“Where are you?” I texted, glancing from the balcony to see if he was nearby. I checked my lipstick in the mantelpiece mirror, then worried if my basic French was a turn-off.
“I’m coming,” he replied. Before I could second-guess inviting a stranger to my place for a first date abroad, Thomas knocked. After we exchanged cheek kisses and he shed his winter layers, I saw he was even better-looking than his Tinder photos—messy blond hair and a hint of toned abs. While fetching wine as casually as possible, my inner voice cheered: “The plan is working!”
I’d devised it in the fall of 2018, exhausted after nearly a decade in New York. For three years, I’d worked full-time as an editor while writing my novel nights and weekends, scheduling every ten minutes in my diary. Friday evenings meant hauling a bag of laundry to the coin-op, then climbing five flights back up to face the manuscript that might never be published. Meanwhile, my peers were advancing careers, marrying, and buying stylish apartments. At 31, I felt I had nothing to show.
New York men—or the ones I dated—acted like being over six feet and in finance or law made them gods. I was also practically celibate, not just from busyness but because my ex and I kept meeting weekly for dinner and Netflix. David had been the first guy to talk to me when I moved to New York at 22. Though we broke up six years later, he slipped back into my life one friendly dinner at a time until we’d end up on his couch, groaning together at Game of Thrones. Comforting as it was, I didn’t want to be best friends with my ex while never having sex again.
Tinder experiments only worsened my confidence. Dating had changed since my earlier days when people actually talked in bars. There was no effort, let alone romance. My friends and I compared notes, and it seemed every single in the city was competing to care less. Something had to change, drastically.
While organizing my bookshelf one day, an old art history textbook caught my eye—the cover of Gardner’s Art Through the Ages, with its medieval gold and lapis lazuli illumination. It reminded me of library days spent studying color plates of reliquaries and writing about the Lady and the Unicorn tapestries at the Musée de Cluny, when exploring art’s origins felt meaningful. I missed those deep discussions with friends about beauty and truth. My heart ached.
I decided to quit my job, leave New York, store my things at my parents’ in Portland, Oregon, and live in France for three months. Countless writers had fled to France—Hemingway, Fitzgerald, James, Baldwin, Steinbeck—and maybe following them would make me a “real writer.” I’d spend a month each in Grenoble (for mountains), Nice (for the sea), and Paris (for Paris), relearn French, and see the art I’d only known from photos. I’d hike the Alps and swim in the Mediterranean. And if this led me to encounter handsome French m…Well then, it’s settled! What better way to recover from my burnout and dating dry spell than to escape to a country famous for its romance? My friends were only mildly impressed by my dreamy plans. They say it takes ten years to truly become a New Yorker, and as I approached that milestone, my worn-out friends were already moving on to better lives in Budapest, Amsterdam, and California. They did wish me luck recovering from New York’s dating scene with some charming French men, noting that while French guys in the city were “weirder” than back home, they were still “hot” compared to other options. I skipped those details when I called my parents. They’d long been concerned about my 80-hour workweeks and constant sickness, so they were relieved to hear I was finally putting my health first. That was the most thrilling part for me—I felt proud that I could now afford to take care of myself. My goal was to rediscover my joy for life and figure out my next steps, both personally and professionally.
My first evening with Thomas went so smoothly that I worried I’d messed it up and he’d never want to see me again. But before things got intimate, we unfolded a map, talked about hiking trails, and he promised to take me on one. The next day, accustomed to flaky American men, I texted Thomas to confirm if he was really going to show me his favorite trail. He replied instantly, “Yes, don’t worry.”
Thomas turned out to be more romantic than I’d imagined. He held my hand, praised my outfits, and cooked dinner for me. True to his word, a few nights later, we drove to a trailhead in the Chartreuse mountains. After a dark, snowy climb, we looked down at Grenoble sparkling below. I tried to embrace the romance of the moment, but my French wasn’t up to par—I could barely string together a sentence without asking, “Pardon?” Back home, I’d have been frustrated with such a clumsy conversation partner, and it bothered me that I couldn’t show him my real self. (Thomas, a professional athlete with no academic interests, seemed almost proud of speaking no English.) So, to keep my emotions in check, I spent days hiking alone in the mountains. Once, I trudged for hours through a trail buried under a foot of snow, thinking it was perfect—if I got lost and died without a signal, at least I wouldn’t be tempted to check if he’d texted.
Despite my worries, Thomas was incredibly patient and romantic. He held my hand in public and made me feel cherished in a way American men rarely did. He even cooked for me a few nights before I left for Nice—something you’d never do for a casual fling in the U.S. I knew French dating norms were different, but it still touched me. As he drove me home, I told him in French, “I’m so happy we met. When I first came here, I was…” He finished my thought: “Triste?” Yes, I had been sad, though I’d never admitted it, even to myself. I rambled on, “I’ll speak French fluently in a year. You’ll see, I’m coming back!” He cupped my face in his hands and said, “Don’t change anything. You’re perfect.”
He promised to visit me in Paris, where I’d be spending my third month. He mentioned he had friends there, including one who “had an Asian girlfriend.” Instantly, memories flooded back of non-Asian men abruptly telling me about their Asian wives or exes, as if that would make me see them as attractive. Years of experience had sharpened my ability to spot such awkward remarks, and some…Sometimes, these were just honest mistakes. Thomas hadn’t dated outside his culture before, and he never showed any other signs of fetishizing certain races. If I had a friend with a French boyfriend, I’d probably mention that to Thomas if we all met up. (And my girlfriends and I had often called French men “sexy,” though always tastefully behind their backs.) So I let it go—and even got excited that he was going to introduce me to his friends.
The next morning, I woke up still feeling the bittersweet ache of liking someone I couldn’t have. But when I logged into Tinder to save Thomas’s photos, I noticed he had just added a new picture to refresh his profile. I was more hurt than I ever thought possible. Was it naive of me to think he could have at least waited until I was out of town? When Thomas said he wanted to say goodbye one last time, I made an excuse about not feeling well and left the next morning.
In Nice, I found myself brooding over Thomas as I walked along the Baie des Anges, a dreamy crescent bay holding a topaz slice of the Mediterranean. I realized I’d had my first crush in years—and that was something to celebrate, no matter what. Besides, I had to put any drama aside because I’d invited my parents to visit. This was their first time not only in France but in Europe, and I was eager to show them a culture I love and make sure they felt welcome.
There’s a common belief that the French are cold or unwelcoming to foreigners. So far, everyone I’d met had been warm and genuine toward me. They patiently chatted with me (always in French) in shops, restaurants, and at monuments; if I seemed lost or lonely, they took me under their wing. They always responded enthusiastically when I said I was an American-Korean—which, as a bonus, made me feel like a delicious coffee drink. Still, a lifetime of protecting my parents had taught me that a young bilingual Korean woman is treated very differently from her elderly parents who don’t speak fluent English. But my worries turned out to be unnecessary. People were kind and patient everywhere I took them. It was lovely to share all the places in France I’d saved as my personal highlights reel.
I felt grateful that the French were so polite to foreigners, but after my parents left, an incident made me rethink this. During my last few days in Nice, I was waiting in line to buy socca (a delicious chickpea pancake) at an old flower market called Cours Saleya. The crowd had gathered loosely, but as people neared the griddle, they formed a neat line. I tried to queue properly and offered my spot to an older woman nearby. To my surprise, she gestured for me to go ahead of her. When I thanked her profusely, she simply said, “C’est normal.” That simple exchange was a revelation: as a naturalized citizen in the U.S. and a visitor in France, I had long assumed that things go more smoothly if I don’t take up as much space as “people who were here first.” But isn’t it normal to take up space and treat everyone as equals, whether you’re a tourist, immigrant, or born citizen? This attitude of equality felt as deeply French as romance. And the decency and civility of French people, in general, were just as important in restoring my faith in human connection as the men I dated.
So, feeling more assured and grounded, I arrived in Paris for the last part 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 you’d be proud to be seen with—tall, dark, handsome, well-dressed, lean, and athletic.
By now, my painstaking efforts to learn French were paying off, and I got to know Gaëtan much better than Thomas. Immediate family? Not very close. Tight group of guy friends. Favorite author? Saint-Exupéry. Into social justice, which is why he went into banking law. Hadn’t been in a sHe hadn’t been in a serious relationship for a year and never kept in touch with his exes. By then, I had realized that romance isn’t something the French save only for committed partnerships. They believe love is the irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired, and they play their roles beautifully—though that might make them sound less sincere than they are. The truth is, they genuinely enjoy not just the emotion but the very feeling of love. So they dive in without overthinking whether the person could become a long-term partner, a lasting friend, or a useful professional contact.
Sometimes, French women would invite me to their table just for company. I didn’t form deep friendships with any of them, but those moments eased my frequent loneliness. Coming from New York, where every relationship had to have a clear purpose and structure, this French approach felt not only sensual but also freeing and deeply human.
In France, writers and intellectuals are highly respected, while those overly focused on money are looked down upon. This was another sharp contrast to the U.S. All of this is why Gaëtan’s courtship felt so refreshing. He took me to wine bars, authentic falafel spots, and cocktail lounges in Le Marais, and we enjoyed sorbet in the fragrant Parc Monceau. He listened intently as I shared my dreams of writing a novel, pursuing journalism, and having a home of my own. This kind of attentiveness was something I’d noticed in other French people too. They didn’t do that thing so common in the U.S., especially in New York, where the person you’re talking to has a distant look because they’re just planning what to say next. The French really listen, and Gaëtan was especially good at it.
He even found my artistic side appealing, admiring the manuscript pages scattered around my apartment. In France, writers and thinkers are held in high regard, unlike in the U.S., where I’d met finance bachelors who would ask things like, “So, you’re a freelancer?” or “How much do you pay for this apartment?”
There was only one time when Gaëtan lost a point for Team France. I invited him over for dinner and asked how he liked my pasta. Instead of a simple “Delicious, thank you!” he launched into a detailed critique on how it could be improved. In the English-speaking world, it’s clear you’re expecting praise, not a review of your one-pan meal. This is one area where American men outshine the suave French, every time.
Near the end of my stay, I asked Gaëtan what his favorite place in Paris was. He said it was Château de Vincennes, a medieval fortress on the eastern edge of the city where he used to play as a knight when he was a boy. He promised to take me there that weekend. But when the day came, he texted to say he was sick and couldn’t make it. I had already gone out in a dress I bought just to wear for him. Instead of going home, I took the train to Vincennes and wandered around alone.I found myself walking the ramparts alone. Was I once again projecting my own longing for closeness onto someone who didn’t feel the same way? How much of our connection had been lost in translation, or perhaps only existed in my imagination?
A few days later, Gaëtan made up for his absence by taking me to Le Très Particulier, a hidden cocktail bar in an impossibly chic hotel atop Montmartre. We found our way to the garden, where the Eiffel Tower appeared as if by magic.
“You could stay with me next time you’re in France,” he offered.
“Really?”
“Really. When will you be back—in three years?”
“No! Sooner than that,” I said. “Maybe even in six months.”
We kissed.
“But I thought you never kept in touch with your exes?” I asked.
“You’re not really an ex.”
True to his word, Gaëtan texted me regularly after I settled in Portland. The day I moved into my own condo—complete with the holy trinity of washer, dryer, and dishwasher—I was wishing I could show him my new place when he unexpectedly messaged me. He approved of the photos I sent and remarked, “You’ve really done everything you said you would!” I told him he was welcome to stay if he ever visited. His response was simple: “I will.”
Then, without any drama—quite naturally—he met someone new in Paris, and that was that.
A few months later, my actual ex David came to visit. Though we’d both insisted beforehand that this didn’t mean we were getting back together, the first thing he did upon arrival was tell me he loved me. The charming French men might have swept me off my feet, but none could wait a year, six months, or even a day for me. David had waited four years. The intricate dance of French romance was intoxicating while it lasted, but here was a man who didn’t need the music to stay by my side. He simply wanted to be with me.
I feel a bit shy admitting this, dear reader, but I married him. This might seem like a happy ending to a story that’s still unfolding as we continue to learn about ourselves and each other. But that’s why it’s called marriage rather than romance. The fact that David took my hand and leaped into this sea of unknown depth still makes my heart ache as I write these words. I suppose I needed to travel thousands of miles to discover that my greatest adventure was waiting for me at home.
That said, I believe my plan “worked.” I improved my French and finished my first novel. I immersed myself in art: a breathtaking Chagall exhibition at Caumont Centre d’Art in Aix-en-Provence, Notre Dame’s stained-glass windows before the fire, and every wing of the Louvre. Most importantly, I met people who rekindled my capacity for joy and love.
Yet many of my happiest moments occurred when I was completely alone: walking beneath a snowy ridge in the Alps, sunbathing on the Cape of Nice, or wandering through Annecy’s medieval streets. Exploring Château de Vincennes by myself while wearing a white broderie anglaise dress that made passersby wonder if I’d just been married, I climbed to the top of the tower and asked someone to take my picture. That photo now hangs in my bedroom. Whenever I look at it—my gaze directed away from the camera, my smile hovering between happiness and loneliness—I’m reminded of all those who stand just outside the frame, whose brief entries and exits have nonetheless shaped the towering peaks of my life.
City of Night Birds by Juhea Kim is now available in paperback (Oneworld) for £9.99. To support the Guardian, you can order your copy for £8.99 from guardianbookshop.com. Her short story collection, A Love Story from the End of the World, will be published by Borough Press on November 20.
Frequently Asked Questions
Of course Here is a helpful and concise FAQ about the idea of dating French men to rekindle a sense of excitement in life
Frequently Asked Questions
BeginnerLevel Questions
1 Whats the main idea here
Its about using new romantic experiences specifically with people from a different culture like French men as a way to break out of a rut and feel more energized and alive
2 Why French men specifically
French culture is often associated with romance passion and a certain joie de vivre The idea is that dating someone with this cultural background could be an exciting and refreshing change
3 Is this a real solution to feeling exhausted and unattached
It can be a catalyst for change but its not a complete solution It can boost your confidence and provide a new perspective but longterm happiness comes from within
4 Do I need to move to France to do this
Not necessarily You could use dating apps to connect with French men in your area or those traveling or living abroad However experiencing the culture in France would add another layer to the adventure
5 What if I dont speak French
While knowing some French is a great icebreaker its not always a dealbreaker Many people are happy to communicate in English and nonverbal communication can be a fun part of the experience
Advanced Practical Questions
6 What are the potential benefits of trying this
A Confidence Boost New flattering attention can make you feel more desirable
Cultural Expansion Youll learn about new customs food and perspectives
A Fresh Outlook It can shake up your routine and help you see your own life in a new way
Improved Language Skills You might pick up some French naturally
7 What are some common challenges or problems
Cultural Misunderstandings Differences in communication styles or dating etiquette can lead to confusion
The Exoticism Trap You might be seen as a novelty rather than a person or you might idealize them for the same reason
Logistics Distance and time zones can be difficult if youre not in the same country
