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.
