Hours later, as the plane descended at Charles de Gaulle Airport, the thrill of finally arriving made my heart pound. Once on the ground, I gathered up my bags and followed the shuffle of people—some slow, others fast—into the terminal and to passport control.
As I queued up with the other non-citizens of the European Union, I surveyed the gaggle behind me for Taryn's blonde ponytail with no luck. It took fifteen minutes to navigate the maze of stanchions and get to the uniformed Frenchman who asked me if I was in France for business or leisure. Wishing I could say the latter—but thinking of the work still to do before our event—I told him business, and he rapidly punched his stamp in my passport. A black airplane and "Roissy-CDG" with the date in red ink emblazoned on the page.
"Merci,"
