At 31, Burned Out and Single: Could a Sequence of Meetings with Men from France Restore My Zest for Life?

“Tu es où?” I texted, looking out the balcony to check if he was close. I inspected my lipstick in the mirror over the fireplace. Then agonized whether my kindergarten-level French was a turn-off.

“On my way,” he replied. And before I could doubt about welcoming a unknown gentleman to my home for a introductory encounter in a foreign country, Thomas showed up. Soon after we gave la bise and he took off his cold-weather clothing, I discovered he was even more good-looking than his online images, with messy blond hair and a glimpse of chiseled core. While pouring wine as insouciantly as I could, mentally I was screaming: “It’s going as planned!”

I devised it in late 2018, burned out from almost ten years of living in New York. I was employed full-time as an content editor and writing my novel at night and on weekends for several years. I pushed myself so hard that my schedule was written in my planner in brief intervals. On weekend nights, I returned home and dragged an cloth tote of soiled garments to the public washroom. After bringing it back up the multiple staircases, I’d yet again view the book document that I knew, realistically, may never get published. Meanwhile, my colleagues were climbing the corporate ladder, tying the knot and purchasing stylish apartments with standard fixtures. At 31, I felt I had little to display.

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

I was also practically abstinent: not only because of busyness, but because my former partner and I kept meeting up once a week for food and streaming. My ex was the initial man who spoke with me the initial evening I ventured out after moving to New York, when I was twenty-two. Although we broke up down the line, he re-entered my life a casual meal at a time until we always found ourselves on the far sides of his settee, groaning companionably at series. As comforting as that routine was, I didn’t want to be intimate companions with my ex while having no sex for the foreseeable future.

The occasional instances I experimented with Tinder only diminished my assurance further. Romance had changed since I was last in the scene, in the bygone days when people actually talked to one another in bars. NYC bachelors – 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 little initiative, let alone courtship and romance. I wasn’t the only one feeling insulted, because my friends and I shared detailed notes, and it was as if all the unattached individuals in the city were in a competition to see who could be more indifferent. A shift was necessary, significantly.

One day, I was arranging my library when an old art history textbook made me pause. The jacket of an academic text shows a closeup of a historical illustration in gold and lapis lazuli. It brought back my time passed in the library, examining the visual reproductions of reliquaries and writing about the Lady and the Unicorn tapestries in the French gallery; when a tome attempting to describe “creative evolution” and its evolution through our past felt significant and valuable. All those deep conversations and dreams my friends and I had about beauty and truth. My heart ached.

I made up my mind that I would leave my position, move out of New York, store my belongings at my family home in Portland, Oregon, and live in France for three months. Of course, a impressive list of authors have absconded from the US to France over the decades – Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Henry James, Baldwin, Steinbeck, not to mention numerous artists; perhaps emulating their path could help me become a “real writer”. I’d stay a month apiece in multiple urban centers (a mountain retreat, a Mediterranean locale, and a cultural hub), 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 put me in the path handsome locals, why not! Surely, there’d be no better cure to my fatigue (and dry spell) than heading off on an adventure to a land that has a patent on kissing.

These fantastical ideas drew only a subdued response from my friends. They say you haven’t truly lived in NYC until you’ve spent ten years, and nearing the mark, my tired acquaintances had already been moving away for improved quality of life in other destinations. They did hope for me a fast rejuvenation from New York romance with sexy French men; they’d all dated one or two, and the common view was that “French men” in New York were “more unusual” than those in their homeland but “appealing” compared with many other options. I omitted these talks of the discussion with my relatives. Long worried about my 80-hour weeks and frequent illnesses, they welcomed my choice to prioritise my well-being. And that was what thrilled me: I was satisfied that I could manage to prioritize self-care. To restore zest for life and understand where my life was headed, professionally and personally, was the goal.

The debut encounter with Thomas went so as intended that I thought I ruined it – that he’d never want to see me again. But before our clothes came off, we’d spread out a chart and explored routes, and he’d vowed to take me on a hike. The next day, used to being disappointed by unreliable locals, I messaged Thomas. Was he actually intending to show me his favourite trail?

“Certainly, relax,” he texted back within a short time.

He was considerably sweeter than I’d expected. He took my hand, admired my style, made food.

He was reliable. A shortly thereafter, we went to a starting point in the Chartreuse mountains. After climbing up the frosty route in the night, the urban center lay glistening beneath our feet. I made an effort to embody the passion of the moment, but I couldn’t banter in French, let alone