“You’re dreaming, Juliette,” Feng replied when I announced my Parisian Airbnb wasn’t a scam. “I can hear you muttering something about ‘Kovit’ in your sleep. You went straight to bed after a long walk in a blizzard, it’s a cold, cold night in Ottawa…”

I love this man.

And I’m pretty sure I’m not dreaming even though I’m exhausted because nothing went as planned the night before our trip to Paris.

Going to Paris isn’t a big deal—the city is only a two-hour train ride from Nantes and both my brother and sister live there. She had a baby boy two weeks ago, actually, Mark’s first (and maybe only ever) cousin, which was the excuse my mom and I needed to head to Paris.

It was just a matter of timing. I would have gone to Paris weeks ago, but it was a COVID hot spot with tougher restrictions, then France entered some kind of light lockdown so travelling around was a big no-no, plus non-essential businesses were closed. When it was lifted early May, we still had a 7 p.m. curfew, then a 9 p.m. curfew.

The baby was late.

Then both my mom and I were swamped with work.

I finally bought our train tickets last week.

Timing was tight the day before the trip. My mom was working until 6 p.m. and I was desperately trying to wrap up two large projects. We had to go grocery shopping for my grandmother, clean up the apartment, pack and hopefully sleep early.

When my mom came back after 6 p.m., I was working and she was on the phone.

“You didn’t find it? Oh fuck…”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I lost my wallet. Or most likely, it was stolen in the tramway, it was packed. I stopped at the supermarket on the way back from work then I delivered everything to mamie… I was trying to be efficient. And when I got to her place, I noticed my wallet was gone. Putain!”

“What did you lose exactly?”

“Everything… except money. I didn’t have any money in it. But IDs, bank card, health card, library card…”

“Okay, call the bank to report the stolen card.”

I grabbed my keys and retraced her steps. I stopped by the central bus station where nice employees called the tramway driver—no wallet found. I stopped by the supermarket where two wallets had been found, none of them my mom’s.

When I came home my mom was trying to block an old store credit card she had never used. I finally managed to reach customer service for her and started the whole “got my card stolen” process but the phone went dead at exactly 7 p.m.—turned out customer service closes at 7 p.m., ah ah. So we rushed to the store to have the card blocked.

“Did you go to the police station to report your stolen wallet?” the store employee asked.

Nope, didn’t think of it. But apparently, when you lose IDs and bank cards, you need a police report.

It was already 8 p.m. We decided to go home, pack, make dinner and go to the police station last.

At 11 p.m. we crossed the city, me on Skype with Mark—“stop moving, mom, I’m taking snapshots, I miss France so much!”

And at the police station, we were told to fill up forms online to be contacted later. It was past midnight when we got home, tired and hungry.

We didn’t sleep much that night.

And then we arrived in Paris and forgot about it all.

I’ve been there hundreds of times, I know the city well but it still feels somewhat unreal to cross the Louvre, walk along the Seine and bump into history every few metres.

And everything felt… strange, but in a good way. It was hot and sunny, streets were packed, France was playing against Germany, and suddenly I was meeting both of my siblings plus a newborn strapped to my sister. I never get to see my siblings in Paris. I never get to travel to Paris with my mom.

Everybody was cheering, everybody was happy.

If this is the new normal, I’m in.