Being 31, Drained and Solo: Would a Series of Encounters with French Men Bring Back My Joie de Vivre?

“Tu es où?” I texted, peeking out the balcony to spot his arrival. I checked my makeup in the mirror over the mantelpiece. Then agonized whether my basic French was unappealing.

“On my way,” he replied. And before I could doubt about having a strange man to my apartment for a first date in a different nation, Thomas arrived. Soon after we shared la bise and he took off his layers of winter gear, I realised he was even more handsome than his Tinder photos, with disheveled fair hair and a glimpse of ultra-defined abs. While pouring wine as carefreely as I could, inside my head I was exclaiming: “The plan is working!”

I had hatched it in autumn 2018, burned out from close to ten years of living in New York. I was employed full-time as an editor and crafting my manuscript at night and on weekends for a few years. I pushed myself so hard that my calendar was noted in my diary in 10-minute increments. On Friday evenings, I went back and lugged an cloth tote of dirty clothes to the public washroom. After bringing it back up the five flights of stairs, I’d yet again access the manuscript file that I knew, statistically, may never get released. Meanwhile, my contemporaries were moving up the ladder, entering matrimony and acquiring upscale homes with standard fixtures. At 31, I felt I had nothing to show for it.

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 practically abstinent: not only because of hectic schedule, but because my ex and I kept meeting up once a week for meals and movies. My ex was the earliest gentleman who talked to me the initial evening I ventured out after relocating to NYC, when I was in my early twenties. Although we broke up six years later, he re-infiltrated my life a casual meal at a time until we always found ourselves on the far sides of his settee, laughing together at Game of Thrones. As reassuring as that ritual was, I didn’t want to be intimate companions with my ex while having a celibate life for the rest of my life.

The rare moments I experimented with Tinder only crushed my confidence further. Dating had evolved since I was last in the dating world, in the old-fashioned times when people actually talked to one another in bars. New York men – or at least the ones I dated – seemed to think that, if they were over six feet and in corporate fields, they were masters of the universe. There was no attempt, let alone pursuit and passion. I wasn’t the only one feeling insulted, because my acquaintances 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, drastically.

One day, I was arranging my bookshelves when an former study guide stopped me in my tracks. The jacket of an academic text displays a close-up of a ancient artwork in precious metals. It revived my hours invested in the reading room, studying the colour plates of reliquaries and analyzing the historic textiles in the Parisian museum; when a book attempting to describe “art’s origins” and its progress through our past felt important and rewarding. All those thoughtful debates and hopes my peers and I had about aesthetics and reality. My heart ached.

I made up my mind that I would resign from work, depart the city, store my belongings at my childhood residence in Portland, Oregon, and reside in France for three months. Of course, a veritable fleet of writers have relocated from the America to France over the years – renowned writers, not to mention many other creatives; perhaps taking their lead could help me become a “professional author”. I’d stay one month each in three different cities (a mountain retreat, a Mediterranean locale, and Paris for Paris), relearn French and see all the art that I’d only studied in photographs. I would trek in the mountains and bathe in the sea. And if this led me to encounter beautiful French men, so be it! Surely, there’d be no superior solution to my exhaustion (and romantic drought) than heading off on an adventure to a country that has a reputation for romance.

These fantastical ideas drew only a moderate feedback from my friends. They say you haven’t truly lived in NYC until you’ve spent ten years, and approaching that milestone, my weary peers had already been fleeing for improved quality of life in Budapest, Amsterdam, California. They did desire for me a quick improvement from New York romance with sexy French men; they’d all experienced some, and the common view was that “Gallics” in New York were “weirder” than those in their native country but “appealing” compared with alternatives. I omitted these talks of the conversation with my parents. Frequently concerned about my intense workload and frequent illnesses, they supported my choice to emphasize my overall wellness. And that was what motivated me: I was pleased that I could arrange to look after myself. To regain joie de vivre and understand where my life was headed, professionally and personally, was the objective.

The initial evening with Thomas went so according to plan that I thought I blew it – that he’d never want to see me again. But before our attire was shed, we’d spread out a map and discussed the trails, and he’d committed to take me on a hike. The next day, accustomed to letdowns by inconsistent daters, I wrote to Thomas. Was he really going to show me his beloved route?

“Certainly, relax,” he texted back within a short time.

Thomas was much more romantic than I’d anticipated. He took my hand, admired my style, prepared a meal.

He was as good as his word. A shortly thereafter, we drove to a path entrance in the alpine region. After hiking the white path in the evening, the town lay shimmering beneath our feet. I made an effort to match the affection of the scene, but I couldn’t chat easily, let alone