Recently updated on July 13th, 2026 at 09:04 am
Jen Kaarlo is a journalist and storyteller who writes about travel, culture and the people who make places unforgettable. Her work has appeared in The Independent, Grazia, Stylist, Metro and Cosmopolitan.
As a solo female traveler, I get asked about my most-loved destinations at least a few times a week. Of course, I mention a few familiar favorites such as Italy, Finland and Malta — and then a few more spots further afield, such as Oman. But the one destination that I will flock to time and time again is France.
Whenever I share this, it’s almost always followed by quizzical expressions and lip service to the sentiment that the French aren’t known for being the friendliest. This is something I can wholeheartedly say has not been my experience at all. In fact, my “hot take” is that I find the French (yes, even Parisians!) kinder than my fellow Coloradoans at home.
Admittedly, I almost exclusively travel with my cute cavapoo, Céline, and I’m sure her fluffy presence adds a certain je ne sais quoi to the reception I get when meeting new people. That said, I believe the thing that makes the biggest difference is that — whatever the nature of the interaction, I always attempt to speak the language.
Don’t get me wrong, by no means do I speak a high level of French. The way I often describe it is like the episode of Friends, when Phoebe attempts to teach the language to Joey (“Just repeat after me: je m’appelle Claude“… “Uhh, joo decoop ploo?”). You probably think I’m being self-deprecating, but sadly, I have an incurable tongue-tie when it comes to my pronunciation of French, despite the number of times I’ve visited the country.
The truth is that speaking in a different language gives me massive bouts of anxiety, and always has. It seems to me that certain people possess a confidence and knack for learning languages that has entirely evaded me. There are some words I sometimes even struggle to pronounce in English, so I avoid using them entirely. Hello, compartmentalise.
I imagine, If I had to chalk up why I’ve had such a consistently positive experience in France with locals, it’s because I’ve built up a tolerance for looking a bit of an idiot. Almost any conversation I’ve had usually reverts to English after a few garbled sentences in French. Still, I think it’s the effort of trying that helps disarm almost every stranger I encounter, whether that’s at a crowded café in Le Marais or an overworked supervisor at the Eurostar ticket desk.
It’s not a perfect art by any means, but it has led me to some truly memorable experiences during my solo travels to France over the years. Towards the end of the COVID-19 pandemic, I was living in London but toying with the idea of moving to the South of France — so I booked an exploratory trip and rented an apartment in the centre of Nice, overlooking the city. In the days leading up to my trip the weather forecast was bright and promising, but by the time I arrived, it was wall-to-wall rain. It wasn’t a good omen, and left me wondering whether I would have been better of just staying put in London.
After several days of watching the rain run in thick veins down the windows, when a break in the weather finally appeared, I jumped at the chance to venture out for lunch. My spirits were low, and both Céline and I were soggy, but I struck up a conversation with the woman next to me at the neighborhood bistro we stumbled into. She apologised for her lack of English, and I apologised for my lack of French, and yet despite the language barrier (or perhaps because of it, aided in part by several glasses of wine), we spent the rest of the afternoon dancing inside the unassuming neighbourhood bistro, watched with wistful amusement by the octogenarian owner, who had a penchant for unsweetened espressos and Marlboro Reds.
Following that day, the clouds lifted — both literally and spiritually. While I never exchanged contact details with my dance partner from the bistro, the experience acted as a palate cleanser for the remainder of the trip. My next two weeks on the Côte d’Azur delivered a fresh dose of sunshine and gorgeous interactions, and a few friendships along the way. I befriend a mother and son over a beachside sundowner in Villefranche-sur-Mer, shared regular hallway giggles with a hotel neighbour, and even embarked on a romantic dalliance with a French dressage instructor that still brings a warm flush to my face, as if brushed by the sparkling riviera sunlight again.
It goes without saying that none of these moments would have happened without the very human act of strangers from different lands trying their best to connect — through French, English, and all the many messy bits in between. Since that trip to France, I’ve made a point of learning a few simple phrases before every trip abroad, even if I inevitably butcher the pronunciation (if I thought my French was bad, discovering Cyrillic languages humbled me on a whole new level).
After it all, with 53 countries and counting on my passport, I’ve learned that sheer effort matters far more than fluency. The very simple act of trying signals a respect and humility that can turn simple interactions from the transactional to the life-transforming in a flash. It’s about stepping into the unfamiliar, embracing the friction just beyond our comfort zones, and collecting the kinds of stories that only happen when we’re willing to look a little silly.