I’M seated in “Le Club,” Air France’s Concorde Lounge at Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport (LFPG). It’s May 2000, and across from me, outside a panoramic window, Concorde waits in silhouette—poised, sleek, unreal.
Check-in was a breeze. The lounge, all blond wood, buttery leather, Badoit and bubbly, exudes curated calm. From my corner, I watch her—a stunning, slender swan with a droop nose, ready to jet us to John F. Kennedy International Airport (KJFK) in New York.
A CEO across from me drops a line about his $8 million tax bill. Nearby, Si Newhouse clutches proofs for what might be next week’s The New Yorker. No one blinks. Newhouse doesn’t notice me not noticing him. This is the Concorde Lounge, after all—eavesdropping and star sighting is, perhaps, part of the…