I was 31, burned out, and single. Would a string of dates with French men bring back my joie de vivre? | Dating
“Tu es où?” I texted, peeking out the balcony to see if he was near. I checked my lipstick in the mirror over the mantelpiece. Then fretted whether my kindergarten-level French was off-putting.
“I’m coming,” he texted. And before I could wonder about inviting a strange man to my home for a first date in a foreign country, Thomas knocked. Soon after we exchanged la bise and he took off his layers of winter gear, I realised he was even more attractive than his Tinder photos, with messy blond hair and a glimpse of ultra-defined abs. While fetching wine as insouciantly as I could, inside my head I was screaming: “The plan is working!”
I had hatched it in fall of 2018, burned out from nearly a decade of living in New York. I’d been working full-time as an editor and writing my novel at night and on weekends for three years. I pushed myself so hard that my schedule was written in my diary in 10-minute increments. On Friday evenings, I came home and lugged an Ikea bag of dirty clothes to the coin laundromat. After bringing it back up the five flights of stairs, I’d yet again open the manuscript file that I knew, statistically, may never get published. Meanwhile, my peers were moving up the ladder, getting married and buying fancy flats with basic appliances. At 31, I felt I had nothing to show for it.
I was also effectively celibate: not only because of busyness, but because my ex and I kept seeing each other once a week for dinner and Netflix. David was the first guy who talked to me the first night I went out after moving to New York, when I was 22. Although we broke up six years later, he re-infiltrated my life one friendly dinner at a time until we always found ourselves on the opposite ends of his couch, groaning companionably at Game of Thrones. As comforting as that ritual was, I didn’t want to be best friends with my ex while having no sex for the rest of my life.
The few times I played around with Tinder only crushed my confidence further. Dating had changed since I was last in the scene, in the dinosaur era when people actually talked to one another in bars. 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. There was zero effort, let alone courtship and romance. I wasn’t the only one feeling offended, because my friends and I shared detailed notes, and it was as if all the singles in the city were in a competition to see who could care less. Something needed to change, drastically.
One day, I was organising my bookshelves when an old art history textbook stopped me in my tracks. The cover of Gardner’s Art Through the Ages, 11th edition, Vol 1 features a closeup of a medieval illumination in gold and lapis lazuli. It brought back my days spent in the library, poring over the colour plates of reliquaries and writing about the Lady and the Unicorn tapestries in the Musée de Cluny; when a book presuming to explain “the beginning of art” and its evolution through human history felt meaningful and worthwhile. All those serious discussions and dreams my friends and I had about beauty and truth. My heart ached.
I decided then that I would quit my job, move out of New York, park all my stuff at my parents’ house in Portland, Oregon, and live in France for three months. Of course, a veritable fleet of authors have absconded from the US to France over the decades – Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Henry James, Baldwin, Steinbeck, not to mention countless minor bards; perhaps following in their footsteps could help me become a “real writer”. I’d stay one month each in three different cities (Grenoble for the mountains, Nice for the sea, and Paris for Paris), relearn French and see all the art that I’d only studied in photographs. I would hike in the Alps and swim in the Mediterranean. And if this put me in the path of beautiful French men, so be it! Surely, there’d be no better cure to my burnout (and dry spell) than heading off on an adventure to a country that has a patent on kissing.
These dreamy visions drew only a mild reaction from my friends. They say you aren’t a New Yorker until you’ve lived there for 10 years, and nearing the mark, my exhausted cohort had already been fleeing for better lifestyles in Budapest, Amsterdam, California. They did wish me a speedy recovery from NYC dating with sexy French men; they’d all dated one or two, and the consensus was that “Frenchies” in New York were “weirder” than those in their homeland but “hot” compared with many other options. I left such discussions out of the phone call with my parents. Long worried about my 80-hour weeks and frequent illnesses, they welcomed my decision to prioritise my mental and physical health. And that was what most excited me: I was proud that I could afford to take care of myself. To regain joie de vivre and figure out where my life was headed, professionally and personally, was the plan.
That first night 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 spread out a map and discussed the trails, and he’d promised to take me on a hike. The next day, used to being disappointed by fickle American men, I messaged Thomas. Was he really going to show me his favourite trail?
“Yes, don’t worry,” he texted back within seconds.
He was as good as his word. A few nights later, we drove to a trailhead in the Chartreuse mountains. After climbing up the snowy trail in the dark, the city of Grenoble lay shimmering beneath our feet. I tried my best to live up to the romance of the situation, but I couldn’t banter in French, let alone understand five sentences without interjecting, “Pardon?” I would have been driven mad by such an incompetent conversationalist back home, and it pained me that I couldn’t show him my true self. (As a professional athlete who was never academically inclined, Thomas almost took pride in speaking zero English.) So, as days passed, I tried to avoid getting too emotionally invested by hiking alone in the mountains. Once, I even struggled for hours through a trail buried under a foot of snow. I thought this was great: without signal, I could get lost and die, but at least I wouldn’t be able to check my phone to see if he’d texted.
Despite my anxieties, Thomas was much more patient and romantic than I’d expected. He held my hand when we walked outside; he complimented my every outfit. Unlike the American men I’d dated, he wasn’t afraid of appearing to care or making a woman feel too cherished. He cooked dinner for me, a few nights before I was to leave for Nice. In the US, you never cook for someone you’re just casually seeing. I knew the rules were different in France, but I was nonetheless touched. As he was driving me home, I said to him in French:
“I’m so happy we met. Because when I first came here, I was …”
“Triste?” Thomas said. Yes, I’d been depressed, although I’d never admitted that even to myself.
“I’m going to speak French fluently in a year. You’ll see, I’m coming back!” I continued to babble.
“Don’t change anything. You’re perfect,” he said, taking my face in his hands.
He promised to visit me in Paris, where I would spend my third month. He had friends there, he said, one of whom also “had an Asian girlfriend”. In that moment, all the times leery non-Asian men abruptly told me about their Asian wives, friends’ wives or exes flashed before my eyes as if I was about to die. They seemed to think that if I only knew another Asian woman had once upon a time desired them, I would suddenly see them as thrilling sexual possibilities. But a lifetime of experience had honed my ability to judge such gaffes, and sometimes these were honest mistakes. Thomas had not dated outside his culture before, and he’d never shown other signs of fetishising certain races. If I had a friend with a French boyfriend, I would probably mention that to Thomas if we were to all meet. (And my girlfriends and I had called Frenchmen “sexy” plenty of times, although tastefully behind their backs.) So I let it go – and even became thrilled that he was going to introduce me to his friends.
The next morning, I woke up still dazed by the bittersweetness of liking someone I couldn’t have. But when I logged on to Tinder to save Thomas’s photos, I noticed that he’d just added a new picture to refresh his profile. I was more hurt than I imagined possible. Was I naive to think that he should have waited until I was at least out of town? When Thomas said he’d like to say goodbye one last time, I made an excuse about feeling unwell and left the next morning.
In Nice, I brooded over Thomas while walking up and down the Baie des Anges, a dreamlike crescent holding a topaz piece of the Mediterranean. I realised I’d had my first crush in years – and that was something to celebrate, no matter what. Besides, I had to set aside any drama because I’d invited my parents to visit me. This was their first time in not only France, but Europe, and I was anxious to show them a culture I love – and for them to feel welcomed.
There is a popular perception that the French are cold or unwelcoming to foreigners. Thus far, the French people I’d met had only been warm and genuine towards me. They humoured me with conversations (always in French) in shops, restaurants, monuments; if I seemed lost or lonely, they took me under their wing. They responded enthusiastically whenever I said I’m an américano-coréenne – which, as a bonus, also made me feel like a delicious coffee drink. Nevertheless, an entire lifetime of protecting my parents had taught me that a young bilingual Korean woman receives a very different treatment from her elderly parents who don’t speak fluent English. But my worry proved unnecessary. People were kind and patient wherever I took them. It was lovely to be able to share all the places in France I’d saved up as my highlights reel.
I found myself feeling grateful that the French were so polite to foreigners; but after my parents left, there was an incident that made me rethink this. In my last few days in Nice, I was waiting in a queue to buy some socca (a delectable chickpea pancake) at an old flower market called Cours Saleya. The crowd had gathered loosely, and as they neared the griddle they narrowed and straightened into a line. I also tried to queue correctly and ceded my spot to an older woman near me. But to my amazement, she signalled that I should go in front of her. When I thanked her profusely, she said, “C’est normal.” This simple exchange was a revelation: as a naturalised citizen in the US and a visitor in France, I’d long lived with the assumption that things are just easier if I don’t take up as much space as “people who’d been here first”. But wasn’t it normal to take up space and relate to everyone as equal human beings, whether you’re a tourist, immigrant, or born citizen? This attitude of égalité was as deeply French as romance. And French people in general, with their decency and civility, were as important to restoring my faith in human connection as the men I dated.
So, feeling more assured and grounded, I arrived in Paris for the last leg of my sabbatical, ready to date again. Gaëtan was a 32-year-old law professor who met me for cocktails at a speakeasy in Pigalle. He was the kind of man next to whom you’d be proud to be seen – tall, dark, handsome, well-dressed, lean and athletic.
By now, my eye-watering efforts at French self-education had begun to pay off, because I got to know Gaëtan far better than Thomas. Immediate family? Not very close. Tight group of guy friends. Favourite author? Saint-Exupéry. Into social justice, which is why he went into banking law. Hadn’t been in a serious relationship in a year. Never stays in touch with his exes.
I’d learned by then that romance wasn’t something French people reserve for their serious relationships. They understand that love is the irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired. And they play their parts wonderfully, although saying that makes them sound more disingenuous than they are. It’s that they truly enjoy not only the sentiment, but the sensation of love. So they jump in without weighing whether this person could become a long-term relationship, a lasting friendship, a useful professional connection. French women sometimes waved me over to their table just to keep me company; I didn’t become “real friends” with anyone, yet such moments brightened my near-constant solitude. Coming from New York, where interpersonal relationships had to have clear goals and fixed modules, this French attitude felt not just sensual, but liberating and humane.
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All this is to say that Gaëtan courted me as I hadn’t been in a long time. He took me to wine bars, authentic falafel joints and cocktail haunts in Le Marais, for sorbet in Parc Monceau heady with blooms. He listened to me as I talked about my dreams: my novel, journalism and a home of my own. This attentiveness was something I’d observed in other French people. They didn’t do that thing that is so common in the US, especially New York, where your interlocutor’s eyes look strange as you talk because they’re just thinking about what they’re going to say next. French people tended to really listen, and Gaëtan especially excelled at this.
He even saw my being an artist as attractive, casting admiring glances at the manuscript pages strewn across my flat. In France, writers and intellectuals are held in the highest esteem; avid capitalists are frowned upon. This offered yet another stark contrast to the US. When the New York finance bachelors found out that I was a writer, they would say charming things such as, “So what are you, like a freelancer?” and “How much do you even pay for this apartment?”
There was just once when Gaëtan lost a point for Team France, and that was when I invited him over for dinner. I asked him how he had enjoyed my pasta, and he went into a long discussion of how it could be made better. To the anglophone world, it is obvious that I was expecting, “Delicious, thank you!” and not a critical review of my one-pan effort. This is the one thing in which American men will beat the suave French men, 10 out of 10.
Near the end of my stay, I asked Gaëtan what was his favourite place in Paris. It was Château de Vincennes, a medieval fortress on the eastern outskirts; as a child, he used to go there and play at being a knight. He promised to take me that weekend. But when the appointed day arrived, he texted to say he was sick, he couldn’t make it. I’d already gone out in a dress I’d bought to wear just for him. Instead of returning home, I took the train to Vincennes and wandered around the ramparts alone. Was I again projecting my wish for intimacy on to someone who wasn’t feeling the same? How much of the closeness was lost, or imagined, in translation?
But a few days later, Gaëtan made up for his absence by taking me to Le Très Particulier, a secret cocktail bar in an unspeakably stylish hotel on top of Montmartre. We made our way to the garden, where the Eiffel Tower came magically into view.
“You could stay with me, next time you come to France,” he said.
“Really?”
“Really. When are you going to come back – in three years?”
“No! Closer to a year,” I said, then added, “maybe even in six months.”
We kissed.
“But I thought you never keep in touch with your exes?” I asked.
“You’re not really an ex.”
Gaëtan was also as good as his word, texting me periodically as I settled down in Portland. The day I moved into my own condo (with washer, dryer, dishwasher – the holy trinity), I’d been wishing I could show him the place when he messaged me out of the blue. He approved of my pictures and said, “You’ve really done everything you said you’ll do!” I told him he was welcome to stay with me if he ever visited. He answered, “I will.”
Then not very dramatically – quite naturally – he met someone new in Paris, and that was the end of that.
A few months later, my real ex David came to visit me. Despite swearing beforehand that this did not mean we were getting back together, the first thing he did when he arrived was tell me he loved me. The beautiful French men could romance me to the moon and back, but couldn’t wait a year, six months, or even a day for me. David had waited four years. Dancing the choreography of desire à la française was intoxicating while it lasted, but here was a man who didn’t need the music to stay with me. He wanted to be with me.
I feel sheepish revealing here that Reader, I married him. This gives the illusion of a happy ending to a still-developing story of us learning a lot about ourselves and each other. But that’s why this is called marriage and not romance. The fact that David took my hand and jumped feet first into this sea of unknown depth makes my heart ache as I type this. I suppose it was necessary for me to travel thousands of miles to discover that my biggest adventure was waiting for me, at home.
Having said that, I think that the plan “worked”. I improved my French and finished my first novel. I saw art: a breathtaking Chagall exhibit at Caumont Centre d’Art in Aix-en-Provence, the stained-glass windows of Notre Dame before the fire, all the wings of the Louvre. And most importantly, I met people who reawakened my sense of joy and love.
But many of the happiest moments happened when I was utterly alone: walking under a snowy ridge in the Alps, sunbathing in the Cape of Nice, or wandering the medieval streets in Annecy. Exploring Château de Vincennes alone, wearing a white broderie anglaise dress that made passersby wonder if I had just got married, I climbed to the top of the tower and asked someone to take a photo of me. It now hangs in my bedroom. Every time I look at it – my gaze off-camera, my smile at the cusp of both happiness and loneliness – I’m reminded of all those who stand just outside the frame, whose fleeting entries and exits have nonetheless formed the great peaks of my existence.