Pauvre Moi

Aristotle reminds us that happiness is not to be found in any of the popular conceptions—power, pleasure, or money. Instead, eudaimonia is defined as something like rational activity in accordance with virtue; as such, the truly happy life is the truly virtuous life.

I’m sure.

I, myself, am not all that interested in power; generally, I prefer to be left alone. And while pleasure is great, often, just getting a little stoned and riding my bike is plenty. Most of the time, too, I don’t wish I had more money; I’ve got a lovely home, all the food I could ever eat, and more toys than I can possibly play with at one time.

However.

Being here in Paris and seeing all the amazing things that a lot more cash than I have could buy—and for that matter, rent—I do find myself wishing I was some sort of corporate robber baron on an expense account funded by government-sponsored no-bid contracts.

For instance, our hotel in the fifth arrondisement is fine; we’ve got two beds, our own bathroom, and a balcony that overlooks a busy street with plenty of people and cafes to spy upon at all hours of the day and night. In short, it’s all I could ever need in a home away from home. And all this for a mere hundred and, I dunno, seventy or so bucks a night.

But then.

I start looking through the Michelin guide and the fancy hotels on the right bank, the ones where single rooms start around a thousand dollars each per day.

Wow.

I wish I had the dough to afford some place where the gold leaf was real gold and the Louis Quatorze chairs in the lobby actually came from Louis XIV. It makes me all envious to see pictures of the Crillon or the Plaza Athene, especially when I know that those pictures are the closest I’ll ever get to staying there.

Still, I’m happy.