Turning 31, Drained and Single: Would a Sequence of Encounters with French Gentlemen Restore My Joie de Vivre?

“Tu es où?” I messaged, glancing out the balcony to check if he was close. I inspected my lip color in the glass over the hearth. Then fretted whether my kindergarten-level French was off-putting.

“On my way,” he responded. And before I could wonder about inviting a new acquaintance to my home for a initial meeting in a overseas location, Thomas knocked. Soon after we shared la bise and he shed his layers of winter gear, I noticed he was even more handsome than his dating profile pictures, with messy blond hair and a hint of toned stomach. While fetching wine as insouciantly as I could, in my mind I was exclaiming: “My strategy is succeeding!”

I conceived it in autumn 2018, worn out 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 drove myself so hard that my agenda was planned in my planner in brief intervals. On weekend nights, I came home and lugged an Ikea bag of dirty clothes to the public washroom. After carrying it up the five flights of stairs, I’d yet again open the writing project that I knew, probably, may never get released. Meanwhile, my contemporaries were moving up the ladder, tying the knot 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 above average height and in corporate sectors, they were highly superior.

I was also largely single: not only because of workload, but because my ex and I kept meeting up once a week for meals and movies. My ex was the earliest gentleman who spoke with me the debut outing I went out after relocating to NYC, when I was twenty-two. Although we separated down the line, he re-infiltrated my life a casual meal at a time until we always found ourselves on the far sides of his sofa, reacting in sync at Game of Thrones. As reassuring as that tradition 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 played around with Tinder only diminished my assurance further. Courtship had shifted since I was last in the social circuit, in the dinosaur era 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 courtship and romance. I wasn’t the only one feeling disrespected, because my companions and I exchanged stories, and it was as if all the eligible people in the city were in a contest to see who could show less interest. Something needed to change, radically.

One day, I was tidying my shelves when an former study guide caught my attention. The jacket of Gardner’s Art Through the Ages displays a close-up of a historical illustration in gold and lapis lazuli. It revived my days spent in the reading room, studying the colour plates of religious artifacts and analyzing the historic textiles in the French gallery; when a book attempting to describe “creative evolution” and its development through civilization felt meaningful and worthwhile. All those thoughtful debates and dreams my companions and I had about beauty and truth. My I was moved.

I resolved at that moment that I would leave my position, relocate from NYC, place my items at my family home in a West Coast city, and reside in France for three months. Of course, a notable group of writers have absconded from the United States to the French nation over the years – renowned writers, not to mention many other creatives; perhaps emulating their path could help me become a “established novelist”. I’d stay 30 days per location in three different cities (Grenoble for the mountains, a Mediterranean locale, and Paris for Paris), improve my language skills and view the masterpieces that I’d only studied in photographs. I would trek in the mountains and swim in the Mediterranean. And if this led me to encounter handsome locals, why not! Surely, there’d be no better cure to my burnout (and inactive period) than heading off on an adventure to a country that has a patent on kissing.

These idealistic plans drew only a subdued response from my friends. They say you haven’t truly lived in NYC until you’ve resided a decade, and nearing the mark, 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 experienced some, and the common view was that “Frenchies” in New York were “weirder” than those in their homeland but “attractive” compared with many other options. I avoided that topic of the phone call with my parents. Often anxious about my intense workload and regular sickness, they approved my resolution to prioritise my overall wellness. And that was what most excited me: I was proud that I could afford to look after myself. To restore joie de vivre and determine where my life was progressing, professionally and personally, was the plan.

That first night with Thomas went so as expected that I thought I ruined it – that he’d never want to reconnect. But before our attire was shed, we’d laid out a map and talked about hiking, and he’d vowed to take me on a hike. The next day, used to being disappointed by inconsistent daters, I wrote to Thomas. Was he actually intending to show me his beloved route?

“Yes, don’t worry,” he replied within seconds.

My date was far more affectionate than I’d imagined. He held my hand, praised my clothing, cooked dinner for me.

He was reliable. A few nights later, we drove to a path entrance in the alpine region. After ascending the white path in the night, the urban center lay shimmering beneath our feet. I tried my best to embody the affection of the situation, but I couldn’t converse fluently, let alone