how much would i pay to go to the moon?
Honestly? Nothing.
Not a cent, not a coupon, not even store credit.
Because let’s be real — it wouldn’t be A Trip to the Moon (1902), that dreamy French silent film by Georges Méliès where the moon has a face, the rocket bonks right into its eye, and everything looks like a paper-mâché daydream. I’m not interested in floating in sterile silence; I want whimsy. I want piano music, theatrical smoke, and stars that twinkle like someone hung them by hand.
Instead, it’d be the modern kind of trip: pressurized suits, freeze-dried meals, and way too many safety briefings. No winks, no cinematic smoke clouds, no magic. Just silence.
Besides, I hate that feeling when a plane lifts off and my ears pop. I can’t even handle that thirty-second pressure change — imagine doing that in space. My luck, I’d get motion sick before we even left orbit.
No, I’ll keep my feet on Earth, thank you very much. I’d rather watch the moon from my window — soft, glowing, impossibly far — and let it stay a little bit magical. Some things are meant to be admired, not boarded.
