Turning 31, Drained and Single: Would a String of Dates with Men from France Revive My Zest for Life?

“Tu es où?” I typed, glancing out the terrace to check if he was close. I inspected my lipstick in the mirror over the fireplace. Then agonized whether my basic French was off-putting.

“Be there soon,” he texted. And before I could question about inviting a new acquaintance to my place for a first date in a overseas location, Thomas arrived. Soon after we shared la bise and he shed his layers of winter gear, I noticed he was even more handsome than his online images, with messy blond hair and a hint of ultra-defined abs. While fetching wine as insouciantly as I could, in my mind I was shouting: “It’s going as planned!”

I had hatched it in late 2018, exhausted from close to ten years of calling New York home. I’d been working full-time as an content editor and working on my book at night and on weekends for three years. I pressured myself so hard that my calendar was written in my diary in 10-minute increments. On Friday evenings, I returned home and dragged an laundry sack of unwashed items to the coin laundromat. After returning it up the five flights of stairs, I’d yet again view the manuscript file that I knew, statistically, may never get printed. Meanwhile, my colleagues were climbing the corporate ladder, tying the knot and acquiring upscale homes with basic appliances. Being 31, I felt I had few accomplishments.

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 of the world.

I was also effectively celibate: not only because of busyness, but because my past boyfriend and I kept meeting up once a week for meals and movies. My ex was the first guy who approached me the first night I socialized after relocating to NYC, when I was twenty-two. Although we broke up down the line, he drifted back into my life an amicable meeting at a time until we always found ourselves on the far sides of his couch, groaning companionably at series. As reassuring as that routine was, I didn’t want to be close pals with my ex while having a celibate life for the years to come.

The few times I tried out Tinder only diminished my assurance further. Dating had evolved since I was last in the dating world, in the dinosaur era when people actually talked to one another in bars. New York men – 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. There was little initiative, let alone courtship and romance. I wasn’t the only one feeling insulted, because my friends and I exchanged stories, and it was as if all the singles in the city were in a contest to see who could be more indifferent. Something needed to change, significantly.

One day, I was arranging my library when an old art history textbook made me pause. The cover of a classic art volume shows a closeup of a ancient artwork in gold and lapis lazuli. It revived my hours invested in the library, studying the illustrated pages of sacred objects and writing about the historic textiles in the Parisian museum; when a publication aiming to outline “creative evolution” and its development through our past felt important and rewarding. All those deep conversations and aspirations my companions and I had about beauty and truth. My I felt emotional.

I resolved at that moment that I would quit my job, relocate from NYC, store my belongings at my parents’ house in Portland, Oregon, and stay in France for a quarter. Of course, a impressive list of literary figures have relocated from the US to Europe over the decades – Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Henry James, Baldwin, Steinbeck, not to mention countless minor bards; perhaps taking their lead could help me become a “real writer”. I’d stay one month each in various towns (an alpine destination, Nice for the sea, and the capital city), brush up on French and view the masterpieces that I’d only seen in books. I would hike in the Alps and bathe in the sea. And if this put me in the path beautiful French men, so be it! Surely, there’d be no more effective remedy to my exhaustion (and dry spell) than embarking on a journey to a nation that has a patent on kissing.

These idealistic plans drew only a mild reaction from my social circle. They say you don’t qualify as a local until you’ve resided a decade, and nearing the mark, my weary peers had already been fleeing for better lifestyles in various places. They did desire for me a fast rejuvenation from New York romance with sexy French men; they’d all been with a few, and the common view was that “Gallics” in New York were “more unusual” than those in their France but “appealing” compared with other choices. I omitted these talks of the discussion with my relatives. Often anxious about my 80-hour weeks and frequent illnesses, they welcomed my decision to emphasize my mental and physical health. And that was what most excited me: I was pleased that I could afford to prioritize self-care. To restore happiness and determine where my life was progressing, in work and life, was the objective.

The initial evening with Thomas went so as intended 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 promised to take me on a walk. The next day, used to being disappointed by unreliable locals, I contacted Thomas. Was he really going to show me his favourite trail?

“Absolutely, no concerns,” he texted back within moments.

Thomas was much more romantic than I’d expected. He took my hand, admired my style, made food.

He was true to his promise. A few nights later, we went to a trailhead in the mountain range. After ascending the white path in the evening, the urban center lay glistening beneath our feet. I attempted to match the passion of the situation, but I couldn’t chat easily, let alone