Being 31, Exhausted and Solo: Could a Series of Dates with French Gentlemen Revive My Joy of Living?

“Tu es où?” I texted, looking out the veranda to spot his arrival. I inspected my lipstick in the glass over the hearth. Then agonized whether my elementary French was a turn-off.

“Be there soon,” he texted. And before I could doubt about inviting a new acquaintance to my home for a introductory encounter in a overseas location, Thomas showed up. Soon after we shared la bise and he shed his winter attire, I discovered he was even more good-looking than his Tinder photos, with disheveled fair hair and a hint of chiseled core. While fetching wine as carefreely as I could, in my mind I was shouting: “The plan is working!”

I conceived it in fall of 2018, worn out from close to ten years of residing in NYC. I worked full-time as an editor and crafting my manuscript at night and on weekends for several years. I pressured myself so hard that my agenda was planned in my journal in brief intervals. On weekend nights, I went back and lugged an laundry sack of dirty clothes to the self-service laundry. After bringing it back up the five flights of stairs, I’d yet again view the book document that I knew, realistically, may never get released. Meanwhile, my colleagues were climbing the corporate ladder, tying the knot and purchasing stylish apartments with standard fixtures. 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 corporate sectors, they were masters of the universe.

I was also effectively celibate: not only because of hectic schedule, but because my former partner and I kept meeting up once a week for food and streaming. My ex was the earliest gentleman who spoke with me the first night I socialized after moving to New York, when I was twenty-two. Although we broke up after several years, he re-entered my life a casual meal at a time until we always found ourselves on the far sides of his sofa, reacting in sync at TV shows. As comforting as that tradition was, I didn’t want to be best friends with my former flame while having a celibate life for the rest of my life.

The few times I tried out Tinder only diminished my assurance further. Dating had shifted since I was last in the scene, in the bygone days when people actually talked to one another in nightspots. Manhattan gentlemen – or at least the ones I dated – seemed to think that, if they were over six feet and in finance or law, they were top-tier. There was no attempt, let alone chivalry and affection. I wasn’t the only one feeling disrespected, because my friends and I shared detailed notes, and it was as if all the singles in the city were in a race to see who could show less interest. Things had to evolve, radically.

One day, I was organising my shelves when an old art history textbook made me pause. The front of a classic art volume displays a close-up of a medieval illumination in precious metals. It revived my time passed in the study hall, poring over the illustrated pages of sacred objects and writing about the historic textiles in the Musée de Cluny; when a publication presuming to explain “creative evolution” and its evolution through civilization felt important and rewarding. All those deep conversations and dreams my companions and I had about art and life. My I was moved.

I decided then that I would resign from work, move out of New York, park all my stuff at my family home in Portland, Oregon, and stay in France for several weeks. Of course, a notable group of writers have absconded from the America to the French nation over the years – Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Henry James, Baldwin, Steinbeck, not to mention numerous artists; perhaps taking their lead could help me become a “professional author”. I’d stay a month apiece in multiple urban centers (an alpine destination, Nice for the sea, and a cultural hub), improve my language skills and experience the artworks that I’d only seen in books. I would trek in the mountains and bathe in the sea. And if this led me to encounter beautiful French men, so be it! Surely, there’d be no more effective remedy to my burnout (and dry spell) than heading off on an adventure to a nation that has a reputation for romance.

These fantastical ideas drew only a mild reaction from my social circle. They say you haven’t truly lived in NYC until you’ve spent ten years, and close to that point, my weary peers had already been moving away for enhanced living conditions in other destinations. They did desire for me a fast rejuvenation from New York romance with charming locals; they’d all experienced some, and the general opinion was that “Gallics” in New York were “more unusual” than those in their France but “hot” compared with alternatives. I omitted these talks of the conversation with my relatives. Often anxious about my demanding schedule and regular sickness, they welcomed my decision to prioritise my well-being. And that was what motivated me: I was proud that I could afford to look after myself. To restore joie de vivre and figure out where my life was headed, professionally and personally, was the plan.

The debut encounter with Thomas went so as expected that I thought I messed up – that he’d never want to reconnect. But before our garments were removed, we’d unfolded a map and discussed the trails, and he’d vowed to take me on a walk. The next day, familiar with frustration by fickle American men, I messaged Thomas. Was he actually intending to show me his favourite trail?

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

My date was much more romantic than I’d expected. He grasped my fingers, praised my clothing, cooked dinner for me.

He was as good as his word. A couple of evenings after, we traveled to a path entrance in the alpine region. After ascending the snowy trail in the dark, the town lay glistening beneath our feet. I made an effort to embody the romance of the moment, but I couldn’t chat easily, let alone