On the first flight, I sat next to a woman who was born in France who had worked in fashion in New York City for about 15 years, then moved and worked for a well-known bag company in a small town in the Midwest. She said that the culture shock of moving from Paris to New York was dwarfed by the difference between NYC and a small midwestern town. When she moved in, several of her neighbors dropped by with food to welcome them to town — something that she found absolutely wonderful, moreso than her introverted American husband.

She shared about how poverty in the US is entirely different from poverty in France, commenting on how brutal and grinding and pervasive it was. She said that it was ready for a revolution, or at least if people were experiencing the same thing in France, there would no doubt be one — she mentioned that they are quite passionate about causing a ruckus.

She was returning to France to see her mother, who is nearing the end of her life. Her siblings still live in the country, and it seems like it could be time soon. She bought a ticket last minute, joining me in the back row of the plane. After talking for about 90 minutes, I did my best to fall asleep in the middle seat, tucking a pillow into the front part of my shirt and just pitching my head forward. I wasn’t sure if I had actually fallen asleep. Before landing, she assured me that I had slept quite well.