“Once, on a work trip, I’d been put up at Le Bristol, in Paris. As I walked around the suite I began to weep. The wallpaper had pink roses and the carpet and curtains had pink roses and the bed was a beautiful bosom you’d never want to leave. Gilt mirrors, a small marble-topped table, a pair of little Louis XIV chairs gathered in a place where you might want to read a poem. The stationery, the robe, the lotion—each of these things was thicker and more exquisite than I’d previously been aware existed. I began to panic—how would I live after this, now knowing?

And then I became angry. Not at the fundamental injustice of luxuries built for an elite minority, no, just that I was only staying for two nights. In the end it was fine. I savored each meal, I took pictures like a dumb tourist, and when the time came to leave I mutely accepted my return to civilian life.

I didn’t get to keep the paintings I saw at the Louvre, either.”