Turning 31, Burned Out and Solo: Could a Sequence of Meetings with French Men Bring Back My Joy of Living?
“Tu es où?” I typed, glancing out the veranda to see if he was near. I examined my lip color in the reflection over the hearth. Then worried whether my basic French was off-putting.
“I’m coming,” he replied. And before I could doubt about welcoming a strange man to my place for a introductory encounter in a overseas location, Thomas arrived. Soon after we gave la bise and he removed his layers of winter gear, I noticed he was even more attractive than his online images, with messy blond hair and a hint of ultra-defined abs. While getting wine as insouciantly as I could, inside my head I was exclaiming: “My strategy is succeeding!”
I had hatched it in late 2018, burned out from close to ten years of residing in NYC. I worked full-time as an editor and crafting my manuscript at night and on weekends for several years. I pressured myself so hard that my calendar was written in my journal in tiny time slots. On end-of-week nights, I returned home and dragged an laundry sack of dirty clothes to the self-service laundry. After returning it up the multiple staircases, I’d yet again view the manuscript file that I knew, probably, may never get printed. Meanwhile, my colleagues were moving up the ladder, entering matrimony and purchasing stylish apartments with modern conveniences. Turning 31, I felt I had little to display.
New York men – or at least the ones I dated – seemed to think that, if they were over six feet and in corporate sectors, they were masters of the universe.
I was also practically abstinent: not only because of hectic schedule, but because my ex and I kept getting together once a week for dinner and Netflix. He was the earliest gentleman who spoke with me the first night I went out after relocating to NYC, when I was in my early twenties. Although we broke up six years later, he re-infiltrated my life an amicable meeting at a time until we always found ourselves on the different corners of his settee, laughing together at series. As soothing as that ritual was, I didn’t want to be intimate companions with my old partner while having a celibate life for the rest of my life.
The few times I tried out Tinder only crushed my confidence further. Courtship had changed since I was last in the dating world, in the bygone days when people actually talked to one another in nightspots. 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 elite. There was zero effort, let alone chivalry and affection. I wasn’t the only one feeling disrespected, because my acquaintances 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. Things had to evolve, drastically.
One day, I was organising my library when an former study guide made me pause. The front of a classic art volume features a close-up of a historical illustration in rich colors. It brought back my hours invested in the study hall, examining the colour plates of religious artifacts and analyzing the historic textiles in the Parisian museum; when a publication attempting to describe “the beginning of art” and its progress through civilization felt significant and valuable. All those serious discussions and aspirations my companions and I had about aesthetics and reality. My I felt emotional.
I decided then that I would resign from work, relocate from NYC, park all my stuff at my parents’ house in Portland, Oregon, and stay in France for three months. Of course, a notable group of literary figures have relocated from the US to the French nation over the decades – famous authors, not to mention many other creatives; perhaps following in their footsteps could help me become a “professional author”. I’d stay one month each in three different cities (Grenoble for the mountains, a coastal spot, 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 swim in the Mediterranean. And if this led me to encounter attractive gentlemen, all the better! Surely, there’d be no better cure to my exhaustion (and dry spell) than embarking on a journey to a land that has a affinity for affection.
These dreamy visions drew only a moderate feedback from my friends. They say you don’t qualify as a local until you’ve resided a decade, and approaching that milestone, my weary peers had already been fleeing for enhanced living conditions in various places. They did hope for me a fast rejuvenation from NYC dating with attractive Europeans; they’d all dated one or two, and the common view was that “Frenchies” in New York were “odder” than those in their France but “hot” compared with alternatives. I avoided that topic of the phone call with my relatives. Often anxious about my demanding schedule and regular sickness, they approved my resolution to focus on my overall wellness. And that was what thrilled me: I was pleased that I could arrange to take care of myself. To reclaim zest for life and determine where my life was going, career-wise and individually, was the plan.
That first night with Thomas went so as expected that I thought I messed up – that he’d never want to reconnect. But before our attire was shed, we’d laid out a chart and discussed the trails, and he’d promised to take me on a walk. The next day, familiar with frustration by unreliable locals, I messaged Thomas. Was he really going to show me his favourite trail?
“Certainly, relax,” he responded within a short time.
Thomas was considerably sweeter than I’d imagined. He grasped my fingers, complimented my every outfit, cooked dinner for me.
He was true to his promise. A few nights later, we drove to a path entrance in the Chartreuse mountains. After ascending the frosty route in the night, the urban center lay glowing beneath our feet. I tried my best to embody the affection of the scene, but I couldn’t chat easily, let alone
