"It looks like Ohio," he said in response to my oohs and aahs. How plainly put. With my nose pressed against the cold window during the last leg of our flight to Paris, the northern French countryside could've been the surface of the moon. After circling above the Baltic Sea and starting our descent into Charles de Gaulle one could only hope that the thirteen hours of miniature cocktails, artsy Swedish plastic ware, and aromatherapy eye pillows had taken us further than Ohio.
What a fine time to travel to France. …
