European stocks fell down a flight of existential stairs after French politics turned into avant-garde puppetry. Wall Street edged up one polite inch, the financial equivalent of pressing an elevator button twice to feel in control.

I watched from a departure gate where coffee is a legal document and boarding groups are fiscal metaphors. The gate agent upgraded volatility to premium economy and told patience it would have to check its bag.

In Paris, the CAC 40 put on a black turtleneck and sighed in perfect iambic pessimism. In Frankfurt, the DAX called a therapist who specializes in numbers that feel underappreciated and puts oat milk in fiscal policy.

French politics, now a long-running improv show called ‘Whose Line Is It, Fifth Republic?’, performed a coalition can-can where every step is a referendum and every feather is a spreadsheet. The audience clapped in decimal points.

Across the Atlantic, Wall Street seized the chance to look brave by standing up from a beanbag chair without making a noise. Algorithms tasted the air, whispered ‘croissant,’ and bought optimism futures by the nibble.

Between boarding groups, I calibrated my ‘carry-on espresso press’ like a central banker polishing forward guidance, then watched yields wobble as if France had declared independence from math. The crema looked like a yield curve trying to smile.

Traders bought hedges, then hedged the hedges, then acquired a small garden they could short-sell in case rain was bearish. The ECB opened its toolbox, found only a stern eyebrow, and communicated stability via unblinking silence.

American investors treated Europe like a bingeable series titled Keeping Up With Les Whatever. They put on a ‘flight-ready noise cancelling headset’ and streamed the closing bell as if it were a soothing waterfall where dollars learn to multiply.

Back in Paris, a prime minister-shaped placeholder tried assembling a government with instructions translated from legal French into IKEA pictograms: two parties, four ideologies, and one tiny Allen key labeled consensus. Someone asked where the screws were, and democracy shrugged in perfect cursive.

London called to say it was above this sort of continental melodrama while quietly pricing in a fresh supply of melodrama for next Tuesday. Switzerland maintained neutrality so hard the franc filed for noncommittal sainthood, and Italy gestured until the yield curve blushed.

The euro stepped outside for a contemplative cigarette and returned smelling like uncertainty with hints of thyme. The dollar, swole on protein powder and exceptionalism, flexed in a bathroom mirror that used to be the global order.

By the time my zone was boarding, Europe had lost altitude, America had gained attitude, and my luggage was last seen enjoying a layover in a risk-off narrative. Markets asked for a stable coalition, got a baguette, and tipped anyway; the humor, as always, arrived on a diplomatic passport.