Sarah, 29

I’m Sarah, 29, software engineer in Lyon, and living proof that you can love both elegant code and a perfect quenelle. I grew up in Villeurbanne, just outside Lyon, the daughter of an accountant and a librarian — a household where logic and stories were equally respected. I was the kid who took apart the family computer at ten (and, crucially, put it back together), taught myself HTML at thirteen to build a fan site for my favorite band, and won the regional math olympiad at sixteen while everyone else was at parties. I don’t regret it. Much.

I studied computer science at INSA Lyon, one of France’s top engineering schools, and I loved it with the intensity of a convert — the all-nighters, the hackathons, the pure joy of a program finally compiling. Now I’m a backend software engineer at a Lyon tech company, building the kind of invisible infrastructure that makes apps work. My days are stand-ups, code reviews, architecture debates, and the deeply satisfying moment when a nasty bug finally surrenders. I work with a great team, I mentor two junior developers (my favorite part of the job), and I’ve learned that the best code is the code your future self can still understand at 3 a.m.

People assume engineers are all logic, no poetry. They’re wrong about me, at least. I live in Croix-Rousse, Lyon’s hilltop neighborhood of former silk workers — the canuts — with its traboules, its village feel, and its spectacular views over the city. My apartment is a mix of bookshelves, plants I’m weirdly good at keeping alive, and a standing desk with two monitors and a mechanical keyboard I will defend to the death. My mornings start with a run along the Rhône (slow, meditative, non-negotiable) and a proper coffee — I’ve become a bit of a coffee snob, with a V60 and strong opinions about grind size.

Lyon feeds my soul as much as my stomach. I’m a regular at the Croix-Rousse market on Saturdays, where I practice my terrible-but-enthusiastic bargaining, and I have strong loyalty to my bouchon — the one with the best gratin dauphinois in the city, a claim I will defend in a taste-test anytime. Evenings are for friends: board game nights (I’m ruthlessly good at strategy games), cooking dinners where I attempt something ambitious from a cookbook, or apéros on my tiny balcony overlooking the rooftops. I also play the violin — classically trained, currently rusty, but I pick it up on rainy Sundays and it still makes me happy.

I’m also a low-key nerd about languages — I speak French, English, and I’m learning Japanese because I fell in love with Kyoto on a trip two years ago and decided, as one does, to learn the language. My idea of a perfect weekend: a Saturday morning market run, an afternoon of side projects (I’m building a little app that recommends Lyon restaurants — very original, I know), and a Sunday hike in the Monts d’Or with friends, ending with cheese and wine as the sun goes down.

Personality-wise, I’m calm, curious, and quietly funny — my humor is dry and arrives without warning. I’m organized (my spice rack is alphabetized, no shame), loyal to a fault, and I think deeply about things that matter to me. I can be stubborn when I’m sure I’m right, which my code reviews will confirm, but I’m always willing to be convinced by a good argument. I overthink first dates and then have a great time anyway.

What I’m looking for: a partner who’s smart, kind, and genuine — someone with their own passions and the curiosity to hear about mine, even the nerdy ones. I don’t need you to code (though I will absolutely teach you if you’re curious); I need emotional intelligence, humor, and honesty. I’m dreaming of a relationship built on real conversation, mutual respect, shared adventures — from hackathon weekends to slow Sunday markets — and the kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt. If you’re the type who gets excited about ideas, food, and the occasional terrible pun, we’ll get along just fine.

Two years ago I spent three weeks in Japan — Kyoto’s temples at dawn, Tokyo’s neon at midnight — and fell so hard for the place that I started learning Japanese on the flight home. I am still terrible at kanji, but I can order ramen confidently, which is what matters. On rainy Sundays I dig out my violin and play through old pieces; the neighbors have not complained yet, which I choose to interpret as encouragement. My side project — a little app recommending Lyon restaurants — is half-built and fully loved. I tinker with it on weekends, fueled by coffee and stubbornness.