We are in Paris now, with five days to catch our breath before heading on to Besançon on Tuesday, where we’ll board the Danielle for a seven-day barge cruise to Dijon. And that journey will be followed by a river cruise aboard AmaWaterways’ AmaCello. Even after decades of travel, it still amazes me that we can walk down a jetway in San Francisco, insert ourselves into the fuselage of a jet and emerge hours later in a country where the language, the rhythm and even the morning bread remind you that you are somewhere entirely different.

Before Paris could work its quiet charm, though, there was still the matter of getting there — and in this case, the journey was made more comfortable by an unexpected email from Air France.

I made a last-minute decision before departure that seemed entirely sensible at the time: I accepted Air France’s offer to upgrade from premium economy to business class for $700. I hesitated. Ten hours is a long flight, but $700 is still $700. In the end, at 6’5″, I thought: Why not? I’d like a flat bed. Now that it’s over, I’m still not entirely sure whether it was worth the money, but I can say this without hesitation: Air France’s business class experience is exceptional. The flight attendants were warm and professional, the food was precursor of what I would experience in France, and the seat was just about perfect for someone my size. Tall men often compare notes on these things, and one common complaint is that the footwell at the end of the bed can feel like trying to sleep with your feet stuffed into a mailbox. This one fit me just fine. At 6’7″, perhaps not. But for me, it worked.

I skipped the croissant on the plane. When the flight attendant offered it, I told her I was saving my morning croissant for Paris. She smiled and said that was a much better idea. She was right.

The landing was easy enough. Immigration not so much. Even with SkyPriority and the expedited lane, it still took us about an hour to get through.By the time we emerged, found our bags and made our way out, we were mostly just glad to be through it and on our way into the city. We caught an Uber for 37 euros to our hotel, Yuna Montmartre, and given that the ride took about an hour, it felt like a bargain.

We are staying in Montmartre, not far from Sacré-Cœur, and the neighborhood immediately felt like the right place to begin: busy enough to remind you that you’re in Paris, but still full of corners where life feels local. Yuna is an apartment-style hotel, and I like it well enough — a good location, a comfortable room, a kitchenette, a refrigerator, the sort of setup that would make a few days in a city easier had we been staying longer. My main complaint is the checkout time: 10 a.m., which strikes me as unreasonably early, and judging from others I spoke with this morning, I’m not alone in thinking so. Still, for the location and the room itself, I would stay there again but because of the checkout time, I’ll give it a pass from now on.

Yesterday was mostly about shaking off the journey. We walked, which is one of the great remedies for jet lag and one of the best introductions to Paris anyway. We made our way up toward Sacré-Cœur, took in the life of the streets around Montmartre, and later wandered down toward the Moulin Rouge. We had been there before, so there was no need to turn it into an event. We simply walked by, paused, looked and let Paris do what it does best: Offer one scene after another without asking whether you were looking for them.

Montmartre can feel theatrical in places, but it also still has corners that suggest the village it once was. A pale pink building with mint-green shutters. A produce shop glowing red beneath its awning. An old blue enamel street sign. A fenced vineyard improbably climbing a hillside in the 18th arrondissement. The district still knows how to surprise you when you slow down enough to notice.

At Vrai Paris in Montmartre, café tables spill onto the sidewalk — a reminder that in Paris, much of the city’s life is lived in public. © 2026 Ralph Grizzle

On Rue Saint-Vincent, one of Montmartre’s quieter pleasures appears: the neighborhood vineyard, enclosed behind a fence but unmistakably alive in spring. © Ralph Grizzle 2026

At one point, Marucia wanted to buy a book, and we stepped into a small bookstore, the kind of place that still feels like a discovery rather than a retail concept. It was cluttered with books, not arranged in any order I could immediately recognize, the sort of shop where browsing feels less like shopping than like gently entering someone else’s mind.

The bespectacled owner engaged Marucia in French. Later, Marucia told me the woman seemed lonely. She had apparently said that she spoke English all day and was relieved to speak French. I picked up a French edition of Voltaire’s Candide and remarked that I had read it at university. The owner smiled in acknowledgment. It was one of those brief, unplanned exchanges that does as much as any monument to make you feel present in a city rather than merely visiting it.

Candide is, among other things, a book about movement through the world, disillusionment, observation and the gap between ideas and reality. That is not a bad undertone for a travel piece, especially one that values lived experience over postcard fantasy.

We also bought Metro tickets, which always feels like a small but important threshold in any city: The moment when you stop being newly arrived and begin to imagine yourself moving about with purpose.

Some of Montmartre’s best-known façades turned up as we walked the neighborhood — Le Consulat, Au Lapin Agile, and other familiar corners that have been photographed for decades. But what stayed with me most was not their fame so much as their setting: children playing in the street, ivy climbing a wall, pedestrians drifting past with no apparent urgency and that particular Parisian ability to make even an ordinary corner seem faintly composed.

Le Consulat may be one of Montmartre’s best-known corners, but it still earns a pause. © 2026 Ralph Grizzle

Au Lapin Agile remains one of Montmartre’s enduring landmarks, a reminder of the neighborhood’s bohemian past. © 2026 Ralph Grizzle

Dinner last night was at All Good Things, and it was exactly what we needed — very good, restorative and well-timed. We happened to arrive during happy hour. I had a beer, Marucia had a glass of wine, and the meal did what a first dinner in Paris ought to do: It steadied us, revived us and made the city feel welcoming rather than overwhelming. Afterward, we returned to the hotel and managed to stay awake until 9 p.m., which felt like a small triumph. We then slept until 9 this morning, another victory, though somewhat undermined by that looming 10 a.m. checkout.

That early checkout reminded me that even in Paris practicalities intrude. Still, the first day had done what it needed to do. It had eased us into the city rather than asking too much of us. We were no longer in transit. We were here.

Today, we move to Les Tournelles, where we’ll settle in for the rest of our Paris stay before taking the train to Besançon on Tuesday. So far, Paris has been exactly what we hoped for: not a grand production, not yet, but a gentle reentry into Europe — croissants deferred until arrival, long walks through Montmartre, a bookstore conversation, a good first meal and the pleasure of being here with several more days still ahead.

One of the pleasures of arriving in France in spring is seeing the season on display — white asparagus, artichokes, citrus and the kind of produce shops that make even an errand feel inviting. © 2026 Ralph Grizzle