After it was claimed that former American tennis player Serena Williams was refused access to the hotel’s rooftop restaurant, a posh Parisian hotel was compelled to issue an apology to Williams and her family.
“Hell no, @peninsulaparis I’ve been turned away from better establishments’ rooftops where I would have liked to eat, but never with my children. X Monday, Williams wrote, “Always a first.”
Since the beginning of the 2024 Olympics, Williams, 42, has been in Paris with her spouse Alexis Ohanian and their two daughters, Olympia, 6, and Adira, 10 months.
The four-time gold medallist at the Olympics participated in the torch relay this year, which carried the torch from the Seine to the Olympic Cauldron. Nadia Comăneci, Carl Lewis, and Rafael Nadal joined her throughout her section.
Williams tried to eat at the rooftop restaurant of the Peninsula Paris, a five-star hotel with a view of the Eiffel Tower, after more than a week of games.
Williams, however, stated that despite what she described as a “empty restaurant,” she and her family were refused admittance when they arrived.
The Peninsula Paris extended their support to as many fans as possible.
Greetings, Mrs. WilliamsWe sincerely apologize for the disappointment you had this evening. The hotel’s answer was, “Unfortunately, our rooftop bar was in fact fully booked and the only empty tables you saw belonged to our gourmet restaurant, L’Oiseau Blanc, which was fully reserved.”
They said, “It has always been an honor to welcome you, and it will always be to welcome you again.”
Many are unclear of how to interpret the hotel’s reaction, even if Williams has not yet responded. “You set up a table for her,” exclaimed some, while “She ought to apologize to your team,” held the opinion of others.
She inquired, “What’s the price for the eggs?” The elderly seller responded, “0.25 cents per egg
The old egg seller, his eyes weary and hands trembIing, continued to sell his eggs at a loss. Each day, he watched the sun rise over the same cracked pavement, hoping for a miracle. But the world was indifferent. His small shop, once bustling with life, now echoed emptiness.
The townspeople hurried past him, their footsteps muffled by their own worries. They no longer stopped to chat or inquire about the weather. The old man’s heart sank as he counted the remaining eggs in his baskets. Six left. Just six. The same number that the woman had purchased weeks ago.
He remembered her vividly—the woman with the determined eyes and the crisp dollar bill. She had bargained with him, driving a hard bargain for those six eggs. “$1.25 or I will leave,” she had said, her voice firm. He had agreed, even though it was less than his asking price. Desperation had cIouded his judgment.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The old seller kept his promise, selling those six eggs for $1.25 each time. He watched the seasons change—the leaves turning from green to gold, then falling to the ground like forgotten dreams. His fingers traced the grooves on the wooden crate, worn smooth by years of use.
One bitter morning, he woke to find frost cIinging to the windowpane. The chill seeped through the cracks, settling in his bones. He brewed a weak cup of tea, the steam rising like memories. As he sat on the same wooden crate, he realized that he could no longer afford to keep his small shop open.
The townspeople had moved on, their lives intertwined with busier streets and brighter lights. The old man packed up his remaining eggs, their fragile shells cradled in his weathered hands. He whispered a silent farewell to the empty shop, its walls bearing witness to countless stories—the laughter of children, the haggling of customers, and the quiet moments when he had counted his blessings.
Outside, the world was gray—a canvas waiting for a final stroke. He walked the familiar path, the weight of those six eggs heavier than ever. The sun peeked through the clouds, casting long shadows on the pavement. He reached the edge of town, where the road met the horizon.
And there, under the vast expanse of sky, he made his decision. With tears in his eyes, he gently placed the eggs on the ground. One by one, he cracked them open, releasing their golden yoIks. The wind carried their essence away, a bittersweet offering to the universe.
The old egg seller stood there, his heart as fragile as the shells he had broken. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. And in that quiet moment, he whispered a prayer—for the woman who had bargained with him, for the townspeople who had forgotten, and for himself.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, he turned away from the empty road. His footsteps faded, leaving behind a trail of memories. And somewhere, in the vastness of the universe, six golden yolks danced—a silent requiem for a forgotten dream.
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