Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,57

beep.

“Have a nice flight,” she said.

“Thank you,” I replied.

I hurried down the gangway, relieved to be on my way, only to stop at the end, where people were still waiting to board. Hurry up and wait, hurry up and wait. The joys of travel.

* * *

• • • •

THE FLIGHT WAS mercifully short. We were barely up, then we were down. When the plane had landed, I reached for my phone, only to discover that it wasn’t in my purse. I checked everywhere in and around my seat as my panic slowly built. Suddenly, the top of my head went cold. And as the chill spread down through my body, I remembered with a flash that I had stuffed my phone into the outside pouch of my carry-on bag while carefully putting my passport in the zippered pocket inside my shoulder bag.

Like a nut, I raced down to baggage and watched with increasing dismay as my cute little carry-on did not appear on the carousel. I gave it a half hour, and only when all the bags had been claimed did I finally accept the truth. There was no bag for me.

“I am so sorry, mademoiselle. I will need you to fill out this property irregularity report,” said the middle-aged man with a name tag that read Daniel behind the customer service desk at the Charles de Gaulle Airport.

The same carry-on that the airline person had told me would have to be loaded onto the plane after the passengers boarded, because the overhead bins were full. And now here I was with no phone and no bag. Argh, this was a nightmare.

It was taking everything I had not to have a complete and total stress meltdown. How was I supposed to contact anyone without my phone? My father and sister were going to freak out if they didn’t hear from me. Thankfully, when I had booked the studio apartment in Paris from the Bee and Thistle Inn in Ennis, I’d had the foresight, or sheer dumb luck, to text the name and address to my father. Worst-case scenario, he’d be able to find me through the owner.

Right now, the best I could hope for would be to find an Internet café and send a follow-up email. That would tide my family over, but what about all the other things I used my phone for, starting with stalking my ex-boyfriend in Paris? How was I supposed to track down Jean Claude now?

I filled out the form with the pen Daniel gave me, grateful that I remembered the address of the apartment I had rented. I’d chosen a place in the same neighborhood I’d lived in before, so I knew the area quite well, or at least, I had seven years ago.

Daniel, with the close-cropped gray hair, kind eyes, and lovely French accent, assured me that they would be in touch about my suitcase. When I pressed him for specifics, he stated that as soon as my bag was located, it would be hand delivered to my apartment. He almost made it sound like having my bag delivered was the best possible outcome. Sure, but not nearly as convenient as having my bag in hand right now.

It wasn’t his fault—I knew that. So I smiled and thanked him and wished him a nice day. He seemed grateful that I didn’t rip into him, and repeated his promise to have my bag reunited with me as soon as possible. I left the counter with nothing but the clothes on my back, my purse, and the vague feeling that I was forgetting something big. But I wasn’t; I was just missing something big.

What if they never found my bag? What if my phone was lost for good? What if it was never recovered? What was I going to do? I gave myself a mental shake. People had lived for thousands of years without cell phones; I could survive a day or two, even if the thought of it made me slightly queasy.

A quick survey of my handbag revealed I had my wallet, passport, sunglasses, a brush, and a pack of breath mints. Surely I could survive on that for a day. Calmer, I went in search of the train that would take me into the city, hoping that the inauspicious start to my Paris adventure was not an indicator of worse things to come.

Since my plane had landed at Terminal One, I needed to catch the free shuttle to Terminal Three, where I