Upon learning that—shockingly—I wasn’t Argentinian but from the other Atlantic coast, right in front of them, kilometers away, many Brazilians have asked me whether my French beach looks like theirs.

So I figured I should probably check. Purely for research purposes—and because it was 25°C and I apparently can’t stay put—I went to the beach to compare the two.

Maybe I shouldn’t have picked La Baule, home to posh French families opening their family mansions for the season on Easter Monday.

But it was the closest option, less than an hour from Nantes by slow regional train.

“I want to go to their egg hunt,” I joked with my mum. “They probably hide all the good stuff, like giant Lindt bells.”

Yes, bells. In France, bells are more popular than rabbits. The Bible may explain why, but don’t count on me to investigate that one.

My Atlantic French beach could look like a Brazilian beach. Same salty ocean, same tide pattern, same seashells—trust me, the Pacific is a different beast, deeper in colour and altogether wilder.

And that’s about where the similarities end.

French beaches don’t have giant tropical trees, unidentified leaves growing on said trees, or mangroves.

The French don’t head to the beach at 8 a.m. either—common wisdom is to wait for the sun to be higher and warmer, so typically noon or even much later, like 4 p.m.

And the beachgoing style is very, very different.

The way people dress, for a start. The French are way more self-conscious than Brazilians, and thong bikinis are still rare—although I like to think I started a trend (I ain’t buying a French-appropriate swimsuit, and all mine are from Brazil). Forget about going to the nearest grocery store in your swimsuit—in La Baule, signs explicitly ban beachwear outside the sand, and you can get fined for it.

The French tend to drink booze everywhere, all the time—but strangely enough, not at the beach. Meanwhile, Brazilians always bring a cooler filled with dozens of beer cans that will eventually get picked up by the catadores, who collect aluminium for recycling.

And French people value food, but they don’t eat on the sand either. They take their lunch break at home or at a nearby restaurant, while Brazilians bring food and buy some from barracas on the beach—or from the many vendors offering shrimp, grilled cheese, churros, and more.

In fact, French beaches are strangely quiet, considering the French are not exactly a quiet bunch. No loud music, no loud vendors, almost no sound but the waves, although you’ll still hear people arguing about politics or something equally serious—just much more quietly than at 2 a.m. at a café, for some reason.

Frankly, Brazilian beaches are more entertaining, especially for people-watching and atmosphere.

That said, La Baule is entertaining too, in the “wait, did I just time travel to the 1950s?” kind of way—think posh families with kids dressed as if they were going to church, old-style (and expensive) wooden beach toys, navy blue and stripes everywhere.

And then there are the cars.

I counted eight black Porsches between the main street and the next town, Le Pouliguen. Plus a blue McLaren (“Batman’s car!” my mum and I exclaimed, a bit too loudly) and countless fancy BMWs.

Show-offs.

Different beaches, different codes. Same ocean, though.

Still, not a bad way to spend a 25°C day—especially knowing it’s still snowing in Ottawa.