As President JFK, I am spending the day with my wife, Jackie Kennedy. We are sitting inside the family mansion's living room, surrounded by family memorabilia: photo albums, passed down trinkets, old jewelry and paintings. We begin reminiscing about how we first met, dating, our life before the presidency, and our ancestors; lives. We discover an old typewriter in a corner of the room with a faded, half-typed letter of resignation. She hugs me and begins crying.
I am now in Giverny, France, standing in front of Claude Monet's grave. My uncle has given me two rolls of film to print in the church's darkroom. I pay my respects to Monet before proceeding inside the church. I remove a lit torch from the wall and begin descending the spiraling stone staircase. As I descend, I review the photos and comment loudly on their terrible quality.