I was in an uncertain place when I first came to Paris six and a half years ago for a study abroad summer program. Smarting from heartbreak and questioning how this trip would benefit me in any concrete, sustained way, my new friends exhorted me to mute the past. Use this opportunity to seek adventure, they said. That would pull me out of my funk.  

They must have sensed something was brewing because I fortuitously met my husband at a party in my residence three days after I arrived. After what felt like an hour of chatting with his colleague at length about foreign perceptions of the French, the conversation shifted to relationships. He pointed out my husband from across the room as his single friend and offered to introduce us. Whatever reservations I may have felt about this trip were overcome in a nanosecond – his smile was controlled but warm. His features were striking, his demeanor reserved. Abundantly cliché to be sure but the sparks were instantaneous.

I knew little of  French dating etiquette but I remained true to my social credo and made the first move. I engaged him, I asked to exchange phone numbers and, according to his recollection of…

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