Sometimes, I like to think it sounds like a cat purring—low and rumbling, especially at the end, where that deep-in-your-throat French R rolls like velvet. Other times, it’s lighter: two soprano syllables that lift into the air like gossamer.
I’m talking, of course, about the word bonjour: the French word for “hello.”
I’ve never properly counted how many times I say it in a day, but it must be at least ten. That’s hundreds, maybe thousands, of bonjours each year. It’s the sound that separates silence from an encounter. It’s the tiny ceremony of recognition. When I open the door to a boutique in Paris—the creak of the hinge, the tinkle of a bell, the click-clack of shoes against tile—it’s the bonjour that makes me visible to the shopkeepers. Sometimes I say it first; other times the employee does. But whoever begins, the other always echoes it back. It’s call and response. A duet of civility.
My favorite kind of bonjour is the one I say when I step into a small shop. There’s something so dignified about it, so charmingly procedural. It’s one of the things I love most about living in France: every interaction, no matter how minor, begins with a salutation. Back when I was living in the U.S., I’d just drift into a store unannounced, browsing like a ghost. In France, you must announce your presence. You must offer the acknowledgment that you’ve entered someone’s domain and that you, too, are a human being.
Even elevator rides require a bonjour. I live in a relatively large Parisian building, and when a stranger steps into the lift, we exchange a single word—bonjour—and nothing more. It’s enough. The ritual complete, we may stand in perfect silence all the way to the ground floor, secure in the knowledge that we’ve fulfilled our social obligations.
At the supermarket checkout, when I want a human scanning my groceries, I begin with bonjour as I unpack my basket. When I call the French tax office—the ultimate test of spiritual fortitude—the first word I utter isn’t a plea or a question, but those same faithful syllables. Bonjour is the key that unlocks cooperation.
Not long ago, during one of my food tours in the Saint-Germain area, I stopped with my group at a very chic chocolate shop. At the same moment, a couple (I presume they weren’t French) walked in, and the two employees greeted them with bright bonjours, only to be met with silence. The air turned thick, as though the room itself was holding its breath. The missing word hung between them, small but essential. It was the social equivalent of a handshake left hanging midair.
As a Paris-based tour guide, I’m often asked about etiquette in France. My clients are eager but nervous, convinced that one wrong move will offend the entire French nation. The truth is simpler than that: the French don’t care if your manners aren’t perfect. It’s the effort, the acknowledgment, that counts.
So I tell them: if you learn one word of French, let it be this one.
Bonjour.
(I’ve recorded myself pronouncing bonjour for your listening pleasure).
Say it when you walk into a shop or a restaurant, before asking a question, before ordering coffee, before basically anything. Say it to the hotel concierge, the taxi driver, to the stranger on the street who looks like they might help you find the nearest metro station.
Bonjour is so much more than a greeting. It opens doors. The French can seem reserved, but this single word can soften their edges. It signals that you’ve entered their world, and that you intend to play by its rules.
And if you think about it, bonjour literally means “good day.” It’s both a greeting and a benediction, an offering of goodwill before the transaction of life proceeds. It’s an introduction to a person, but also a window into a culture, a philosophy, a way of being.
I’m a copywriter by trade (sometimes a bad one), which means I sometimes can’t resist a cheesy pun. So I’ll end with this one:
Learn just one word of French, and you can say bonjour to a far more pleasant, human experience in France.
À bientôt,
Victorine
Introducing Contributor, Victorine Lamothe
Immerse yourself in all of Victorine’s articles on her Contributor page.
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