Turning 31, Burned Out and Unattached: Might a String of Meetings with French Gentlemen Bring Back My Joy of Living?
“Tu es où?” I texted, glancing out the terrace to check if he was close. I examined my lip color in the reflection over the fireplace. Then worried whether my elementary French was off-putting.
“I’m coming,” he responded. And before I could doubt about welcoming a strange man to my place for a initial meeting in a foreign country, Thomas knocked. Soon after we gave la bise and he shed his winter attire, I noticed he was even more good-looking than his online images, with tousled blonde locks and a glimpse of ultra-defined abs. While fetching wine as nonchalantly as I could, mentally I was exclaiming: “My strategy is succeeding!”
I devised it in fall of 2018, exhausted from close to ten years of residing in NYC. I’d been working full-time as an publishing professional and crafting my manuscript at night and on weekends for several years. I pushed myself so hard that my schedule was planned in my journal in 10-minute increments. On end-of-week nights, I returned home and dragged an cloth tote of unwashed items to the coin laundromat. After bringing it back up the five flights of stairs, I’d yet again view the manuscript file that I knew, probably, may never get published. Meanwhile, my colleagues were moving up the ladder, tying the knot and acquiring upscale homes with basic appliances. At 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 finance or law, they were masters of the universe.
I was also effectively celibate: not only because of hectic schedule, but because my past boyfriend and I kept seeing each other once a week for dinner and Netflix. My ex was the first guy who talked to me the initial evening I socialized after arriving in the city, when I was twenty-two. Although we ended things down the line, he re-infiltrated my life a casual meal at a time until we always found ourselves on the opposite ends of his settee, laughing together at series. As reassuring as that routine was, I didn’t want to be close pals with my ex while having a celibate life for the rest of my life.
The occasional instances I tried out Tinder only shattered my self-esteem further. Romance had changed since I was last in the social circuit, in the bygone days when people actually communicated in pubs. 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 little initiative, let alone chivalry and affection. I wasn’t the only one feeling insulted, because my companions and I compared experiences, and it was as if all the eligible people in the city were in a competition to see who could care less. A shift was necessary, significantly.
One day, I was arranging my shelves when an old art history textbook stopped me in my tracks. The front of a classic art volume features a close-up of a ancient artwork in gold and lapis lazuli. It recalled my time passed in the library, studying the colour plates of religious artifacts and discussing the historic textiles in the Parisian museum; when a publication presuming to explain “the beginning of art” and its progress through civilization felt important and rewarding. All those thoughtful debates and dreams my peers and I had about aesthetics and reality. My I felt emotional.
I decided then that I would leave my position, move out of New York, store my belongings at my parents’ house in the Pacific Northwest, and reside in France for several weeks. Of course, a impressive list of literary figures have absconded from the United States to France over the decades – renowned writers, not to mention countless minor bards; perhaps following in their footsteps could help me become a “real writer”. I’d stay a month apiece in three different cities (an alpine destination, a coastal spot, and the capital city), relearn French and view the masterpieces that I’d only studied in photographs. I would trek in the mountains and enjoy the ocean. And if this led me to encounter beautiful French men, why not! Surely, there’d be no more effective remedy to my fatigue (and inactive period) than heading off on an adventure to a nation that has a patent on kissing.
These fantastical ideas drew only a subdued response from my friends. They say you aren’t a New Yorker until you’ve resided a decade, and close to that point, my weary peers had already been departing for better lifestyles in other destinations. They did wish me a fast rejuvenation from Manhattan courtship with attractive Europeans; they’d all experienced some, and the common view was that “Gallics” in New York were “odder” than those in their France but “hot” compared with other choices. I left such discussions out of the conversation with my family. Often anxious about my 80-hour weeks and frequent illnesses, they approved my resolution to emphasize my mental and physical health. And that was what most excited me: I was satisfied that I could afford to look after myself. To regain happiness and understand where my life was going, professionally and personally, was the goal.
The initial evening with Thomas went so according to plan that I thought I blew it – that he’d never want to see me again. But before our clothes came off, we’d unfolded a guide and discussed the trails, and he’d committed to take me on a trek. The next day, used to being disappointed by fickle American men, I wrote to Thomas. Was he actually intending to show me his preferred path?
“Absolutely, no concerns,” he texted back within seconds.
My date was far more affectionate than I’d anticipated. He grasped my fingers, praised my clothing, made food.
He was as good as his word. A few nights later, we went to a path entrance in the alpine region. After hiking the white path in the night, the city of Grenoble lay glowing beneath our feet. I attempted to live up to the passion of the scene, but I couldn’t banter in French, let alone