When we moved to France, I knew I’d have to adjust to a few things. A slower pace of life. A language I still butcher when tired. Cheese that smells like something died in your fridge. But what I didn’t see coming was the great customer service shift.
Let’s start with reviews.
In America, we tend to throw around 5 stars like confetti. Did the item arrive on time? Five stars. Did the Airbnb host include a welcome note and a locally sourced jar of honey? Five stars. Did a waiter exist in the same room as us and smile once? You know the drill.
But in France? Not so much.
The Amazon reviews here are brutal. A perfectly good product might have an average of 3.7 stars, and the top comment will say something like: “Did its job. Nothing more.” Five stars are reserved for miracles. Four stars are high praise. And anything above that? You’d better believe it actually earned it.
It’s the same with Airbnbs. In the U.S., hosts practically beg for a perfect rating (I know this because I happen to be one). They’ll send a follow-up message, offer a refund for a squeaky door hinge, and dispatch a courier if you so much as mention a missing dish towel. But in France? You’re lucky if the host so much as acknowledges any of your complaints, especially when it’s not their fault. They’re not ignoring you - they just assume you’ll be fine. And if you’re not? Well…c’est la vie.
I host an Airbnb in California, and during my most recent guest’s stay, the power went out (due to an area-wide Public Safety Power Shutoff). My guests were very upset, and I felt the immediate need to offer them a partial refund, even though this was completely out of my hands and was in no way my fault. In France, it would be unheard of for a host to even consider a refund for something like this.
This isn’t rudeness. It’s just…detachment. French hosts aren’t bending over backwards for your glowing review because, frankly, they just don’t care as much. They’ve got other things to do - like not chasing your approval.
This mindset extends far beyond Airbnbs.
There’s no “customer is always right” culture here. At first, it felt jarring. I was used to getting my way. In the U.S., if you push hard enough, you can usually speak to a manager, get a discount, or politely demand some “exception” to the rules. In France? No. Just…no. Ce n’est pas possible, madame.
Returns are granted if you follow the policy to the letter. Exchanges are possible, sometimes. But don’t expect a warm smile or a guilt-driven override to “make you happy.” That phrase doesn’t even translate. The French aren’t in the business of making you happy. They’re in the business of being fair.
And you know what? It’s oddly refreshing.
There’s a subtle dignity in the way things just are here. People do their jobs. They go home. Stores close - often, and unapologetically. Waiters aren’t dependent on your tip, so they’re not performing for it. They’re just serving you a meal and then getting on with their day. No check-ins every five minutes. No “Hi, I’m Brad and I’ll be your server tonight” monologues. Just food, served, with efficiency and a slight shrug.
At first, I felt a little bruised by it all. My inner American didn’t know what to do without the special treatment, the “we value your business!” perks. But slowly, that part of me started to soften. Because the truth is, all that “above and beyond” culture back home? It trains you to expect the world to revolve around you. And France is simply not interested in doing that.
Here, you get what’s fair. No more, no less. It’s not personal. It’s not cold. It’s just…equal.
And once you get used to that? It’s kind of a relief.
À bientôt,
Kamille
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Author’s Note: No waiters were tipped in the making of this post. They didn’t expect it. And they still brought the dessert.