Being 31, Burned Out and Single: Would a Sequence of Dates with French Gentlemen Restore My Joy of Living?

“Tu es où?” I texted, peeking out the terrace to spot his arrival. I examined my lipstick in the glass over the fireplace. Then worried whether my elementary French was a turn-off.

“Be there soon,” he responded. And before I could question about welcoming a strange man to my apartment for a initial meeting in a overseas location, Thomas arrived. Soon after we shared la bise and he took off his layers of winter gear, I noticed he was even more attractive than his dating profile pictures, with tousled blonde locks and a glimpse of chiseled core. While getting wine as insouciantly as I could, mentally I was exclaiming: “It’s going as planned!”

I devised it in fall of 2018, worn out from close to ten years of calling New York home. I was employed full-time as an editor and working on my book at night and on weekends for three years. I drove myself so hard that my schedule was written in my diary in tiny time slots. On Friday evenings, I came home and carried an cloth tote of soiled garments to the public washroom. After returning it up the five flights of stairs, I’d yet again open the manuscript file that I knew, probably, may never get printed. Meanwhile, my peers were moving up the ladder, tying the knot and purchasing stylish apartments with standard fixtures. At 31, I felt I had nothing to show for it.

NYC gentlemen – or at least the ones I dated – seemed to think that, if they were over six feet and in finance or law, they were top of the world.

I was also practically abstinent: not only because of busyness, but because my former partner and I kept meeting up once a week for meals and movies. He was the first guy who spoke with me the first night I went out after arriving in the city, when I was 22. Although we separated six years later, he re-infiltrated my life one friendly dinner at a time until we always found ourselves on the far sides of his sofa, groaning companionably at TV shows. As soothing as that routine was, I didn’t want to be close pals with my former flame while having no sex for the rest of my life.

The few times I played around with Tinder only diminished my assurance further. Courtship had shifted since I was last in the scene, in the old-fashioned times when people actually conversed in bars. Manhattan gentlemen – 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 elite. There was zero effort, let alone pursuit and passion. I wasn’t the only one feeling disrespected, because my friends and I exchanged stories, and it was as if all the eligible people in the city were in a competition to see who could show less interest. Something needed to change, significantly.

One day, I was arranging my library when an vintage art book stopped me in my tracks. The cover of a classic art volume displays a detailed view of a medieval illumination in precious metals. It recalled my hours invested in the reading room, studying the colour plates of reliquaries and writing about the historic textiles in the Parisian museum; when a tome attempting to describe “art’s origins” and its development through human history felt meaningful and worthwhile. All those serious discussions and aspirations my peers and I had about beauty and truth. My heart ached.

I decided then that I would resign from work, depart the city, park all my stuff at my parents’ house in the Pacific Northwest, and stay in France for a quarter. Of course, a impressive list of literary figures have absconded from the United States to the French nation over the decades – renowned writers, not to mention many other creatives; perhaps taking their lead could help me become a “established novelist”. I’d stay 30 days per location in various towns (a mountain retreat, Nice for the sea, and the capital city), improve my language skills and experience the artworks that I’d only seen in books. I would explore alpine trails and bathe in the sea. And if this placed me in the way attractive gentlemen, why not! Surely, there’d be no more effective remedy to my fatigue (and dry spell) than embarking on a journey to a country that has a patent on kissing.

These idealistic plans drew only a moderate feedback from my social circle. They say you don’t qualify as a local until you’ve spent ten years, and close to that point, my weary peers had already been departing for better lifestyles in Budapest, Amsterdam, California. They did desire for me a quick improvement from New York romance with charming locals; they’d all been with a few, and the general opinion was that “French men” in New York were “odder” than those in their homeland but “appealing” compared with other choices. I avoided that topic of the conversation with my family. Frequently concerned about my 80-hour weeks and frequent illnesses, they welcomed my decision to emphasize my well-being. And that was what most excited me: I was pleased that I could arrange to take care of myself. To regain joie de vivre and figure out where my life was headed, in work and life, was the objective.

The debut encounter with Thomas went so as intended that I thought I ruined it – that he’d never want to reconnect. But before our clothes came off, we’d laid out a chart and talked about hiking, and he’d committed to take me on a hike. The next day, familiar with frustration by fickle American men, I contacted Thomas. Was he really going to show me his preferred path?

“Yes, don’t worry,” he replied within a short time.

Thomas was far more affectionate than I’d anticipated. He grasped my fingers, praised my clothing, cooked dinner for me.

He was true to his promise. A couple of evenings after, we drove to a trailhead in the Chartreuse mountains. After climbing up the snowy trail in the evening, the town lay glowing beneath our feet. I attempted to match the passion of the situation, but I couldn’t chat easily, let alone