At 31, Drained and Unattached: Would a String of Meetings with French Gentlemen Revive My Zest for Life?

“Tu es où?” I messaged, peeking out the terrace to spot his arrival. I examined my lipstick in the reflection over the mantelpiece. Then worried whether my basic French was a turn-off.

“I’m coming,” he responded. And before I could doubt about having a new acquaintance to my apartment for a introductory encounter in a different nation, Thomas arrived. Soon after we gave la bise and he removed his cold-weather clothing, I noticed he was even more attractive than his online images, with disheveled fair hair and a sight of chiseled core. While getting wine as insouciantly as I could, in my mind I was screaming: “My strategy is succeeding!”

I conceived it in late 2018, worn out from close to ten years of calling New York home. I was employed full-time as an editor and writing my novel at night and on weekends for three years. I drove myself so hard that my agenda was noted in my journal in 10-minute increments. On end-of-week nights, I returned home and lugged an cloth tote of unwashed items to the self-service laundry. After carrying it up the multiple staircases, I’d yet again view the book document that I knew, statistically, may never get printed. Meanwhile, my peers were climbing the corporate ladder, getting married and acquiring upscale homes with standard fixtures. Turning 31, I felt I had few accomplishments.

Men in New York – or at least the ones I dated – seemed to think that, if they were above average height and in finance or law, they were highly superior.

I was also effectively celibate: not only because of workload, but because my ex and I kept getting together once a week for dinner and Netflix. He was the initial man who talked to me the first night I ventured out after arriving in the city, when I was 22. Although we separated after several years, he drifted back into my life a casual meal at a time until we always found ourselves on the opposite ends of his sofa, laughing together at Game of Thrones. As reassuring as that ritual was, I didn’t want to be best friends with my old partner while having an inactive love life for the foreseeable future.

The occasional instances I experimented 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 conversed in bars. Manhattan gentlemen – or at least the ones I dated – seemed to think that, if they were above average height and in banking or legal, they were top-tier. There was no attempt, let alone pursuit and passion. I wasn’t the only one feeling offended, because my acquaintances and I compared experiences, and it was as if all the singles in the city were in a contest to see who could care less. Something needed to change, radically.

One day, I was arranging my bookshelves when an vintage art book made me pause. The front of Gardner’s Art Through the Ages shows a close-up of a historical illustration in precious metals. It recalled my time passed in the library, examining the colour plates of reliquaries and analyzing the Lady and the Unicorn tapestries in the Musée de Cluny; when a publication aiming to outline “the beginning of art” and its progress through civilization felt meaningful and worthwhile. All those deep conversations and hopes my friends and I had about aesthetics and reality. My I was moved.

I decided then that I would quit my job, relocate from NYC, store my belongings at my family home in a West Coast city, and stay in France for a quarter. Of course, a impressive list of authors have absconded from the United States to France over the decades – renowned writers, not to mention many other creatives; perhaps following in their footsteps could help me become a “established novelist”. I’d stay one month each in various towns (an alpine destination, a Mediterranean locale, and Paris for Paris), brush up on French and experience the artworks that I’d only researched from afar. I would hike in the Alps and enjoy the ocean. 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 setting out on a quest to a nation that has a affinity for affection.

These idealistic plans drew only a moderate feedback from my social circle. They say you don’t qualify as a local until you’ve spent ten years, and close to that point, my weary peers had already been moving away for improved quality of life in Budapest, Amsterdam, California. They did desire for me a speedy recovery from New York romance with sexy French men; they’d all been with a few, and the general opinion was that “Frenchies” in New York were “more unusual” than those in their France but “attractive” compared with many other options. I avoided that topic of the phone call with my relatives. Long worried about my intense workload and regular sickness, they welcomed my resolution to emphasize my well-being. And that was what most excited me: I was satisfied that I could arrange to look after myself. To reclaim happiness and figure out where my life was progressing, in work and life, was the objective.

The debut encounter with Thomas went so as intended that I thought I blew it – that he’d never want to reconnect. But before our garments were removed, we’d spread out a guide and explored routes, and he’d committed to take me on a trek. The next day, accustomed to letdowns by inconsistent daters, I wrote to Thomas. Was he truly planning to show me his favourite trail?

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

Thomas was far more affectionate than I’d expected. He grasped my fingers, admired my style, made food.

He was as good as his word. A shortly thereafter, we drove to a trailhead in the Chartreuse mountains. After hiking the white path in the dark, the urban center lay glowing beneath our feet. I tried my best to live up to the passion of the situation, but I couldn’t converse fluently, let alone