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 France, where five, seven, even nine weeks of vacation per year is seen not only as a sacred right, but the choicest, most coveted part of even the most fulfilling career. When it comes to summer breaks, France is divided into "Julyists" -- those who start their month-long vacations in July -- and "Augustists," those who start their holiday in August. It doesn't really matter which one you choose; little work gets done in either month anyway. 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...