I had never been out of the country. The closest thing I got to anything “international” was a sub-par noodle restaurant in Washington, D.C.’s Chinatown. Now, as I was about to board a flight to Paris, France, I looked longingly at my Popeye’s fried chicken and had a frightening thought.

“Dad, do you think they’ll have fried chicken in France?”

He gave me that disapproving nod he always does and said, “Do you think they’ll what?”

“You know,” I said, “fried chicken, do you think they have any?”

He laughed and said, “Probably not.”

I responded with a gentle “Oh.”

I didn’t shed any tears, yet. But that was the last straw. I was already on the fence about this whole “foreign country” thing, but a place without fried chicken is a place I don’t want to be. I almost took an Uber home right then, but I remembered this trip was all about escaping my comfort zone.

I love planes, I always have. However, nothing could have prepared me for the boredom of an eight-hour flight. The first four were filled with excitement and anticipation, the last four made me consider popping open the emergency exit and abandoning ship. The altitude and air pressure really messed with my head, and I had no idea what time zone we had just left or just entered. It was truly a strange experience.

The joke “how about that airplane food” repeated itself in my mind as I twirled my fork around some strange-looking pasta. I’m always down for a good meal, but what was served on that flight was downright nasty. As I chewed a piece of bread that had more in common with cardboard, I decided to take a peek out the window.

Yup, I thought, same as three hours ago: nothing.

“First time on a plane?” said the man in the seat beside me.

Whoa, can this guy hear my thoughts? I wondered. I said to him, “No.”

“First time out of the country then?” he pressed.

Look, dude, you didn’t speak to me during the first four hours of this flight. Let’s finish the last four that way, too, I said in my head, though I immediately regretted the thought. The truth was, I was glad to hear a voice besides the captain’s letting us know we were about to encounter turbulence yet again.

“Yeah, first time out of the country,” I replied.

The man gave a grunt of approval, then went back to his favorite activity: snoring. Time ticked by, the plane soared on, and “The Lego Movie” continued to play on the screen (too bad it was in Spanish).

However, it wasn’t long until the inevitable occurred: I had to relieve myself. Frankly, I was surprised I had made it this long. After a quick wrestling match with my seat belt, I began my journey to the bathroom. It was the quickest journey ever, considering my seat was right next to the lavatory. This luxury was both a blessing and a curse: I didn’t have to maneuver past rows and rows of disgruntled passengers, but on the downside, the airplane pasta had not been as kind to some of my fellow passengers as it had been to me. After I was done, I attempted to open the door. It wouldn’t budge.

So this is it. This is how it ends.

Relax, man, the brave part of me responded. You’ve gotten out of worse situations than this.

But the door simply wasn’t going to open. No one would be able to hear my screams and I would perish in an airplane bathroom above the Atlantic. It was only after I had lost all hope that I realized it was a sliding door, not one that you push open. I walked out like it was no big deal, but in reality I hope no one ever feels as trapped as I did. My 6'3" self and the compact lavatory did not become good friends that day.

A swift, bumpy landing welcomed my family and me to France. The first thing I noticed was Paris has a lot of mirrors. Maybe the French enjoy looking at themselves. I could relate. However, this did not make my trip to the men’s room (this one on land) any easier. After a run-in with about three mirrors, I found the right way.

It wasn’t until I arrived at our hotel that I realized I was exhausted. I felt like I had traveled back in time, or was it forward? I couldn’t remember. All I knew was that my eyes were slowly closing with the sound of a million French mopeds in the background. I woke up at noon.

Well done, Luke, I thought. You have managed to mess up your body clock beyond repair.

I was a jet-lagged mess. As my family and I strolled through a nearby park, I almost didn’t notice a gypsy-looking woman approach.

“You speak English?” she asked.

“I’ll karate chop you into next week if you take one step closer. How’s that for English?” I thought about saying. Clearly my lack of sleep was affecting my mood. I decided it was best if I let my dad do the talking.

“Yes …” my father said hesitantly.

“Good! Sign here!” she said holding out a pen and a clipboard.

“No, thanks,” Dad quickly responded. He knew that all she wanted was to rob us of every euro we had. My dad was street smart.

Unfortunately, this was not the only way the French tried to separate us from our precious euros. Every block, every street corner, someone was trying to sell us a miniature Eiffel Tower or a T-shirt of some sort. And if one more French dude tried to sell me a selfie stick, I felt like I just might karate chop someone after all.

Long story short, French people gave me the crepes (pun intended). The crepes were to die for. These beauties tasted like soft, creamy waffles from heaven. Bread is kind of France’s specialty; everyone who’s seen “Ratatouille” knows that. I ate more croissants than I probably should have. With a croissant in one hand and the view of the magnificent Eiffel Tower in the distance, I decided there’s definitely more to France than creepy old ladies and selfie sticks.

Night came. I was happy to finally know what time it was. Apparently, in France the party doesn’t even start until dusk. Once again, I could relate. My nights were filled with the sound of laughter and a language I had no hope of understanding. I decided I was probably going to enjoy the next eight or so days in Paris. Because one thing everyone should know about the City of Lights is that it’s lit.