For our honeymoon, we, not typically 'on the fly' sort of people, booked a flight to Paris with just three days until our wedding. Then, when trying to book a hotel for our five nights in Paris, realized (somewhat tearfully and worriedly on my part) that our impulsiveness might result in a few nights spent on a Paris park bench as neon "no availability" signs kept flashing across the screen for each hotel we looked at. The next morning, we rushed around the house doing laundry and packing, ignoring a not-so-impressed Boomer and each other (and rushed to clean up the surprise left for us by our not-so-impressed dog before the three of us headed out on the highway to get to our hometown for our wedding.) On the highway, somewhere between here and there, a "ting" from the iPhone confirmed that we had found a place to stay. Relief. Like I've never known it.
Two days later we were in Paris. And while ours has been a relationship built on arrivals' gates, this was the first flight we ever took together. We spent five days there, speaking embarrassingly rudimentary French; meandering around narrow cobblestone streets; climbing to the top of the Eiffel Tower; drinking wine (it's cheaper than water, don't you know); cruising down the Seine (thanks to his patience); picnicking with a baguette, cheese, and bottle of rosé, on the lawn of the Sacré Cœur; and just being happy and together.