Being 31, Drained and Single: Might a Sequence of Dates with French Gentlemen Revive My Joie de Vivre?

“Tu es où?” I texted, glancing out the terrace to see if he was near. I checked my makeup in the reflection over the mantelpiece. Then worried whether my elementary French was off-putting.

“I’m coming,” he responded. And before I could question about welcoming a new acquaintance to my apartment for a introductory encounter in a overseas location, Thomas knocked. Soon after we gave la bise and he shed his layers of winter gear, I realised he was even more good-looking than his Tinder photos, with messy blond hair and a sight of toned stomach. While getting wine as nonchalantly as I could, in my mind I was screaming: “My strategy is succeeding!”

I had hatched it in late 2018, worn out from close to ten years of living in New York. I was employed full-time as an content editor and writing my novel at night and on weekends for three years. I pressured myself so hard that my schedule was noted in my journal in tiny time slots. On Friday evenings, I came home and dragged an cloth tote of soiled garments to the public washroom. After bringing it back up the five flights of stairs, I’d yet again access the book document that I knew, probably, may never get released. Meanwhile, my colleagues were climbing the corporate ladder, tying the knot and buying fancy flats with modern conveniences. Being 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 masters of the universe.

I was also largely single: not only because of workload, but because my former partner and I kept seeing each other once a week for meals and movies. My ex was the initial man who approached me the first night I socialized after moving to New York, when I was in my early twenties. Although we ended things down the line, he re-infiltrated my life a casual meal at a time until we always found ourselves on the different corners of his settee, groaning companionably at series. As reassuring as that ritual was, I didn’t want to be best friends with my former flame while having an inactive love life for the rest of my life.

The few times I tried out Tinder only shattered my self-esteem further. Dating had shifted since I was last in the dating world, in the dinosaur era when people actually conversed 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 zero effort, let alone pursuit and passion. I wasn’t the only one feeling insulted, because my acquaintances and I exchanged stories, and it was as if all the eligible people in the city were in a competition to see who could show less interest. A shift was necessary, significantly.

One day, I was organising my bookshelves when an former study guide caught my attention. The cover of Gardner’s Art Through the Ages features a close-up of a ancient artwork in rich colors. It brought back my hours invested in the reading room, examining the colour plates of religious artifacts and writing about the Lady and the Unicorn tapestries in the Musée de Cluny; when a book presuming to explain “the beginning of art” and its development through our past felt significant and valuable. All those serious discussions and hopes my peers and I had about art and life. My I was moved.

I made up my mind that I would resign from work, depart the city, park all my stuff at my family home in Portland, Oregon, and stay in France for three months. Of course, a notable group of literary figures have departed from the United States to the French nation over the years – famous authors, not to mention many other creatives; perhaps emulating their path could help me become a “real writer”. I’d stay a month apiece in various towns (an alpine destination, Nice for the sea, and a cultural hub), relearn French and view the masterpieces that I’d only researched from afar. I would trek in the mountains and bathe in the sea. And if this led me to encounter handsome locals, all the better! Surely, there’d be no more effective remedy to my exhaustion (and inactive period) than embarking on a journey to a country that has a patent on kissing.

These fantastical ideas drew only a subdued response from my companions. They say you aren’t a New Yorker until you’ve resided a decade, and close to that point, my exhausted cohort had already been fleeing for better lifestyles in Budapest, Amsterdam, California. They did desire for me a speedy recovery from Manhattan courtship with sexy French men; they’d all experienced some, and the general opinion was that “Frenchies” in New York were “more unusual” than those in their native country but “appealing” compared with alternatives. I avoided that topic of the discussion with my relatives. Frequently concerned about my intense workload and regular sickness, they supported my resolution to emphasize my overall wellness. And that was what most excited me: I was proud that I could arrange to look after myself. To regain happiness and understand where my life was progressing, career-wise and individually, was the goal.

That first night with Thomas went so as expected that I thought I messed up – that he’d never want to see me again. But before our attire was shed, we’d laid out a chart and talked about hiking, and he’d vowed to take me on a trek. The next day, accustomed to letdowns by fickle American men, I contacted Thomas. Was he really going to show me his beloved route?

“Certainly, relax,” he responded within a short time.

My date was much more romantic than I’d imagined. He grasped my fingers, admired my style, made food.

He was reliable. A shortly thereafter, we went to a path entrance in the mountain range. After hiking the white path in the dark, the urban center lay glowing beneath our feet. I made an effort to match the passion of the moment, but I couldn’t banter in French, let alone