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I have told quite literally everyone and anyone willing to listen that I spent 2017 on a cultural exchange in Bordeaux, France. A ‘cultural exchange’ basically translates to classes that were, on paper, compulsory, but had no impact on my final grade. Needless to say, I took full advantage of this new-found liberty, embracing as much of the culture as I possibly could by drinking an inconceivable amount of wine. You know. For the True French Experience. Prior to living in France, I was by no means a wine connoisseur, but nothing like living in the wine capital of the world to educate yourself though, right? As my tolerance for wine (in both senses of the word) grew, it became increasingly obvious that my drinking habits, as a foreigner, and as an Australian, no less, was a point of curious contention for the locals. You can only say ‘I’m not an alcoholic, I’m Australian’ so many times before some serious self-reflection ensues. I like to think my attitude to alcohol is mirrored by most Australians: one of the major cornerstones of socialising, a treat after (or during) a hard day, a social lubricant in even the most desperate situations. It soon became apparent, however, that the French deem alcohol more of a luxury, than a necessity. Drinking in France, as it turns out, is strictly an evening activity; day drinking is held to the minimum, and usually in accompaniment with a meal. Nothing wrong with that. In fact, it’s probably more beneficial in the long term. But how far the French flew from the well-worn groove in Australian culture of Sunday sessions and afternoon Aperols. There are some elements of our Aussie drinking culture that, when seen from the virgin eyes of a foreigner, are fairly horrific. I can’t quite describe the look of morbid fascination on my French fellows’ faces when they first experienced the impish chants of: ‘here’s to (insert sad sap’s name) he’s true blue’ as a means of getting an already-drunk, stumbling friend to finish their drink. Said chant is usually followed by wildly foraging for club admission, which is, for the most part, denied to those who have shortly before downed their drink. No doubt there’s something to be learnt from the French there: enjoy your drink. Cherish it. Is there anything so wrong with leaving a half-finished drink at the table? I ask you. On the other hand, is it nice to be able to waltz into a club well after the hours of 1:30 in the morning, should you choose? Yes. There’s nothing more sobering than the cymbal crash of the lights turning on and the bouncer jostling you out halfway through a Chainsmokers song. I never realised quite how much the New South Wales lock-out laws restricted nightlife until living in Bordeaux. Do I recommend doing going hard every weekend? Absolutely not, but the option is nice. What my time in the depths of Bordeaux’s drinking culture did tell me was that the drinking habits of people are pretty indicative of the nation’s outlook on the whole: the propriety of the French vs. the relaxed nature of the Australians. Drinking is universal, but the manner in which we do so can trigger the most horrified expressions from those who do not share our country’s habits, as I can vouch. Even though countries like France technically drink just as much, if not more, alcohol per capita, it isn’t so much how much we drink, but the way we drink. The intended outcome of drinking for the French isn’t inebriation, but enjoyment. Alcohol servings are small, and one of its primary uses is to enhance the flavour of the food you’re eating. On the other hand, boozing to excess is almost coded into Australian DNA, and constantly glorified. Alcohol is the closest we as a country have to a drug epidemic, and, unfortunately, what led to the strict lock-out laws in 2014. Our reliance on alcohol is something that is deeply ingrained in us, and something that isn’t brought up in the ever ongoing lock-out law debate: maybe what we need isn’t so much of a change of legislation, but a change of culture.