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“How many other people will I share this with?”
She frowns in confusion. “This is your private suite.”
“But this is a room…in an airplane. It has a bed and a TV.”
“Is it not to your liking? I have one other suite available, but it’s slightly smaller and you won’t be across the hall from your travel companion.”
“Are there not just…like…normal seats? In a row?”
“Not in Première class. I’m sorry.”
She’s sorry. I almost laugh at that as she tells me she’ll be right back with champagne and a warm hand towel.
Wonderful, because of course I need a warm hand towel. How could I possibly travel to Paris without a warm hand towel!?
I think I’m going crazy.
I sit down in the chair across from the bed and look around my cabin in disbelief. Nothing about this makes sense. No one deserves this life, no one—least of all me. It’s why I fight Cornelia tooth and nail about every little luxury she tries to toss my way. It feels like too much, and while it’s nice, it’s not necessary. It doesn’t change who I am at my core.
When the flight attendant returns with the amenities she promised, I ask her how long it will take us to get to Paris.
“Flight time is around seven and a half hours. We should arrive at 8:15 AM Paris time. If you need anything during the flight, press that little black button beside your bed and I’ll be happy to assist you.”
I don’t press that button even once, too scared to bother her. I make do with the snacks that came pre-loaded in the cabin and the complimentary candy I swiped from the airport lounge. After I flip through the TV channels aimlessly for a little while, I search around the space, opening cupboards and doors. There’s a pair of pajamas with the Air France logo on them, brand new and freshly laundered. I slip them on and lie down on the bed, trying to ignore the feeling of anxiety starting to creep in.
I’ve never been out of the country before. I always thought I’d love to go explore the world someday, but now that it’s actually happening, I feel slightly uneasy. I know it’s silly. I know I’m likely just overly tired and a little homesick, but I can’t shake the dark cloud hanging over my head as I toss and turn on the bed.
I don’t want to spend the whole time in Paris worrying about my troubles back home. Two weeks abroad with Cornelia is a dream—one I know I’ll never experience again—so with newfound resolve, I decide to let myself enjoy it completely.
No feeling guilty. No worrying about life afterward.
In Paris, we’re staying in a two-bedroom suite at the Mandarin Oriental. Cornelia tells me she has plans to visit the spa, so I have the morning to myself if I want to catch up on sleep or go out and explore. I opt for the latter, swapping my flats for a pair of sneakers. I wander with no destination in mind, grateful that our hotel is in the heart of the city. I exchange a few of the euros Cornelia handed me at the hotel for a map from a street vendor and use it to traverse the 8th arrondissement, ultimately ending up at the Arc de Triomphe. I follow the signs leading to the underpass that carries pedestrians underneath the chaotic traffic circle surrounding the arch, and then I start to climb up the 284 steps.
Outside, at the top of the arch, I find a sunny view of Paris waiting for me. It’s remarkable how classical the city has remained, how short it all is compared to the skyscrapers in Manhattan. I overhear a tour guide explaining to his group that Paris chose to outlaw towers so the nineteenth-century structures could remain the tallest in the city. Among them, most prominently, is the Eiffel Tower.
Everyone around me has their phones out, snapping photos, but I have nothing but my memory to commemorate the moment, so I stand on the ledge, against the iron rail, and I stare for as long as I can bear it, trying to memorize the view from every angle.
Tourists flutter around me, most of whom aren’t speaking English, so it’s rather easy to find myself alone in the crowd. I like it.
I linger until my stomach growls and then I start the trek back down the stairs and out into the city. Along the Champs-Élysées, I purchase an assorted pack of macarons from Ladurée and eat them while I walk, convincing myself that they make a perfectly decent lunch if you’re in Paris. I window shop and force myself to slow down whenever my pace creeps back up. I have plenty of time to get back to the hotel, and there is a finite number of minutes I’ll get in this city. I want to embrace every single one of them.
