A few days ago I found my way into a screening of Inception at the ambassador’s house. And let me tell you — it’s just the kind of mind-bending film that leaves you emotionally drained, mildly disoriented, questioning your very existence. Especially when you watch it:
1. At the ambassador’s house in Paris.
2. Sitting in a screening room that’s really a magnificently gilded and mirrored 17th century ballroom.
It made me stop and think about how my life as of late has been just a little too suspiciously surreal: Fairy-tale castles, fireworks over the Eiffel, pain au raisins for breakfast every morning. Understandably, I had a little bit of a metaphysical meltdown. Is all this real? Or am I just dreaming? And if this is dream land, why didn’t I imagine myself with a smaller butt?
It’s a rabbit hole deep enough to make your head spin. But I guess there’s no use fretting. Better to sit back, sip some champagne, and wait for someone to kick the chair out from under me.