Turning 31, Exhausted and Single: Could a Series of Encounters with French Men Revive My Zest for Life?

“Tu es où?” I typed, glancing out the veranda to spot his arrival. I inspected my makeup in the reflection over the fireplace. Then worried whether my basic French was off-putting.

“Be there soon,” he replied. And before I could question about having a unknown gentleman to my place for a first date in a foreign country, Thomas showed up. Soon after we exchanged la bise and he took off his layers of winter gear, I noticed he was even more attractive than his Tinder photos, with disheveled fair hair and a hint of toned stomach. While fetching wine as nonchalantly as I could, inside my head I was screaming: “The plan is working!”

I devised it in late 2018, worn out from almost ten years of residing in NYC. I worked full-time as an content editor and writing my novel at night and on weekends for three years. I pushed myself so hard that my calendar was planned in my planner in tiny time slots. On Friday evenings, I went back and carried an Ikea bag of soiled garments to the public washroom. After bringing it back up the several floors, I’d yet again open the book document that I knew, probably, may never get released. Meanwhile, my contemporaries were advancing their careers, getting married and buying fancy flats with basic appliances. At 31, I felt I had little to display.

Men in New York – or at least the ones I dated – seemed to think that, if they were more than 6ft tall and in finance or law, they were masters of the universe.

I was also effectively celibate: not only because of workload, but because my ex and I kept seeing each other once a week for food and streaming. He was the first guy who approached me the initial evening I socialized after arriving in the city, when I was 22. Although we separated down the line, he drifted back into my life an amicable meeting at a time until we always found ourselves on the different corners of his settee, reacting in sync at Game of Thrones. As soothing as that routine was, I didn’t want to be intimate companions with my ex while having a celibate life for the foreseeable future.

The few times I tried out Tinder only crushed my confidence further. Romance had evolved since I was last in the dating world, in the dinosaur era when people actually communicated in nightspots. NYC bachelors – or at least the ones I dated – seemed to think that, if they were above average height and in finance or law, they were top-tier. There was no attempt, let alone pursuit and passion. I wasn’t the only one feeling insulted, because my companions and I compared experiences, and it was as if all the unattached individuals in the city were in a competition to see who could care less. A shift was necessary, significantly.

One day, I was tidying my bookshelves when an old art history textbook caught my attention. The cover of Gardner’s Art Through the Ages shows a close-up of a historical illustration in gold and lapis lazuli. It recalled my hours invested in the library, poring over the colour plates of sacred objects and discussing the historic textiles in the French gallery; when a book attempting to describe “art’s origins” and its development through human history felt important and rewarding. All those deep conversations and hopes my companions and I had about art and life. My heart ached.

I decided then that I would leave my position, depart the city, place my items at my parents’ house in the Pacific Northwest, and stay in France for three months. Of course, a notable group of writers have departed from the US to France over the decades – Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Henry James, Baldwin, Steinbeck, not to mention countless minor bards; perhaps following in their footsteps could help me become a “established novelist”. I’d stay a month apiece in three different cities (a mountain retreat, a Mediterranean locale, and the capital city), relearn French and view the masterpieces that I’d only seen in books. I would hike in the Alps and bathe in the sea. And if this placed me in the way beautiful French men, why not! Surely, there’d be no more effective remedy to my fatigue (and romantic drought) than heading off on an adventure to a country that has a affinity for affection.

These idealistic plans drew only a moderate feedback from my companions. They say you haven’t truly lived in NYC until you’ve resided a decade, and approaching that milestone, my tired acquaintances had already been moving away for better lifestyles in other destinations. They did wish me a fast rejuvenation from Manhattan courtship with sexy French men; they’d all experienced some, and the common view was that “Gallics” in New York were “more unusual” than those in their France but “appealing” compared with alternatives. I left such discussions out of the phone call with my parents. Frequently concerned about my intense workload and regular sickness, they approved my choice to emphasize my mental and physical health. And that was what motivated me: I was proud that I could manage to take care of myself. To reclaim joie de vivre and understand where my life was progressing, in work and life, was the goal.

The debut encounter with Thomas went so as expected that I thought I blew it – that he’d never want to meet again. But before our garments were removed, we’d spread out a chart and explored routes, and he’d promised to take me on a trek. The next day, used to being disappointed by inconsistent daters, I wrote to Thomas. Was he really going to show me his preferred path?

“Certainly, relax,” he replied within seconds.

My date was far more affectionate than I’d anticipated. He grasped my fingers, complimented my every outfit, prepared a meal.

He was as good as his word. A couple of evenings after, we went to a starting point in the Chartreuse mountains. After ascending the frosty route in the evening, the urban center lay shimmering beneath our feet. I made an effort to match the affection of the scene, but I couldn’t converse fluently, let alone