How to Get to France (Without Going to France)

I stepped off the small, French-registered turboprop after a short flight from Halifax into a blast of damp Atlantic wind. It swept in from the North Atlantic like a curtain lifting on a forgotten stage, revealing the French islands of Saint-Pierre and Miquelon. Expecting a quiet archipelago with an equally quiet French flavor I found instead a vibrant community with a long, complicated history that shapes daily life.

Sitting just off the coast of Newfoundland, the islands are the final remnant of France’s former North American empire, and their past is visible everywhere—from the fishing docks to the government buildings flying the Tricolor.

The islands’ identity has always been tied to the sea. For centuries, French, Basque, and Breton fishermen crossed the Atlantic to harvest cod, using Saint-Pierre and Miquelon as a base for salting and drying their catch. Even though the cod industry collapsed in the late 20th century, its influence remains clear in the old processing sheds and in the stories residents still tell.

One of the most significant chapters in the islands’ history came during World War II. After France fell to Germany in 1940, Saint-Pierre and Miquelon remained under pro-German French Vichy control. This created tension in the region, especially for Canada and the United States, who worried about a Vichy-aligned territory so close to North American shipping routes.

On December 24, 1941, the situation changed abruptly. Free French naval forces arrived before dawn, seized the radio station, and removed the Vichy administration. The takeover was quick and bloodless, but it caused diplomatic friction. Washington objected, arguing the action violated neutrality agreements, while Canada responded more cautiously. For the islanders, the event became a defining moment—one in which their small territory briefly entered the global spotlight.

Outside of wartime history, the islands have experienced other dramatic economic shifts. During U.S. Prohibition, Saint-Pierre became a major hub for alcohol smuggling. Warehouses filled with imported liquor, and local boats ferried shipments toward the American coast. When Prohibition ended, that boom disappeared as quickly as it arrived. Traveling between the two main islands, I saw how geography shapes life here. Saint-Pierre is quaint, compact and administrative, while Miquelon is larger, quieter, and more exposed to the Atlantic.

The narrow isthmus connecting the two islands has been rebuilt repeatedly after storms, a reminder of how vulnerable the territory is to weather and erosion. Yet, despite these challenges, the community remains resilient. Fishing continues on a smaller scale, tourism is slowly growing, and cultural preservation efforts are visible in museums and restored buildings.

Most residents are proudly French. They identify strongly with France—using the Euro, following French law, and often sending students to the mainland—yet their daily reality is shaped by North Atlantic conditions. As I walked along the cobbled streets of Saint-Pierre on my final day, I passed the war memorial, the harbor, and the steep streets lined with brightly painted houses. The islands may be small, but their history is huge and stand as a reminder that even remote places can play unexpected roles in global events, and that communities shaped by the sea tend to endure whatever history sends their way.