The night before I left Paris for the United States, I endeavored to culminate the seduction of an American girl. I took her to an excellent Vietnamese restaurant. I ordered the bún chả (4/5, would order again) and she, a noodle dish (cannot comment). We had a pleasant meal, which she did not thank me for. Afterwards, I invited her to my luxurious-by-Parisian-standards hotel room under the pretext of drinking some cider from Brittany.

Once in familiar territory I put on some music and maneuvered her onto the bed. We made out and I removed her bra, but she did not allow the shirt to go with it. We talked on the bed in between bouts of kissing and fondling. She foreshadowed her eventual departure with a few references to the increasingly late hour. She had already somewhat spoiled the spirit of the evening for me and I resigned myself to the fact that I would not be getting laid. When she did finally deliver on her threats to go, I felt relieved.

Out of a sense of obligation, I popped in to a couple of bars near the Sarbonne. They were full of young people in varying stages of intoxication. I ended my night at around 2AM with a doner and fries (2/5, damp wrap; mediocre). I had to be up early for my one hour drive to Charles De Gaulle International Airport, where I would need to check in two hours prior to my flight. My fruitless nocturnal activities ensured I would have a slight headache for the next 24 hours of airports and air travel.

The Chinese taxi driver arrived ten minutes early to the hotel the next morning, interrupting my €15 breakfast of hardboiled eggs and toast (1/5, a last meal very emblematic of Paris). We loaded my luggage in the car and I waited in its cold interior while he smoked a cigarette. We passed the trip in total silence. For showing that much tact, I tipped him €10.

I was flying Air Tahiti Nui from Paris to LAX. At the queue for the check-in counter, a woman confronted me in her loud, authoritative voice, demanding I surrender to her my passport. I obliged and, after a cursory scan, she affixed to its cover a small sticker. Another woman at the ticket counter then informed me I had been randomly selected for an additional security check.

After passing through security, myself, along with four other male passengers, were called up for our secondary screening. This entailed airport personnel interfering with our persons (sans shoes) while another thoroughly inspected our carry-on luggage. I showed someone my passport for the fourth time since my arrival at the airport. While modern air travel is now more economically feasible than at any other time in human history, the hidden cost of this Faustian bargain is unceremoniously levied against the dignity of the sovereign individual.

The flight attendant who welcomed me aboard the aircraft was a tall, well-built Tahitian man with a sort of Polynesian jheri curl. He wore his courtesy smile and floral print button-up shirt with equal aplomb. Island life was clearly a balm to one’s health. I wondered what his life was like on his paradisiacal home. I hoped he was happily married but also occasionally entertained the simple tastes of female tourists with his wife’s tacit approval. All passengers were provided small flowers upon boarding. I put mine in my pocket before I saw others place them behind one ear. Above all, I hoped that the seat next to mine would be empty. Of course, it was not.

I was one of the first to board the aircraft and so had a prime seat to observe my fellow passengers as they blundered their way down the narrow isles. They were, for the most part, unremarkable, with the stunning exception of a late forty-something woman traveling in the company of a small, dark-featured child. The woman was dressed in black tights and high-heeled, above-the-knee boots. Her outfit was the sort that would look ridiculous on other women of a similar age who are desperate to convince everyone, including themselves, they’re not already well advanced into sexual obsolescence. Not so with this woman, who, though she was long past her sexual prime, radiated a powerful erotic energy. She absolutely deserved to be described with that flattering acronym.

I watched three films on the 13 hour flight: the first was Sicario (3/5, not bad for a sequel), the second was Crazy Rich Asians (4/5, surprisingly enjoyable), and the third was Venom (1.5/5, almost unwatchable). I sincerely regretted not packing any snacks.

The French say Americans have no culture, but that’s simply evidence of their laziness. The pop Muzak at the pizza place I elected out of a few other dismal dining options in LAX was culture: $20 for the pepperoni sausage combo (4/5, as much of a pleasant surprise as Crazy Rich Asians); so was the man who sat across from me wearing cargo shorts and white socks, Otterbox-encased iPhone strapped to his hip; as were the many girls sporting grotesque amounts of makeup. What the French really mean when they say Americans have no culture is that we have no class. This assessment is absolutely correct.

After my first meal back in the United States (it could only be either a pizza or a burger) I headed down an escalator to wait for the shuttle transfer to my departure terminal. A handful of other passengers were already there, including the French MILF. The 13-hour flight had done little to dampen her vitality. Actually, she looked resplendent. This effect was likely due to the fact that she had removed her black leather jacket to better display a devastating amount of cleavage. My ability to assess cup sizes in the wild is inaccurate at best; suffice it to say that her glorious tanned tits left a strong impression, as did her long, dark, lustrous hair. Her high black leather boots drew the eyes up a pair of toned legs to an ass that demanded earnest contemplation. She embodied a powerful feline elegance and vitality that stood in direct contrast to the crummy, colorless surroundings of the airport terminal.

She was with the little girl and an older woman in a wheelchair who I had not noticed earlier on the plane. Their little group was in the escort of an American Airlines employee.

The Employee was in his mid to late thirties. He was, like the majority of the people in the American airport, overweight and out of shape. A pair of black, thick-framed Oakley wraparounds underlined his bald skull. He wore an orange safety vest over his button-up dress shirt, tucked sloppily into a pair of ill-fitting slacks.

As we waited for the terminal shuttle, I was privy to the group’s conversation. The Employee boasted how he “works for the passengers, not the airline.” I winced. The man was obviously ensnared in the MILF’s powerful erotic aura. She received his absurd statement with a polite smile. In none of the infinite number of possible universes was she not aware of the effect she had on him and on men in general. The Employee took her smile for encouragement and further puffed out his chest. “Don’t worry,” he beamed, “we’ll get you to your gate on time. You’re under my personal protection.”

I actually had to sort of hand it to him: he was doing okay, all things considered. This was the highlight of his year and he was making of it what he could. Men with half his body mass index and quadruple his annual salary had disintegrated under the sultry gaze of those beautiful brown eyes. For her part, the MILF adopted an attitude of patient kindness. I had no doubt she had experienced this kind of interaction many, many times before—she was well practiced in her role—it was unmistakable. So was the glimmer in her countenance of amused mercy, the kind a large cat will bequeath to its prey just before snapping its neck and devouring its entrails. There was no question who held the upper hand in this socio-sexual dynamic. To feign ignorance of this was exactly what was expected of a woman of her stature.

After a short wait, the shuttle arrived and we were allowed to board. In transit to our terminal, the man continued to ramble on without a moment’s pause. The MILF sat next to him with perfect posture, knees and breasts both angled slightly towards him, providing him with wank bank material for the next decade of his unremarkable life.

Upon arrival at the departure terminal, the shuttle’s occupants scattered to their respective gates. After being told by an airport employee that under no circumstances would I be allowed to smoke a cigarette, I walked to the end of the terminal where the little party waited for their flight. The monitor at the gate informed me of their destination: SFO. The Employee was still speaking animatedly to the MILF, a situation I saw continuing until the very moment she boarded the plane to San Francisco, where she would gladly trade the paltry attentions of this upstart airline employee for those of her hedge-fund managing fiancé. Of this, there was no doubt.