What French Beach Days Taught Me About Doing Less

On seaside etiquette, sunbathing choreography, and the subtle joy of not trying so hard

It starts before your feet even hit the sand.
The towels, the timing, the snacks… I used to treat a beach day like something to manage.
But on French beaches, I’ve learned the point isn’t to optimize.
It’s to blend in. To let the day unfold lightly, like sea foam dissolving back into the tide.

Of course, I learned this with a side of cringe. I once arrived at a tucked-away cove in Corsica with a cheerful “bonjour,” an iced coffee in hand, and a towel the size of a yoga mat. The reaction was discreet but unmistakable: a polite nod, then a discreet shuffle away. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was just a little too eager, too prepared, too… American to blend in.

But the truth is, I’ve been observing French beach behavior for most of my life. I first saw it as a kid vacationing in the South of France, where women sunbathed topless without a second thought. Reading magazines, doing crosswords, totally unbothered. Even as a child, it was surprising. But also… freeing.

Years later, on trips to Cannes and Nice with friends, I discovered the French Riviera version of the beach: narrow stretches of sand where renting a lounge chair is almost mandatory. It’s a very Riviera thing. You can order a glass of rosé from your chaise, rinse off in an outdoor shower, eat a lukewarm salad at the beachside restaurant, and settle back into your shaded spot.
It’s indulgent, yes, but even indulgence in France feels unhurried. Less about luxury, more about languor.

The French beach isn’t lawless, but it is coded. And once you tune in to the rhythm, you realize it’s less about explicit rules and more about shared expectations. A delicate dance, where everyone does their best to enjoy the moment without disturbing anyone else. Like a lot of life in France.

On most beaches, the first thing you notice is the silence. No music. No podcasts on speaker. Even phone calls, when they happen, are hushed or taken from a distance. Conversations drift just above a whisper, blending into the sound of the waves. It’s not solemn, it’s serene.

People arrive quietly, scan the beach, and settle in with care. Your towel shouldn’t touch your neighbor’s. Granted, that’s probably universal, but here it feels sacred. Umbrellas, if used at all, are small and unremarkable. The goal isn’t to stake out territory. It’s to become a part of the collective rhythm.

You’ll rarely see a French family rolling up with a beach wagon, let alone a Bluetooth speaker or full-size cooler. Instead: a bucket, a fishing net, maybe a baguette wrapped in paper. Just enough. The joy of a beach day isn’t in what you bring, it’s in realizing how little you need.

No frills, no crowd, just two parasols and a quiet stretch of sand. The French art of doing less starts here.

Of course, even here, some people test the limits.
The classic French loophole: arrive early, lay down a towel to reserve a prime spot on a soon-to-be overcrowded beach… then disappear for hours.
Everyone hates it. Everyone talks about it. Disapproval is practically a sport in France.

Even food has its rhythm. In the U.S., we eat right on the towel — snacks from Ziplocs, coolers, hands sandy and sun-drenched. In France, people pause. Some leave for a proper meal. Others unfold a linen-lined basket: tomatoes, baguette, a wedge of cheese, maybe a chilled bottle of rosé. Chips are shared among family members.

Lunch isn’t a break from the day; it is the day. One thing at a time. No multitasking. No rushing. Just a pause, fully lived.

The more time I spent on these beaches, the clearer it became: in France, less isn’t a compromise — it’s the whole point.

Children are everywhere, but rarely out of control. They splash and dig and chase waves — but usually within a restricted, shared range of behavior. Shrieking is discouraged. Meltdowns are addressed quickly. No one barrels across towels, dripping and howling. Even their play feels calmer: no giant inflatables, no sugar-fueled chaos. You’ll see a child softly placing a crab in a bucket of seawater, studying it for a while, then setting it free before heading home.

Even what people wear reflects the same understated confidence. You’ll see elegant swimsuits, linen shirts, nothing too loud or branded. No board shorts, no highlighter-bright bikinis. Just ease.

I used to treat the beach like a test: packed snacks, planned activities, a mental checklist for every possible need. But here, no one’s rushing to prove anything. The beauty of a French beach day is how little you have to do for it to feel complete.

Somewhere between watching my kids poke at seaweed with a stick and climbing on rocks at low tide, I stopped trying so hard. And they followed. It’s almost magical, when they know there aren’t ten toys in the bag, they don’t ask for them. They look around instead. They notice more.

A crab in a puddle. A flat stone. A makeshift barrage, built from sand and rocks, to see if it will hold when the tide returns.

They don’t need more. Neither do I.

Even in the water, the choreography continues. People wade in slowly. No cannonballs. No splashy chaos. They float. Swim unhurried laps. Speak softly. The water is a place to cool down, to move gently through something expansive. It feels almost sacred.

Of course, it varies by region. In Brittany, even in midsummer, you’re often wearing a polaire on the sand. Unless it’s a rare 30-degree heat wave, the wind is brisk. The ocean is for kayaking, windsurfing, or collecting seashells at low tide. It’s more of a cold-water beach culture, the kind you find on both sides of the Atlantic, from Brittany to the North Sea. It reminds me of the East Coast, the U.K., Ireland, even Belgium. Come prepared. Stay active. Layer up.

But maybe it’s not even cultural. My family in Hawaii never sunbathes either. They’re always in the water: surfing, fishing, moving. Maybe it’s less about nationality, and more about what the beach is for. In France, it’s rest, play, and motion — all layered into one unspoken rhythm.

What you won’t see here is the full-day tailgate-style setup I grew up seeing on Waikiki: tents, chairs, coolers, families settling in from 8 a.m. until dusk. In France, that kind of setup isn’t really part of the culture — and in many places, it’s not even allowed. You swim. You sun. You move on.

All in all, French beachgoing feels more balanced. It’s not about setting up camp for the day. Often, it’s simply about taking a dip, drying off in the sun, reading a chapter or two, and moving on. The beach is part of life, not a separate event.

Sometimes I miss the spontaneity, the splashy Americana of summer back home. I miss the hot dogs, the cousins running wild, the freedom to blast music without guilt. But there’s something about the predictability here that makes it easier to relax. You don’t wonder if someone will set up a speaker two feet away. You won’t find a football on your towel.

The rules, though never stated, are clear.

You bring a paperback and a peach.
You swim in silence.
You leave the speaker at home.
And somehow, without effort, it becomes enough.

The French don’t optimize their beach days.
They just live them.
And slowly, without even meaning to, you move to their rhythm, too.

Less isn’t a compromise. It’s the whole point.

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This post is part of my Summer Series: reflections on how the French do vacation, rest, rhythm, and everything in between.

If you enjoyed this piece, consider subscribing to never miss an update. I publish reflections like this one every Friday, on culture, style, and life in France, with a personal twist.

If this resonated with you, you might also enjoy No Greeting, No Help, my piece on the unspoken codes of French politeness, and what happens when you miss them.

And if you’re planning a trip to Paris, here’s a cultural companion read: 10 Social Faux Pas to Avoid in Paris (That No One Tells You About).

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I’d love to know—have you ever had to learn the “rules” of a beach, city, or country the hard way? What surprised you most about French vacation culture, or any other?

Thank you for reading.
À très vite,
Pamela

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Next Friday, I’ll be continuing this Summer Series with a piece on long summer lunches. Why they matter in France, and what they taught me about time, pleasure, and eating.