Tips And Tricks For Traveling And Living In France As An American Expat

Lessons in Living, Lingering, and Letting Go of the 20% Tip

In 2012, I did something mildly unhinged (on brand): I started a local LGBT-ish magazine in Cincinnati, a city I had just moved to with all the enthusiasm of someone being voluntarily relocated to a witness protection program. At the time, I was self-employed, running my greeting card business…which, spoiler alert, is not a path to untold riches unless your name is Hallmark or you’ve got a line of cards endorsed by Taylor Swift. I loved the creative side, but my bank account was giving “Boy, no.”

Moving to Cincinnati was not exactly my idea of a good time. I followed my then-boyfriend there for his job, which made me the plus-one to a life I didn’t choose. I didn’t know a soul. I didn’t know where anything was. I didn’t know if queer people even existed there (they did, they just weren’t wearing rainbow flags to brunch). So yeah, I was not thriving. I was moping, bitter, and aggressively Googling “how soon is too soon to leave a city.”

Still, I hit the pavement schlepping my greeting cards to local shops, hoping someone, anyone, would buy a snarky birthday card and validate my existence. One day I wandered into Park and Vine (RIP), where I met Ilene, a goddess in human form who basically handed me a starter pack for surviving Cincinnati. She sat me down for lunch, filled my ears with all the amazing things happening around the city, and gently reprogrammed my attitude. Turns out, Cincinnati was going through a glow-up. OTR was rising from the ashes. And suddenly, I saw a glimmer of possibility… or maybe it was just Ilene’s radiant optimism. Either way, something clicked.

Around the same time, I met a guy named Shannon at a softball game. (I was there supporting, not sweating, let’s be clear.) And I floated the idea: What if we started a local LGBT magazine? Because when I moved there, the first thing I looked for like any self-respecting queer, is the local rag. The one with the gossip, the events, the drag brunch listings, and the sassy classifieds. But there was nothing. Like a tumbleweed situation. So we decided to fill the gap and give the gays their glossy moment.

We launched CNKY Scene, which, yes, was a play on the city name and a wink to the community, and started hustling. We knocked on doors. We begged for advertising dollars. Shannon eventually stepped away (something about a real job), but I kept at it. I walked the streets like a rainbow-toting Jehovah’s Witness with a backpack full of press kits. I called every bar, club, and gay-adjacent business I could find. And then I realized: no one was going to trust me if I wasn’t actually out in the scene. So I went out, hard. Every night. I was basically the unofficial mayor of Queer Cincinnati. The drag queens took note. One even shouted me out during a show with the very encouraging words, “Pick it up and support this thing! Who knows how long it’ll last!” Wow. Nothing fuels your soul like a backhanded endorsement in six-inch heels.

But the joke was on them: CNKY Scene lasted two glorious years on my watch before I handed it off and moved to San Francisco. It didn’t fail. It didn’t implode. It worked. And it worked because I refused to let it die on my glitter-stained watch.

Meanwhile, in the midst of pitching ad space, a bar owner looked at me one day and asked, “Hey, wanna bartend?” I laughed. Hard. Me? The guy who could barely pour a Vodka Cranberry without Googling the recipe? But when they mentioned I could make serious tip money, I suddenly felt deeply passionate about mixology. I started shadowing Amanda, who greeted me with the warmth of a DMV clerk and told me to stay out of her way. Noted.

Eventually, I asked Amanda to help me set up a practice bar at home and take me shopping for the essentials. She said yes. Control freaks love to be asked for their expertise. From that moment on, we were besties. When my boyfriend and I broke up, Amanda and I moved into a loft across from Park and Vine, and I was suddenly living a chaotic but fabulous queer sitcom. I worked Tuesdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and sometimes Sundays. I made great money, even greater friends, and one time I made $20 just for flashing my abs. Honestly, I had worked hard for those abs…seemed like a fair exchange.

Now, let’s talk tipping. Bartenders like me made $2.13 an hour on paper, which is basically a slap in the face with a wet napkin. The real money came from tips. One dollar per drink was the standard. Tips were how we survived. In the U.S., tipping is a moral obligation. Not tipping? That’s a declaration of war. You’ll get publicly shamed, dragged on Yelp, and possibly hexed by your waitress. You tip even if your burger was cold, the delivery was late, or the robot server forgot your extra ranch. That’s just how it works.

But then I moved to France. And let me tell you, tipping here is not a thing. At least not the same way. In France, servers are paid real wages. Like, actual salaries with health insurance and five weeks of vacation. And their lives do not depend on whether you Venmo them 20 percent of your cheeseboard. Tipping here is more of a polite “merci” than a desperate bribe for better service. You’ll see “service compris” on your bill. That means it’s already included. You are not expected to tip unless you’re feeling extra generous or your server was hotter than the weather in Marseille.

If you tip like an American here, it doesn’t impress anyone. In fact, it might make people uncomfortable. Big tips read like a humblebrag or a pity offering. Like, “Oh, poor little French server, here’s some extra cash from Daddy Warbucks.” No thanks. Serving is a respected profession here. It’s not a fallback plan. And your oversized tip will immediately clock you as American… as if your enthusiastic “BONJOUR!!!” and gym shorts didn’t already give you away.

Here, no tip is no problem. You can walk away guilt-free. No passive-aggressive energy. No one’s chasing you down the street with a receipt and a grudge. It’s not personal. You paid. That’s the end of the transaction.

But while we’re on the topic of tips, here are a few non-monetary ones to help you thrive in France without accidentally offending an entire nation:

Always carry salt. Figuratively.
French people are honest. Blunt. Direct to the point of emotional exfoliation. Your kid’s teacher might say, “She talks too much.” Your neighbor might suggest you not wear shorts in April. It’s not shade, it’s cultural. Learn to nod, smile, and not spiral.

Become obsessed with cheese.
Skip the sad plastic cheddar at Carrefour and visit your cheese monger. Ask for something stinky or “good for a rainy day.” Not only will you get better cheese, you’ll get a new friend. That’s how community starts here: over lactose.

Put the divider down at the grocery store.
That little plastic stick? Sacred. Forgetting to place it between your items and the person behind you is basically throwing hands. Use it. Always. Even at Aldi. Especially at Aldi.

Silence is a flex.
Chit-chat is not a public sport here. No one wants to hear about your day, your dog, or your dreams. The French cashier at Monoprix does not care about your weekend plans. Bag your groceries and stay silent. Don’t apologize when you walk past someone. Don’t overshare in the cheese aisle. Just… be quiet. Quiet is polite. Chatty is American.

Make friends with your pharmacist.
Doctors are for emergencies. Pharmacists are your everyday heroes. Got a rash, a weird bump, or seasonal allergies that make you sound like Darth Vader? Head to the pharmacy. They’ll sort you out without an appointment and might even correct your doctor’s prescription. Yes, they’re that bold.

Moral of the story:
I’ve done a lot of things for tips in my life. I started a magazine from scratch with nothing but chutzpah and a clipboard. I slung vodka cranberries like a slightly confused but determined bar wizard. I even flashed my abs for a crisp twenty like I was auditioning for a very low-budget Magic Mike sequel. But living in France taught me that the best tips don’t always come with cash. Sometimes, they show up as a calm, collected waiter who’s paid an actual salary and has zero interest in rushing you through your existential espresso moment. No fake smiles. No refill pressure. Just three glorious hours of you pretending you're writing your novel while he pretends he doesn’t see you. Now that’s the kind of tip money can’t buy.

If you liked this post, here’s the best tip: Subscribe, restack, like, and comment below with your juiciest travel tip or to scream at me about tipping culture. Follow me on Instagram at Le_Simple_Sudiste for more unsolicited opinions and curated chaos. Want to buy me a coffee? I will tip the barista with a wink and a charming American “merci!”

Until next time, don’t forget: when in doubt, tip your hat, not your waiter. You’re in France, darling.