Dear TJ (aka Travel Journal), I’m here! I’m on the plane! I did it! I can’t believe I’m actually going to FRANCE. I am so sophisticated. Okay, fine, in my ratty sweatpants, T-shirt, and ponytail, I am not looking so sophisticated, but that’s hardly the point. I AM GOING TO FRANCE. As soon as the plane takes off. In eight—wait, make that seven!—minutes. I almost missed the plane due to my parents’ fanatical hugging. My mom was full-on whimpering, and even my Dad’s eyes were glistening (although he tried to pretend he got dirt stuck in his contacts). I reminded them that I would only be gone for eleven days (one night on the plane, four nights in Paris, one night on a train, two nights in the Alps, and three nights in Nice—pronounced Niece—which is on the Riviera), but my mom would not calm down. “Are you sure you want to go?” she asked, her voice shaking. I nodded. “But what if you break something?” “Then I’ll go to the hospital,” I said, attempting to sound calm.
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