingly similar to everywhere else.
I met my future wife, quite by chance, in a bar in Saint-Étienne, whilst she was visiting the city to see her friend. We exchanged numbers, and I started going to see her in Lyon, where she lived. Lyon had a very different vibe to Saint Etienne. It was much bigger, for one thing. We would stay in her friend’s classy apartment, adjacent to the Opera House, five minutes walk away from the main museum. Down by the river, there were bars and restaurants where people dressed to impress, and the city oozed wealth. The underground transport system took you to anywhere you wanted to go.
My new girlfriend was Bulgarian, but had been living in France for ten years, working in commercial law. She introduced me to her female friends, also Bulgarian, who seemed to have careers in law, as well. I noticed that all these women had British or American boyfriends. One of them said to me, “French guys will try to sleep with you, but they wouldn’t dream of introducing an Eastern European woman to their mother, whereas the Anglos don’t care.”
Before long, in December 2012, my girlfriend found a new job in Grenoble, a medium-sized city about 100 kilometres south-east of Lyon, so I gave up my flat in Saint-Étienne and we moved to the new city together. Grenoble was an entirely different proposition to Lyon or Saint-Étienne. Situated on an alluvial plain by the Alps, it had “a mountain at the end of every street” (Stendhal, Grenoble’s most famous son).
Grenoble is a major European centre for science, both in terms of research and industry. This makes the city worthy, but not particularly sexy. There is a pleasant Old Town, and some nice Art Deco architecture from the early part of the 20th century, but most of the city was developed in the post-war period and is constructed of concrete.
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It was from this point, December 2012, that I got to grips with the day-to-day, year-on-year realities of finding my way in another country. On a personal level, there were some high points: the arrival of our daughter in 2014, and then our marriage the following year; also, some trips around France, notably to Avignon, Montpellier, Marseille, Albi and Toulouse, as well as to Saint Malo in Brittany.
It is difficult to form friendships with the French, certainly in the easy, casual way that people in Anglophone countries fall into one another’s company. I read, somewhere, that one should not confuse social courtesy in France with friendship, and that seems about right. The closest I’ve come to making enduring friendships is with les boulistes down at Jardin de Ville, a centrally located park in Grenoble, but these relationships are based around the consumption of alcohol and playing pétanque. I struggle to think of a single French person I know who I could truly call a friend.
Close personal relationships in France are often based around family ties, although a certain chauvinisme does seem to permeate the culture as a whole, especially if the person on the receiving end is British. My first attempt to open a French bank account, back in the Saint-Étienne days (pre-Brexit), was met with the words, “But you’re not a proper European”.
The bureaucratic nature of life in France can be suffocating. One recent attempt to access government services from a female civil servant was typical; sitting completely still, she looked intently at me, her eyes dilating, as she moved her head slowly from side to side: “Ce n’est pas possible…”
Even the popular culture, to the extent that such a thing exists in France, is infected by a sort of dirigisme. Each year, on 21st June, the entire country is consumed by a festival called “Fête de la Musique”, during which everybody is encouraged to pick-up their musical instruments and perform for one another in public spaces. This celebration was ordained by the then Minister of Culture, Jack Lang, in 1982, and has since spread to countries around the world.
There is a British version, although I’d never heard of it before coming to France, and “the concept failed to capture the imagination of the professional music industry, sponsors and the media (in the UK)”. As I said to a French acquaintance, “In Britain, every day is music day”.
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The political atmosphere in France, since my arrival, has become increasingly febrile. There were the Charlie Hebdo and Bataclan Massacres of 2015, and then the yellow vest protests of 2018–2020, as well as several episodes of serious social unrest, most recently in 2023, following the police shooting of Nahel Merzouk, in Nanterre.
But the single biggest event, in terms of its effects on ordinary people, was the application of Covid measures, between 2020 and 2022. Whatever one’s view of those restrictions, it can be said that, in France, they were applied with brutal and unwavering efficiency. British politicians of an authoritarian bent, and there are plenty of those, can only look on, enviously, at France’s well-resourced and comprehensive security infrastructure. Interestingly, the French, by and large, complied with the measures. The country has not yet recovered.
Meanwhile, Brexit has already had a huge impact on British people living in France and the situation is getting worse, with new border controls about to be introduced in October 2025.
So why stay? First of all, I have a French daughter, who needs me to look after her. Second, France has scale: the scale of a major European country, which has the capacity to instigate change, and to make those changes resonate globally. Third, at its best, France retains an intoxicating charm which makes you wish you were nowhere else.
But the country has reached an inflexion point, and important decisions lie ahead.
The subject of immigration dominates French political discourse, although this, in and of itself, does not make France unusual, as this conversation is taking place across Europe. That being said, the debate is particularly complex and heightened in France, as it rubs up against deeply held notions concerning culture, citizenship, laïcité, and the state: people ask whether France can maintain its Gallic, secular and republican traditions, whilst accommodating large and growing populations with strong religious affiliations and different cultural traditions.
Then again, to what extent should immigration be limited, when the traditional population is having so few children, and there are so many things to do? There is very little consensus around any of this.
Then there are the questions about France’s “place in the world”. The country continues to punch above its weight, internationally, partly because of its leading role in the European Union, partly because it maintains a significant military capability (including nuclear weapons), and partly because of the legacy of it having been an imperial power. Is this sustainable? Is it desirable? What are the alternatives? Again, there is no consensus.
Across a range of issues, a basic question arises: What does it mean to be French?
