Of all the things to play over the PA system in the waiting area for the airport shuttle, the last thing Darien expected to hear was “Ain’t We Got Fun” by Peggy Lee. With the especially pointed lyrics, “There’s nothing surer/The rich get rich and the poor get poorer,” it was not exactly an ideal selection to play for a mostly middle-class audience. And for those who would argue that there’s no middle class left, one need only do a cursory sweep of any (international) airport to find that, clearly, those flying economy are the last of that so-called dying breed.

Darien counted herself among this ilk—constantly living beyond her means via credit card, but still able to pay just slightly above the monthly minimums in order to keep living in an “extra” manner continuously (or until the creditors beat down her door). One such “extra” manner being to take a trip to Paris, where she had traveled for the express purpose to see the new and improved Notre-Dame. And, just as promised, it was “as close to time travel as one could get.” Indeed, Darien really did feel as though she had been transported to the period of the church’s initial unveiling—so bright, white and full of light was the restored space. So…unbesmirched. Of course, it would only take a few more “visitings” before that freshness was rendered sale. Tainted by the presence of fatsos and philistines.

This initial pristineness was what had everyone gawking in the midst of destroying it. And, unfortunately, Darien knew that the religious zealots would now probably say that the fire that happened in April of 2019 was an act of god, not the devil. For it was the fire that necessitated the “powers that be” (a.k.a. government and those with money to burn [pardon the pun]—a.k.a. Salma Hayek’s husband) to at last concede to reviving Notre-Dame to its full-fledged former glory.

Religious or not, which Darien wasn’t, she could still appreciate the pomp and circumstance surrounding that glory. Obviously—for she had just shelled out about one thousand dollars for the airfare alone to come and see it. To marvel at and bow down to its architectural majesty. Emphasis on architectural. This wasn’t about “divinity” for Darien; it was about wanting to see one of the greatest architectural achievements in the world. Although she had hoped that being an architectural studies student at the University of Chicago might give her some clout when it came to “jumping the line,” Darien was forced to take whatever booking she could get.

Alas, the one she thought she had secured was actually not. For whatever reason, a button wasn’t pushed, etc., etc. and the final step wasn’t completed. Which meant that, upon arriving in Paris, Darien realized she would need to be shelling out a lot more than she thought—including the cost of changing her return ticket—so that she could linger long enough to go to Notre-Dame for the next available booking, which was two weeks out from when she had originally planned. Oh the perils of being “daffy” and “absent-minded,” the two qualities most frequently attributed to Darien…by her mother. Her father, on the other hand, was less euphemistic, often calling her “a total fucking retard” when it came to planning.

But no matter. Just as the religious zealots had taken the burning of Notre-Dame as a “divine sign,” so, too, would Darien take her forced additional days in Paris as one. Maybe she was meant to meet the love of her life. Or something. She laughed to herself when she had the gall to let this thought run through her mind from within the stinky confines of the Au Royal Mad hotel. Though the word “hotel” was something of a stretch. For Darien didn’t count anything that required you to go down the hall to use the bathroom as a hotel, so much as a glorified dormitory. Hence, the reasonably nightly price point for a joint so centrally located.

In fact, Darien had been given no choice but to downgrade from her original, posher hotel near the Jardin des Plantes when she found out just how many more days she would have to extend her stay. Such are the limitations of being “middle class.” Though not so limiting to have prevented her from coming to Paris in the first place even though she didn’t have the liquid, tangible means to do so. Yes, the rich get rich and the fake rich get poorer. That sentiment ought to have been featured in the updated lyrics to Peggy Lee’s song. If Darien had a spiritual experience at Notre-Dame, perhaps she could “tap into the other side” long enough to let her know.

When she did, at long last, make her way into the cathedral, she had to admit that the experience was somewhat “mitigated” by the presence of so many other “pilgrims” ooh-ing and ahh-ing, clicking away to capture their precious fucking photos. The ones they would show to everyone back home to prove how simultaneously cultured and spiritual they were. Though none of them would think to say, “Ooo just look at them rib vaults and flying buttresses.” That’s what Darien would say if she were the type of person to 1) have friends and 2) show pictures of a trip she took to them. Luckily, for her sense of dignity (or the illusion of her sense of dignity), she was not.

Outside the cathedral, Darien took one final appraisal of the edifice before surrendering to the end of her journey. After completing what she had set out to do by coming to Paris, Darien was suddenly eager to return home. Almost as if a spell had been broken and she realized that, for somebody like her, Paris could never be “real life.” It was too much of a fantasy, a postcard dream meant for some people, but not for her. Not for the fake rich. Only the truly rich or extremely poor. But hey, she said to herself (i.e., her best friend), ain’t we got fun while the credit card maximum lasted?