At 31, Exhausted and Unattached: Could a Sequence of Meetings with French Gentlemen Bring Back My Zest for Life?
“Tu es où?” I typed, peeking out the balcony to check if he was close. I examined my makeup in the mirror over the hearth. Then fretted whether my kindergarten-level French was a turn-off.
“I’m coming,” he texted. And before I could wonder about inviting a strange man to my home for a initial meeting in a foreign country, Thomas knocked. Soon after we exchanged la bise and he shed his layers of winter gear, I discovered he was even more good-looking than his Tinder photos, with disheveled fair hair and a glimpse of ultra-defined abs. While getting wine as nonchalantly as I could, inside my head I was exclaiming: “My strategy is succeeding!”
I conceived it in fall of 2018, burned out from almost ten years of residing in NYC. I was employed full-time as an publishing professional and crafting my manuscript at night and on weekends for several years. I drove myself so hard that my schedule was noted in my diary in tiny time slots. On weekend nights, I came home and carried an Ikea bag of dirty clothes to the coin laundromat. After returning it up the several floors, I’d yet again access the writing project that I knew, realistically, may never get printed. Meanwhile, my peers were moving up the ladder, entering matrimony and acquiring upscale homes with modern conveniences. Turning 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 corporate sectors, they were masters of the universe.
I was also effectively celibate: not only because of hectic schedule, but because my ex and I kept meeting up once a week for food and streaming. My ex was the earliest gentleman who talked to me the initial evening I went out after relocating to NYC, when I was in my early twenties. Although we broke up after several years, he re-entered my life an amicable meeting at a time until we always found ourselves on the far sides of his couch, groaning companionably at Game of Thrones. As comforting as that tradition was, I didn’t want to be intimate companions with my ex while having a celibate 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 conversed 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 masters of the universe. There was zero effort, let alone chivalry and affection. I wasn’t the only one feeling insulted, because my companions and I shared detailed notes, and it was as if all the unattached individuals in the city were in a contest to see who could show less interest. Something needed to change, radically.
One day, I was organising my shelves when an old art history textbook stopped me in my tracks. The jacket of a classic art volume displays a detailed view of a ancient artwork in precious metals. It recalled my days spent in the library, examining the colour plates of reliquaries and discussing the historic textiles in the French gallery; when a publication aiming to outline “creative evolution” and its development through our past felt meaningful and worthwhile. All those deep conversations and aspirations my peers and I had about art and life. My I felt emotional.
I made up my mind that I would resign from work, relocate from NYC, park all my stuff at my childhood residence in the Pacific Northwest, and live in France for three months. Of course, a impressive list of authors have departed from the United States to Europe over the generations – famous authors, 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 (an alpine destination, a coastal spot, and Paris for Paris), relearn French and view the masterpieces that I’d only seen in books. I would hike in the Alps and enjoy the ocean. And if this put me in the path attractive gentlemen, why not! Surely, there’d be no more effective remedy to my burnout (and dry spell) than embarking on a journey to a country that has a reputation for romance.
These fantastical ideas drew only a subdued response 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 departing for enhanced living conditions in various places. They did hope for me a quick improvement from NYC dating with charming locals; they’d all experienced some, and the general opinion was that “Gallics” in New York were “odder” than those in their homeland but “appealing” compared with alternatives. I left such discussions out of the discussion with my relatives. Often anxious about my 80-hour weeks and regular sickness, they welcomed my resolution to prioritise my well-being. And that was what motivated me: I was pleased that I could afford to take care of myself. To restore zest for life and determine where my life was headed, professionally and personally, was the objective.
The debut encounter with Thomas went so according to plan that I thought I blew it – that he’d never want to meet again. But before our clothes came off, we’d spread out a chart and explored routes, and he’d committed to take me on a hike. The next day, used to being disappointed by inconsistent daters, I messaged Thomas. Was he actually intending to show me his beloved route?
“Absolutely, no concerns,” he replied within seconds.
My date was considerably sweeter than I’d anticipated. He held my hand, praised my clothing, cooked dinner for me.
He was reliable. A shortly thereafter, we drove to a trailhead in the alpine region. After hiking the white path in the evening, the town lay shimmering beneath our feet. I made an effort to embody the romance of the scene, but I couldn’t chat easily, let alone
