Being 31, Exhausted and Single: Would a String of Encounters with French Gentlemen Revive My Joie de Vivre?

“Tu es où?” I messaged, looking out the balcony to see if he was near. I inspected my makeup in the reflection over the mantelpiece. Then worried whether my kindergarten-level French was unappealing.

“I’m coming,” he replied. And before I could wonder about having a new acquaintance to my apartment for a initial meeting in a overseas location, Thomas arrived. Soon after we gave la bise and he removed his winter attire, I realised he was even more handsome than his online images, with disheveled fair hair and a glimpse of chiseled core. While pouring wine as insouciantly as I could, inside my head I was screaming: “My strategy is succeeding!”

I conceived it in fall of 2018, burned out from nearly a decade of living in New York. I worked 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 planned in my planner in brief intervals. On weekend nights, I returned home and carried an cloth tote of soiled garments to the public washroom. After returning it up the five flights of stairs, I’d yet again access the manuscript file that I knew, probably, may never get released. Meanwhile, my peers were climbing the corporate ladder, entering matrimony and purchasing stylish apartments with basic appliances. 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 effectively celibate: not only because of workload, but because my ex and I kept meeting up once a week for meals and movies. He was the first guy who approached me the debut outing I socialized after moving to New York, when I was in my early twenties. 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 opposite ends of his couch, groaning companionably at Game of Thrones. As comforting as that ritual was, I didn’t want to be intimate companions with my former flame while having a celibate life for the foreseeable future.

The few times I tried out Tinder only crushed my confidence further. Romance had evolved since I was last in the social circuit, in the old-fashioned times when people actually talked to one another in nightspots. NYC bachelors – or at least the ones I dated – seemed to think that, if they were above average height and in corporate fields, they were elite. There was no attempt, let alone courtship and romance. I wasn’t the only one feeling insulted, because my companions and I shared detailed notes, and it was as if all the eligible people in the city were in a race to see who could care less. Things had to evolve, significantly.

One day, I was arranging my shelves when an former study guide caught my attention. The front of an academic text features a close-up of a ancient artwork in gold and lapis lazuli. It revived my time passed in the library, studying the colour plates of sacred objects and analyzing the Lady and the Unicorn tapestries in the French gallery; when a publication aiming to outline “the beginning of art” and its evolution through civilization felt significant and valuable. All those serious discussions and hopes my peers and I had about art and life. My I felt emotional.

I made up my mind that I would resign from work, depart the city, store my belongings at my childhood residence in a West Coast city, and stay in France for several weeks. Of course, a impressive list of authors have relocated from the US to the French nation over the generations – Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Henry James, Baldwin, Steinbeck, not to mention numerous artists; perhaps emulating their path could help me become a “professional author”. I’d stay 30 days per location in three different cities (a mountain retreat, Nice for the sea, and a cultural hub), improve my language skills and see all the art that I’d only researched from afar. I would hike in the Alps and bathe in the sea. And if this put me in the path attractive gentlemen, all the better! Surely, there’d be no better cure to my exhaustion (and romantic drought) than embarking on a journey to a country that has a patent on kissing.

These dreamy visions drew only a mild reaction from my friends. They say you haven’t truly lived in NYC until you’ve spent ten years, and approaching that milestone, my exhausted cohort had already been fleeing for better lifestyles in other destinations. They did wish me a fast rejuvenation from Manhattan courtship with charming locals; they’d all been with a few, and the common view was that “Gallics” in New York were “odder” than those in their native country but “hot” compared with other choices. I left such discussions out of the conversation with my family. Frequently concerned about my intense workload and regular sickness, they welcomed my decision to focus on my mental and physical health. And that was what thrilled me: I was proud that I could afford to take care of myself. To restore joie de vivre and determine where my life was progressing, career-wise and individually, was the goal.

The initial evening with Thomas went so according to plan that I thought I messed up – 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 vowed to take me on a walk. The next day, accustomed to letdowns by inconsistent daters, I wrote to Thomas. Was he truly planning to show me his beloved route?

“Absolutely, no concerns,” he responded within moments.

Thomas 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 few nights later, we went to a starting point in the alpine region. After climbing up the frosty route in the night, the town lay glowing beneath our feet. I attempted to embody the passion of the moment, but I couldn’t chat easily, let alone