Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
I yawn, stretching out my legs as best I can, but my feet are definitely tingly and asleep. “Mmm,” I groan, searching for relief and accidently disturbing the snoring man. He makes a sound as though he’s choking on a chicken bone and then starts snoring again, louder this time. Actually . . . that’s not all snores. I think he just farted. I glare at him as though he’ll feel it in his sleep. Seriously?
If he just launched a deadly dose of methane inside a metal tube with recirculated air, I’m going to suffocate because I can’t escape to the onboard bathroom with my feet still asleep. I roll my ankles with more intention, because now that I’ve thought about it, I really could use a trip to the restroom. A glance at Turkey Neck has me doing some mental gymnastics about how I might get around him and out into the aisle, but I come up short of any reasonable possibility.
I’m ready for this flight to be over. As bad as it’s going, I mostly want it to be over so that I’m there . . . in Paris! That’s the thought that’s been playing in my mind, over and over, with every mile.
I’m going to design in Paris with House Corbin.
It’s utter madness, and excitement shoots through me, fresh once more.
Hours, and a few more farts later, we’re on final approach to Charles De Gaulle airport and touch down. The jolt wakes Turkey Neck and makes Nervous Nellie cry out as she clutches the armrests. I offer her a gentle reassurance. “Back on solid ground.”
She smiles gratefully but is still taking some deep breaths and whispering a mantra I haven’t quite figured out to calm herself.
When we arrive at the gate, the seatbelt sign dings and I unbuckle. I can’t believe I’m here. It doesn’t feel real until the immigration officer looks at my passport and nods, stamping the page and handing it back to me.
“Enjoy France,” he says, and for the first time, I officially step onto French soil. Well, French airport carpet, at least.
I knew as I prepped to fly that Charles De Gaulle airport is one of the busiest in the world. But I never expected it to be this chaotic. The international arrivals hallways are crowded, with what sounds like every language in the world bouncing off the walls. The New York City sidewalks have nothing on these people, who are not only dodging and weaving through one another, but doing it with rolling suitcases behind them that create an obstacle course worthy of Survivor.
Finally, I see a driver, a small, balding, pot-bellied man, holding up a sign with my name on it. I walk up to him and wave, pointing at myself and the sign.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Je suis votre chauffeur, pouvez-vous me suivre jusqu'à la voiture?” he says, and I stammer.
I reach for my phone and start tapping as I say the first thing I learned ahead of time. “Bonjour. Je m’appelle Autumn.”
“Bien.” He praises my poor attempt but then switches to English. “Follow me to the automobile.”
Oh, thank fuck. He speaks English!
I nod, following him out to a nice-looking white BMW, and minutes later, we’re on the French version of the Interstate on our way into Paris.
It’s absolutely beautiful. Stunning, in fact. The sun’s just beginning to rise, and as we get closer, Paris reveals herself to me. In the front seat, the driver talks, pointing out the sights in his limited English.
“Famous French bridge.”
“Famous French restaurant.”
“Famous French monument . . . Napoleon.”
Apparently, his list of adjectives is limited to ‘famous’ and ‘French,’ but I can’t knock him. My French is worse than his English, and I don’t even know half of the nouns he’s saying.
But it doesn’t matter. Around me, I’m stunned as the City of Lights wakes up, awash in pinks and oranges as the streets begin to fill with people and activity. I’m staring out the window of the car like the tourist I am, gobsmacked by all I see. The architecture! The beauty! It’s just breathtaking, and I can feel the excitement buzzing up my arms like I just took a triple-shot of Claire’s super-strong espresso.
There’s magic in the air! I can feel it with every cell of my body.
“Wow,” I breathe.
The driver leaves me to my own thoughts, focusing as traffic begins to fill in the roadway around us. I listen to him muttering under his breath, and without knowing any French cursewords, I can still figure out when he’s cursing the car in front of or beside us. He swerves left and right, changing lanes with zero cares about anyone else on the road, and I fight to see everything around me all at once as I slide across the leather of the back seat to check the view out every window.