**Dakar International Airport, September 16, 2020**
At last, the grand day arrived—the day of my departure for Emmanuel's land.
Yet, I still had to endure the endless embarkation process, a ritual entirely foreign to me. And worse, it was the height of the great COVID-19 pandemic.
They practically stripped me at the security gates, despite my efforts to dress beautifully and present myself as a Parisian before my time.
And what of those temperature checks and PCR tests?
The fear of being turned away for a supposed fever or testing positive for the SARS-CoV-2 virus gripped me, especially after the doctor nearly tore my nose with his rough swab, thrusting it into my nostrils without a hint of gentleness.
But in the end, thank the Lord, I made it into the belly of the plane, which took off at once toward the mythical city of Paris.
The airplane's comfort made me feel like a little white lady already, with just a few hours left before strolling the streets, stations, metros, and yes, the parks with my fluffy white poodle.
Oops! Careful! It was already time to land. How swiftly time passed!
Hello, Emmanuel, this is Maya from Dakar!
---
**Roissy CDG Airport, Paris, September 17, 2020**
Phew! The disembarkation process was finally complete, and who did I see in the arrivals area? My lovely aunt Fatou, whom I hadn't seen in ages.
She was surrounded by my cousins Jeanne and Vinette, her daughters, aged fifteen and twenty respectively, whom I knew only through video calls.
True Parisiennes, these brunettes. With their mixed complexions, the accent of Brigitte Macron, and the elegant style of top models I'd admired only on Yves Saint-Laurent or Gauthier advertisements.
Seeing the radiant trio who came to welcome me, and noting the stark whiteness of the airport staff compared to Dakar's, I knew the pilot hadn't mistaken our destination.
Indeed, I had truly crossed continents. From black to white. And so, I ran with my luggage cart toward my hosts.
Excitement reached its peak. We embraced—or rather, we all did, for the joy of reunion was mutual.
Aunt Fatou handed me a jacket, urging me to wear it, saying it was "cold as duck" outside.
Truth be told, I had no idea what she meant by "cold as duck" until we stepped out of the airport.
And there… Oh my God! Dakar sun, I miss you already, I cried.
Quick, into the taxi, Aunt Fatou!
---
**Paris, September 18, 2020**
My first night in Paris was far from pleasant.
The cold was biting: eight degrees Celsius when I left the airport around four in the afternoon; minus two degrees when I went to bed at eleven after unpacking and eating spaghetti bolognese with ketchup (ugh! Oh help, Mama! Your delicious Tchep rice is sorely missed, I whispered to myself); and minus six degrees when I woke at five for the Fajr prayer—yes, far from Senegal perhaps, but we kept the good habits our faith, Islam, taught us.
The trouble was, the tiny apartment of Aunt Fatou, perched on the fifteenth floor of a rundown HLM in the Vincennes suburb, had outdated heating that barely worked. I shivered endlessly, my thin quilt letting the icy wind seep through, chilling my skin and thickening my blood, leaving me deeply uncomfortable.
While I suffered from the cold, my cousins Jeanne and Vinette slept peacefully on their beds flanking mine, like Versailles princesses accustomed to low temperatures since birth. Poor me, the Dakaroise who yesterday dreamed of becoming a fully-fledged Parisienne like them, already regretted leaving the warmth of the tropics.
But no, it was only the first day—Maya wouldn't let herself be discouraged so easily. After my dawn meditation, I held hope for the journey ahead.
Onward, Maya of Paris!