At 31, Burned Out and Single: Could a String of Meetings with French Gentlemen Revive My Zest for Life?

“Tu es où?” I texted, looking out the balcony to spot his arrival. I checked my makeup in the mirror over the mantelpiece. Then agonized whether my kindergarten-level French was a turn-off.

“I’m coming,” he texted. And before I could question about having a unknown gentleman to my place for a initial meeting in a different nation, Thomas arrived. Soon after we exchanged la bise and he took off his cold-weather clothing, I noticed he was even more good-looking than his dating profile pictures, with messy blond hair and a hint of toned stomach. While getting wine as nonchalantly as I could, mentally I was screaming: “My strategy is succeeding!”

I had hatched it in fall of 2018, worn out from almost ten years of residing in NYC. I was employed full-time as an editor and writing my novel at night and on weekends for a few years. I drove myself so hard that my schedule was planned in my journal in 10-minute increments. On weekend nights, I returned home and carried an cloth tote of dirty clothes to the self-service laundry. After bringing it back up the five flights of stairs, I’d yet again open the manuscript file that I knew, realistically, may never get released. Meanwhile, my colleagues were climbing the corporate ladder, tying the knot and buying fancy flats with standard fixtures. Being 31, I felt I had nothing to show for it.

New York men – or at least the ones I dated – seemed to think that, if they were above average height and in corporate sectors, they were masters of the universe.

I was also effectively celibate: not only because of busyness, but because my ex and I kept meeting up once a week for dinner and Netflix. My ex was the initial man who approached me the first night I socialized after arriving in the city, when I was twenty-two. Although we broke up after several years, he drifted back into my life an amicable meeting at a time until we always found ourselves on the different corners of his sofa, groaning companionably at Game of Thrones. As soothing as that routine was, I didn’t want to be best friends with my old partner while having a celibate life for the foreseeable future.

The few times I played around with Tinder only crushed my confidence further. Dating had changed since I was last in the social circuit, in the old-fashioned times when people actually communicated in pubs. NYC bachelors – 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 top-tier. There was zero effort, let alone pursuit and passion. I wasn’t the only one feeling offended, because my companions and I compared experiences, and it was as if all the unattached individuals in the city were in a competition to see who could be more indifferent. Something needed to change, drastically.

One day, I was tidying my bookshelves when an vintage art book stopped me in my tracks. The cover of an academic text shows a closeup of a ancient artwork in rich colors. It revived my time passed in the study hall, studying the illustrated pages of religious artifacts and writing about the historic textiles in the Musée de Cluny; when a publication presuming to explain “the beginning of art” and its evolution through human history felt significant and valuable. All those deep conversations and aspirations my friends and I had about aesthetics and reality. My heart ached.

I made up my mind that I would resign from work, relocate from NYC, park all my stuff at my childhood residence in a West Coast city, and stay in France for several weeks. Of course, a notable group of authors have relocated from the US to Europe over the generations – famous authors, not to mention many other creatives; perhaps following in their footsteps could help me become a “real writer”. I’d stay 30 days per location in multiple urban centers (a mountain retreat, Nice for the sea, and the capital city), improve my language skills and see all the art that I’d only studied in photographs. I would trek in the mountains and enjoy the ocean. And if this put me in the path attractive gentlemen, all the better! Surely, there’d be no superior solution to my burnout (and dry spell) than heading off on an adventure to a nation that has a patent on kissing.

These dreamy visions drew only a mild reaction from my social circle. They say you aren’t a New Yorker until you’ve spent ten years, and approaching that milestone, my exhausted cohort had already been moving away for improved quality of life in other destinations. They did hope for me a quick improvement from Manhattan courtship with charming locals; they’d all experienced some, and the consensus was that “Frenchies” in New York were “more unusual” than those in their native country but “appealing” compared with alternatives. I avoided that topic of the discussion with my parents. Often anxious about my 80-hour weeks and frequent illnesses, they supported my decision to focus on my mental and physical health. And that was what thrilled me: I was proud that I could manage to prioritize self-care. To regain zest for life and figure out where my life was progressing, professionally and personally, was the objective.

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 garments were removed, we’d laid out a guide and talked about hiking, and he’d committed to take me on a hike. The next day, accustomed to letdowns by unreliable locals, I wrote to Thomas. Was he really going to show me his beloved route?

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

My date was far more affectionate than I’d imagined. He took my hand, complimented my every outfit, made food.

He was as good as his word. A shortly thereafter, we went to a path entrance in the mountain range. After hiking the frosty route in the dark, the urban center lay glistening beneath our feet. I attempted to embody the romance of the moment, but I couldn’t banter in French, let alone