The Four-Part Newsletter series that prompted *hundreds* of responses like these:

....So, settle in and fly away with me on this first episode of JENNIFER IN PARIS… featuring far less glamour, sex, fashion, and zero handsome French chefs, but hey.

It’s April 2018, and I’ve been invited to speak as a guest at my client Audrey’s “Rendezvous in Paris” retreat. (Can we all just “rendezvous” more often? It sounds so sexy. I will “Rendezvous” with you in your inbox later this week. *DOUBLE EYE WINK*)

Audrey, said client, could easily have starred as “Sexy French woman photographer” in Emily in Paris (that’s HER in her site header video!). She’s totally très cool, very fashionable, very funny, incredibly talented, and I could listen to her read the phone book.

And yet, I still really like her.

There were a number of very fancy things on the itinerary for the trip, which was billed as a dream getaway to “Audrey’s private Paris” — think tea at the Ritz, an exclusive Jo Malone tour, shopping, a picnic near the Louvre, a beautiful French apartment, etc. — mixed with education from industry experts like Audrey and many of her talented friends… and, well, moi. 👋

“MMM, THAT SOUNDS GOOD. I’LL HAVE THAT.” (If you can name that movie, we’re going to be friends.)

The pièce de résistance of the trip was a fabulous gala the last night, in which we’d all don our finest formal gowns and dine and dance the night away at one of the most famous luxury hotels in Paris, The Crillion.

Here's what actually happened.

We'll start at the beginning:

I agonize about whether I should go on the trip at all, given that I had a 3 year-old at home and 8 month-old baby who wasn’t great at taking a bottle and still nursed every three hours. I won’t go into details, but man, pumping sucks. #GLAMOROUS

I agonize over finding the right gala dress, then making sure my postpartum mom-body looked good enough in said dress. 2018 Jennifer, be easy on yourself. You look great and no one really cares.

I agonize over finding childcare to help with my babies for the four days I’d be gone (since it was my husband’s busiest work season). I convince myself that this was all worth it because not only is the retreat a dream; I’m also going to meet up with my new client, Beth Kirby, whose website I had just been asked to design. (Spoiler alert: it turned out awesome.)

And then, the fateful trip arrives. I pack all of my chic-est clothes. I board the plane in my trusty travel outfit (black leggings, cute athletic shoes, black top, good coat). And fellow moms, you know… literally ANY place when you’re by yourself without your baby is like a trip to the spa. Airport bathroom? Spa. Grocery store? Spa. Airport lounge? Spa. It was glorious.

Until I got off the plane for my short layover in London, groggy from a night of tiny-wine-bottle-fueled airplane “sleep,” — wearing, I kid you not, THIS monstrosity, because I can never sleep on planes — and walked through security, where I realized with great horror...

I’d left my wallet on the plane.

In the back pocket of the seat in front of me, to be precise, where I’d stowed it after I’d paid for my tiny bottle of wine.

My mom had always warned me alcohol led to bad decisions, and it turned out she was RIGHT...

not convinced? read the excerpt:

DROP YOUR INFO TO KEEP READING: 

that's me, jen, in paris...
at least the floors were perfect?