Paris for One

I have no intention of making what is supposed to be a travel blog about my love life. I'm actually kind of private about my love life, except among close friends. But relationships are on my radar at the moment, as anyone reading this blog can see, and Paris - in this area at least - is not helping.

You see, I asked someone to be here with me, and he said no.

We're still seeing each other and we spent two weeks in Florence together - to be fair - but I can't help but think every time I see some beautiful work of art, some lofty monument, or some golden, inviting cafe, that I could be sharing this with someone I care about.

And I'm not.

The plight of professional thirty-somethings who have trouble finding love is a much-celebrated comedic trope: just look at When Harry Met Sally or Bridget Jones or, for that matter, the entire first season of 30 Rock. But the reason it gets celebrated is that it really does suck, and a sense of humor is the only Nothung to the Fafner of loneliness.

Unfortunately for me, it's after midnight and my sense of humor has already gone to bed. That said, I promise this will be the last self-pitying post I write about my love life.

And that said, I will add that I've been approached twice this week by perfectly attractive French men and turned them both down for the sake of my budding relationship. It's the right thing to do, but who can say if it's the thing that will make me happy in the end. I don't regret it, but it does make me sad. The promise of romance is part of the city's allure. It permeates the bistros along with their brass luster and cigarette smoke. It sweetens the sidewalk coffees. It turns the Eiffel Tower from "marvel of engineering" into "best phallic symbol ever."

There is simply something unfulfilling about settling for "Paris for one."

Copyright 2010 Sara Harding