Being 31, Burned Out and Solo: Might a Sequence of Meetings with Men from France Bring Back My Joy of Living?

“Tu es où?” I typed, peeking out the terrace to see if he was near. I inspected my makeup in the reflection over the hearth. Then fretted whether my kindergarten-level French was unappealing.

“I’m coming,” he responded. And before I could doubt about having a unknown gentleman to my place for a first date in a foreign country, Thomas arrived. Soon after we exchanged la bise and he removed his cold-weather clothing, I discovered he was even more good-looking than his online images, with messy blond hair and a sight of ultra-defined abs. While getting wine as carefreely as I could, in my mind I was exclaiming: “My strategy is succeeding!”

I conceived it in autumn 2018, burned out from nearly a decade of residing in NYC. I’d been working full-time as an editor and working on my book at night and on weekends for several years. I drove myself so hard that my agenda was planned in my journal in tiny time slots. On weekend nights, I went back and carried an Ikea bag of unwashed items to the public washroom. After returning it up the five flights of stairs, I’d yet again open the manuscript file that I knew, statistically, may never get released. Meanwhile, my contemporaries were climbing the corporate ladder, tying the knot and purchasing stylish apartments with modern conveniences. Turning 31, I felt I had few accomplishments.

NYC gentlemen – or at least the ones I dated – seemed to think that, if they were more than 6ft tall and in banking or legal, they were highly superior.

I was also largely single: not only because of workload, but because my former partner and I kept meeting up once a week for dinner and Netflix. My ex was the first guy who approached me the first night I went out after moving to New York, when I was twenty-two. Although we broke up after several years, he re-infiltrated my life an amicable meeting at a time until we always found ourselves on the opposite ends of his settee, reacting in sync at Game of Thrones. As comforting as that routine was, I didn’t want to be close pals with my ex while having no sex for the years to come.

The rare moments I tried out Tinder only crushed my confidence further. Courtship had shifted 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 more than 6ft tall and in corporate fields, they were top-tier. There was zero effort, let alone courtship and romance. I wasn’t the only one feeling insulted, because my companions and I exchanged stories, and it was as if all the unattached individuals in the city were in a race to see who could show less interest. Things had to evolve, significantly.

One day, I was arranging my shelves when an former study guide made me pause. The jacket of a classic art volume shows a close-up of a historical illustration in gold and lapis lazuli. It revived my time passed in the study hall, studying the visual reproductions of religious artifacts and writing about the famous artworks in the Parisian museum; when a publication presuming to explain “creative evolution” and its development through our past felt important and rewarding. All those serious discussions and aspirations my companions and I had about art and life. My I was moved.

I decided then that I would leave my position, move out of New York, place my items at my parents’ house in the Pacific Northwest, and live in France for three months. Of course, a impressive list of authors have relocated from the US to France over the decades – renowned writers, not to mention numerous artists; perhaps following in their footsteps could help me become a “professional author”. I’d stay a month apiece in three different cities (a mountain retreat, a coastal spot, and a cultural hub), improve my language skills and experience the artworks that I’d only researched from afar. I would trek in the mountains and enjoy the ocean. And if this placed me in the way beautiful French men, so be it! Surely, there’d be no better cure to my exhaustion (and dry spell) than embarking on a journey to a land that has a affinity for affection.

These fantastical ideas drew only a subdued response from my social circle. They say you aren’t a New Yorker until you’ve spent ten years, and nearing the mark, my tired acquaintances had already been moving away for better lifestyles in other destinations. They did hope for me a quick improvement from NYC dating with charming locals; they’d all been with a few, and the general opinion was that “Gallics” in New York were “more unusual” than those in their homeland but “attractive” compared with many other options. I omitted these talks of the phone call with my relatives. Often anxious about my demanding schedule and frequent illnesses, they welcomed my choice to prioritise my well-being. And that was what motivated me: I was proud that I could arrange to prioritize self-care. To restore joie de vivre and determine where my life was headed, career-wise and individually, was the plan.

The initial evening with Thomas went so as expected that I thought I ruined it – that he’d never want to see me again. But before our garments were removed, we’d spread out a chart and discussed the trails, and he’d promised to take me on a walk. The next day, accustomed to letdowns by fickle American men, I wrote to Thomas. Was he truly planning to show me his beloved route?

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

My date was much more romantic than I’d imagined. He held my hand, praised my clothing, made food.

He was reliable. A couple of evenings after, we traveled to a starting point in the Chartreuse mountains. After ascending the snowy trail in the night, the town lay shimmering beneath our feet. I attempted to embody the romance of the situation, but I couldn’t chat easily, let alone