At 31, Burned Out and Single: Might a String of Dates with French Men Revive My Joy of Living?

“Tu es où?” I messaged, peeking out the veranda to spot his arrival. I checked my lipstick in the mirror over the mantelpiece. Then worried whether my elementary French was off-putting.

“On my way,” he replied. And before I could question about having a unknown gentleman to my apartment for a initial meeting in a overseas location, Thomas arrived. Soon after we gave la bise and he took off his cold-weather clothing, I noticed he was even more good-looking than his dating profile pictures, with tousled blonde locks and a hint of toned stomach. While pouring wine as insouciantly as I could, in my mind I was exclaiming: “The plan is working!”

I had hatched it in late 2018, burned out from nearly a decade of residing in NYC. I’d been working full-time as an publishing professional and writing my novel at night and on weekends for a few years. I pressured myself so hard that my agenda was planned in my journal in 10-minute increments. On Friday evenings, I came home and carried an Ikea bag of soiled garments to the coin laundromat. After returning it up the five flights of stairs, I’d yet again access the manuscript file that I knew, probably, may never get released. Meanwhile, my colleagues were advancing their careers, entering matrimony and acquiring upscale homes with basic appliances. Being 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 corporate sectors, they were highly superior.

I was also effectively celibate: not only because of workload, but because my past boyfriend and I kept meeting up once a week for food and streaming. My ex was the first guy who spoke with me the initial evening I ventured out after arriving in the city, when I was twenty-two. Although we separated down the line, he drifted back into my life one friendly dinner at a time until we always found ourselves on the opposite ends of his sofa, reacting in sync at series. As comforting as that tradition 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 diminished my assurance further. Romance had changed since I was last in the scene, in the dinosaur era when people actually talked to one another in pubs. New York men – 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 top-tier. There was little initiative, let alone courtship and romance. I wasn’t the only one feeling disrespected, because my friends and I compared experiences, and it was as if all the singles in the city were in a race to see who could be more indifferent. A shift was necessary, drastically.

One day, I was organising my library when an former study guide made me pause. The front of a classic art volume shows a detailed view of a ancient artwork in precious metals. It brought back my time passed in the library, examining the colour plates of religious artifacts and discussing the historic textiles in the Parisian museum; when a tome presuming to explain “creative evolution” and its progress through civilization felt meaningful and worthwhile. All those serious discussions and dreams my companions and I had about art and life. My I was moved.

I resolved at that moment that I would quit my job, relocate from NYC, store my belongings at my parents’ house in the Pacific Northwest, and reside in France for three months. Of course, a veritable fleet of writers have relocated from the US to the French nation over the years – famous authors, not to mention countless minor bards; perhaps emulating their path could help me become a “established novelist”. I’d stay one month each in multiple urban centers (Grenoble for the mountains, a coastal spot, and the capital city), brush up on French and view the masterpieces that I’d only studied in photographs. I would hike in the Alps and swim in the Mediterranean. And if this put me in the path beautiful French men, why not! Surely, there’d be no better cure to my exhaustion (and romantic drought) than heading off on an adventure to a land that has a reputation for romance.

These dreamy visions drew only a mild reaction from my friends. They say you don’t qualify as a local until you’ve spent ten years, and close to that point, my exhausted cohort had already been fleeing for enhanced living conditions in other destinations. They did desire for me a speedy recovery from NYC dating with sexy French men; they’d all been with a few, and the consensus was that “Frenchies” in New York were “weirder” than those in their homeland but “appealing” compared with many other options. I left such discussions out of the phone call with my relatives. Frequently concerned about my intense workload and recurring health issues, they approved my choice to focus on my overall wellness. And that was what motivated me: I was pleased that I could manage to prioritize self-care. To regain zest for life and determine where my life was headed, career-wise and individually, was the plan.

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 garments were removed, we’d spread out a chart and discussed the trails, and he’d vowed to take me on a walk. The next day, familiar with frustration by inconsistent daters, I contacted Thomas. Was he actually intending to show me his favourite trail?

“Absolutely, no concerns,” he replied within moments.

Thomas was considerably sweeter than I’d anticipated. He held my hand, complimented my every outfit, cooked dinner for me.

He was reliable. A few nights later, we drove to a path entrance in the alpine region. After climbing up the white path in the evening, the urban center lay glistening beneath our feet. I made an effort to embody the passion of the moment, but I couldn’t converse fluently, let alone