Turning 31, Drained and Unattached: Could a Sequence of Dates with French Men Bring Back My Joy of Living?

“Tu es où?” I messaged, glancing out the terrace to check if he was close. I checked my makeup in the mirror over the mantelpiece. Then agonized whether my elementary French was a turn-off.

“On my way,” he texted. And before I could question about having a new acquaintance to my apartment for a initial meeting in a overseas location, Thomas knocked. Soon after we gave la bise and he took off his cold-weather clothing, I discovered he was even more handsome than his dating profile pictures, with disheveled fair hair and a sight of chiseled core. While fetching wine as nonchalantly as I could, mentally I was exclaiming: “The plan is working!”

I devised it in late 2018, exhausted from almost ten years of calling New York home. I’d been working full-time as an content editor and working on my book at night and on weekends for several years. I pressured myself so hard that my schedule was planned in my diary in brief intervals. On end-of-week nights, I went back and dragged an Ikea bag of dirty clothes to the coin laundromat. After returning it up the multiple staircases, I’d yet again open the writing project that I knew, probably, may never get released. Meanwhile, my colleagues were climbing the corporate ladder, getting married and acquiring upscale homes with modern conveniences. At 31, I felt I had little to display.

New York men – or at least the ones I dated – seemed to think that, if they were above average height and in corporate sectors, they were masters of the universe.

I was also effectively celibate: not only because of workload, but because my former partner and I kept seeing each other once a week for food and streaming. He was the initial man who talked to me the first night I ventured out after relocating to NYC, when I was 22. Although we separated six years later, he drifted back into my life one friendly dinner at a time until we always found ourselves on the opposite ends of his couch, 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 a celibate life for the foreseeable future.

The rare moments I experimented with Tinder only shattered my self-esteem further. Romance had changed since I was last in the scene, in the dinosaur era when people actually communicated in bars. New York men – or at least the ones I dated – seemed to think that, if they were above average height and in corporate fields, they were masters of the universe. There was little initiative, let alone pursuit and passion. I wasn’t the only one feeling insulted, because my companions and I exchanged stories, and it was as if all the singles in the city were in a competition to see who could show less interest. Things had to evolve, significantly.

One day, I was tidying my library when an former study guide made me pause. The front of Gardner’s Art Through the Ages shows a detailed view of a medieval illumination in precious metals. It recalled my days spent in the study hall, studying the illustrated pages of reliquaries and writing about the famous artworks in the French gallery; when a tome presuming to explain “creative evolution” and its evolution through human history felt important and rewarding. All those thoughtful debates and dreams my peers and I had about beauty and truth. My heart ached.

I resolved at that moment that I would resign from work, depart the city, store my belongings at my parents’ house in a West Coast city, and reside in France for three months. Of course, a veritable fleet of literary figures have absconded from the America to France over the years – renowned writers, not to mention countless minor bards; perhaps emulating their path could help me become a “real writer”. I’d stay a month apiece in three different cities (Grenoble for the mountains, Nice for the sea, and Paris for Paris), relearn French and view the masterpieces that I’d only seen in books. I would hike in the Alps and swim in the Mediterranean. And if this put me in the path attractive gentlemen, so be it! Surely, there’d be no better cure to my burnout (and dry spell) than setting out on a quest to a country that has a patent on kissing.

These fantastical ideas drew only a mild reaction from my social circle. They say you haven’t truly lived in NYC until you’ve lived there for 10 years, and close to that point, my tired acquaintances had already been moving away for better lifestyles in Budapest, Amsterdam, California. They did wish me a quick improvement from Manhattan courtship with attractive Europeans; they’d all been with a few, and the common view was that “French men” in New York were “more unusual” than those in their native country but “appealing” compared with alternatives. I omitted these talks of the discussion with my relatives. Frequently concerned about my demanding schedule and regular sickness, they welcomed my resolution to focus on my well-being. And that was what most excited me: I was pleased that I could afford to prioritize self-care. To reclaim joie de vivre and determine where my life was progressing, professionally and personally, was the plan.

The debut encounter with Thomas went so as expected that I thought I ruined it – that he’d never want to see me again. But before our attire was shed, we’d spread out a chart and explored routes, and he’d committed to take me on a hike. The next day, accustomed to letdowns by unreliable locals, I contacted Thomas. Was he actually intending to show me his preferred path?

“Yes, don’t worry,” he texted back within moments.

Thomas was much more romantic than I’d anticipated. He took my hand, praised my clothing, made food.

He was as good as his word. A shortly thereafter, we went to a starting point in the mountain range. After ascending the white path in the dark, the city of Grenoble lay glowing beneath our feet. I tried my best to live up to the passion of the scene, but I couldn’t chat easily, let alone