Being 31, Exhausted and Solo: Might a Series of Meetings with French Gentlemen Revive My Joie de Vivre?

“Tu es où?” I messaged, looking out the terrace to check if he was close. I inspected my makeup in the glass over the fireplace. Then worried whether my kindergarten-level French was off-putting.

“Be there soon,” he replied. And before I could question about welcoming a unknown gentleman to my place for a first date in a overseas location, Thomas knocked. Soon after we shared la bise and he removed his layers of winter gear, I realised he was even more attractive than his Tinder photos, with disheveled fair hair and a sight of ultra-defined abs. While getting wine as insouciantly as I could, mentally I was exclaiming: “My strategy is succeeding!”

I conceived it in fall of 2018, burned out from almost ten years of residing in NYC. I worked full-time as an editor and writing my novel at night and on weekends for three years. I pushed myself so hard that my schedule was noted in my journal in 10-minute increments. On end-of-week nights, I returned home and lugged an cloth tote of dirty clothes to the coin laundromat. After carrying it up the five flights of stairs, I’d yet again open the writing project that I knew, statistically, may never get released. Meanwhile, my colleagues were advancing their careers, entering matrimony and buying fancy flats with modern conveniences. Being 31, I felt I had few accomplishments.

Men in New York – 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 effectively celibate: not only because of workload, but because my ex and I kept seeing each other once a week for dinner and Netflix. He was the initial man who talked to me the debut outing I went out after arriving in the city, when I was in my early twenties. Although we broke up down the line, he drifted back into my life one friendly dinner at a time until we always found ourselves on the far sides of his settee, groaning companionably at TV shows. As soothing as that tradition was, I didn’t want to be intimate companions with my old partner while having no sex for the rest of my life.

The occasional instances I played around with Tinder only diminished my assurance further. Romance had shifted since I was last in the social circuit, 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 over six feet and in corporate fields, they were top-tier. There was no attempt, let alone chivalry and affection. I wasn’t the only one feeling offended, because my friends and I shared detailed notes, and it was as if all the unattached individuals in the city were in a race to see who could care less. Something needed to change, drastically.

One day, I was organising my library when an old art history textbook made me pause. The jacket of a classic art volume shows a close-up of a historical illustration in gold and lapis lazuli. It recalled my time passed in the study hall, examining the visual reproductions of reliquaries and analyzing the historic textiles in the Parisian museum; when a tome aiming to outline “creative evolution” and its evolution through human history felt meaningful and worthwhile. All those deep conversations and dreams my peers and I had about aesthetics and reality. My I felt emotional.

I resolved at that moment that I would resign from work, relocate from NYC, place my items at my parents’ house in the Pacific Northwest, and live in France for a quarter. Of course, a veritable fleet of literary figures have absconded from the America to France over the years – famous authors, not to mention many other creatives; perhaps taking their lead could help me become a “real writer”. I’d stay a month apiece in various towns (an alpine destination, a coastal spot, and a cultural hub), brush up on French and see all the art that I’d only seen in books. I would explore alpine trails and swim in the Mediterranean. And if this led me to encounter handsome locals, all the better! Surely, there’d be no more effective remedy to my exhaustion (and inactive period) than heading off on an adventure to a country that has a reputation for romance.

These dreamy visions drew only a subdued response from my companions. They say you don’t qualify as a local until you’ve spent ten years, and nearing the mark, my tired acquaintances had already been fleeing for better lifestyles in other destinations. They did hope for me a speedy recovery from Manhattan courtship with charming locals; they’d all been with a few, and the common view was that “Gallics” in New York were “weirder” than those in their homeland but “attractive” compared with many other options. I avoided that topic of the conversation with my parents. Frequently concerned about my intense workload and frequent illnesses, they welcomed my resolution to emphasize my mental and physical health. And that was what most excited me: I was pleased that I could manage to take care of myself. To restore happiness and understand where my life was going, career-wise and individually, was the plan.

That first night with Thomas went so as intended that I thought I blew it – that he’d never want to reconnect. But before our garments were removed, we’d spread out a guide and talked about hiking, and he’d promised to take me on a hike. The next day, used to being disappointed by unreliable locals, I messaged Thomas. Was he actually intending to show me his preferred path?

“Absolutely, no concerns,” he texted back within moments.

My date was far more affectionate than I’d imagined. He took my hand, complimented my every outfit, cooked dinner for me.

He was reliable. A few nights later, we drove to a starting point in the mountain range. After ascending the snowy trail in the night, the town lay glistening beneath our feet. I attempted to match the romance of the situation, but I couldn’t converse fluently, let alone