Being 31, Drained and Unattached: Might a Series of Meetings with Men from France Restore My Zest for Life?

“Tu es où?” I typed, looking out the terrace to check if he was close. I checked my lip color in the mirror over the hearth. Then worried whether my kindergarten-level French was off-putting.

“Be there soon,” he texted. And before I could doubt about welcoming a new acquaintance to my apartment for a introductory encounter in a different nation, Thomas knocked. Soon after we shared la bise and he removed his cold-weather clothing, I discovered he was even more attractive than his Tinder photos, with disheveled fair hair and a hint of toned stomach. While pouring wine as nonchalantly as I could, mentally I was shouting: “The plan is working!”

I conceived it in late 2018, exhausted from nearly a decade of living in New York. I worked full-time as an editor and crafting my manuscript at night and on weekends for three years. I pressured myself so hard that my calendar was noted in my diary in brief intervals. On weekend nights, I came home and carried an laundry sack of soiled garments to the coin laundromat. After returning it up the several floors, I’d yet again view the book document that I knew, realistically, may never get published. Meanwhile, my colleagues were climbing the corporate ladder, tying the knot and purchasing stylish apartments with modern conveniences. Turning 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 more than 6ft tall and in finance or law, they were highly superior.

I was also largely single: not only because of busyness, but because my past boyfriend and I kept seeing each other once a week for food and streaming. David was the first guy who approached me the first night I socialized after moving to New York, when I was 22. Although we broke up down the line, he re-entered my life one friendly dinner at a time until we always found ourselves on the opposite ends of his sofa, laughing together at series. As soothing as that tradition was, I didn’t want to be best friends with my ex while having an inactive love life for the years to come.

The occasional instances 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 nightspots. New York men – 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 zero effort, let alone pursuit and passion. I wasn’t the only one feeling disrespected, because my companions and I compared experiences, and it was as if all the eligible people in the city were in a competition to see who could care less. Things had to evolve, significantly.

One day, I was tidying my shelves when an former study guide caught my attention. The jacket of a classic art volume shows a close-up of a historical illustration in precious metals. It brought back my hours invested in the study hall, examining the illustrated pages of religious artifacts and discussing the historic textiles in the Musée de Cluny; when a tome attempting to describe “creative evolution” and its evolution through civilization felt meaningful and worthwhile. All those deep conversations and dreams my peers and I had about aesthetics and reality. My I felt emotional.

I made up my mind that I would leave my position, move out of New York, store my belongings at my childhood residence in the Pacific Northwest, and live in France for three months. Of course, a notable group of authors have absconded from the US to France over the decades – renowned writers, not to mention countless minor bards; perhaps following in their footsteps could help me become a “real writer”. I’d stay a month apiece in multiple urban centers (Grenoble for the mountains, a Mediterranean locale, and the capital city), improve my language skills 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 dry spell) than setting out on a quest to a nation that has a affinity for affection.

These dreamy visions drew only a subdued response from my companions. They say you aren’t a New Yorker until you’ve resided a decade, and approaching that milestone, my weary peers had already been fleeing for enhanced living conditions in other destinations. They did wish me a quick improvement from New York romance with charming locals; they’d all been with a few, and the consensus was that “Frenchies” in New York were “odder” than those in their France but “attractive” compared with many other options. I left such discussions out of the conversation with my family. Often anxious about my intense workload and regular sickness, they welcomed my resolution to prioritise my mental and physical health. And that was what most excited me: I was satisfied that I could afford to look after myself. To regain joie de vivre and understand where my life was going, career-wise and individually, was the goal.

The debut encounter with Thomas went so according to plan that I thought I messed up – that he’d never want to see me again. But before our garments were removed, we’d laid out a map and explored routes, and he’d committed to take me on a hike. The next day, familiar with frustration by unreliable locals, I contacted Thomas. Was he really going to show me his favourite trail?

“Absolutely, no concerns,” he replied within a short time.

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

He was true to his promise. A couple of evenings after, we went to a starting point in the mountain range. After climbing up the white path in the evening, the city of Grenoble lay glowing beneath our feet. I tried my best to embody the passion of the moment, but I couldn’t banter in French, let alone