At 31, Exhausted and Single: Could a Series of Meetings with Men from France Bring Back My Joie de Vivre?
“Tu es où?” I texted, looking out the veranda to see if he was near. I examined my lipstick in the glass over the fireplace. Then agonized whether my basic French was off-putting.
“Be there soon,” he replied. And before I could question about welcoming a strange man to my home for a first date in a foreign country, Thomas showed up. Soon after we shared la bise and he removed his layers of winter gear, I realised he was even more handsome than his online images, with disheveled fair hair and a sight of toned stomach. While fetching wine as insouciantly as I could, mentally I was exclaiming: “It’s going as planned!”
I conceived it in late 2018, exhausted from nearly a decade of calling New York home. I worked full-time as an publishing professional and crafting my manuscript at night and on weekends for three years. I pressured myself so hard that my schedule was written in my planner in tiny time slots. On end-of-week nights, I returned home and lugged an laundry sack of dirty clothes to the public washroom. After returning it up the several floors, I’d yet again view the book document that I knew, probably, may never get released. Meanwhile, my colleagues were climbing the corporate ladder, entering matrimony and acquiring upscale homes with basic appliances. Turning 31, I felt I had few accomplishments.
NYC gentlemen – 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 of the world.
I was also effectively celibate: not only because of hectic schedule, but because my former partner and I kept meeting up once a week for meals and movies. He was the first guy who approached me the debut outing I went out after relocating to NYC, when I was 22. Although we separated six years later, he re-entered my life one friendly dinner at a time until we always found ourselves on the opposite ends of his couch, reacting in sync at Game of Thrones. As reassuring as that routine was, I didn’t want to be close pals with my former flame while having an inactive love life for the years to come.
The few times I played around with Tinder only shattered my self-esteem further. Romance had shifted since I was last in the scene, in the old-fashioned times when people actually communicated in bars. Manhattan gentlemen – 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 masters of the universe. There was no attempt, let alone pursuit and passion. I wasn’t the only one feeling offended, because my acquaintances and I exchanged stories, and it was as if all the singles in the city were in a race to see who could show less interest. Things had to evolve, significantly.
One day, I was organising my library when an vintage art book stopped me in my tracks. The cover of a classic art volume displays a close-up of a medieval illumination in precious metals. It recalled my days spent in the study hall, poring over the colour plates of reliquaries and writing about the famous artworks in the Parisian museum; when a publication aiming to outline “the beginning of art” and its progress through civilization felt meaningful and worthwhile. All those serious discussions and dreams my companions and I had about aesthetics and reality. My I felt emotional.
I decided then that I would resign from work, move out of New York, place my items at my family home in Portland, Oregon, and reside in France for a quarter. Of course, a notable group of authors have absconded from the America to France over the decades – famous authors, not to mention countless minor bards; perhaps emulating their path could help me become a “established novelist”. I’d stay 30 days per location in multiple urban centers (an alpine destination, Nice for the sea, and the capital city), brush up on French and see all the art that I’d only seen in books. I would explore alpine trails and swim in the Mediterranean. And if this put me in the path handsome locals, so be it! Surely, there’d be no better cure to my exhaustion (and inactive period) than embarking on a journey to a nation that has a patent on kissing.
These dreamy visions drew only a moderate feedback from my friends. They say you don’t qualify as a local until you’ve lived there for 10 years, and nearing the mark, my weary peers had already been moving away for enhanced living conditions in various places. They did hope for me a fast rejuvenation from Manhattan courtship with sexy French men; they’d all been with a few, and the general opinion was that “Gallics” in New York were “odder” than those in their France but “hot” compared with many other options. I left such discussions out of the discussion with my parents. Long worried 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 prioritize self-care. To reclaim zest for life and understand where my life was going, in work and life, was the plan.
That first night with Thomas went so as intended that I thought I messed up – that he’d never want to meet again. But before our garments were removed, we’d unfolded a map and talked about hiking, and he’d vowed to take me on a trek. The next day, accustomed to letdowns by unreliable locals, I wrote to Thomas. Was he really going to show me his beloved route?
“Absolutely, no concerns,” he replied within moments.
He was far more affectionate than I’d imagined. He took my hand, praised my clothing, cooked dinner for me.
He was reliable. A couple of evenings after, we went to a starting point in the Chartreuse mountains. After ascending the frosty route in the night, the urban center lay glowing beneath our feet. I made an effort to match the passion of the situation, but I couldn’t chat easily, let alone
