When I was growing up, my family spent the better part of July and August at my grandparents' country house in Normandy. I remember lazy, unscheduled days with cousins, lingering over breakfast, biking to a local farm for fresh milk, noodling around, finding mischief where we could.  Once, well before any of us kids had a license, we spent an entire afternoon piloting someone's old car in reverse, trying to slalom between the trees in a field.  When I joined the workforce after college, taking my first job in a factory in the north of France, the company simply shut down in July and everyone took paid vacation.  Generous management? No. Ever since the 35-hour work week was instituted in France, the government mandates five weeks of vacation for everyone, and those who work more than 35 hours -- like most white-collar workers -- earn an additional two weeks.  That's seven weeks, and I know plenty of people who, for working tough jobs or irregular hours, acquire up to 11 weeks of annual time off.  That's why I wasn't prepared for my first job with an American company in London: two weeks of vacation and colleagues who felt compelled to brag about their untaken vacations, testimony to their commitment to the company and career prospects.  I did manage a week-long ski trip. My friends and I rented a small chalet in the Alps. Each day we skied from the time the lifts opened to the time they closed. Then came the call from my boss.  I spent the rest of that evening crouching over my laptop in the cold outside a darkened bakery, waiting for my budget numbers and musing over the fact that this little village seemed to get on just fine with only one Wi-Fi hotspot -- the bakery. My friends were shocked.  For the French, vacation is away time, and the company leaves you to enjoy the break, no matter how important your job.
When I was a little boy, my family would take a couple of months -- yes, months -- off each summer to go on a long, leisurely vacation. All my friends' families did, everyone did.I was brought up in