Day 0 minus 1, technically, since I don’t start the actual backpacking until Wednesday.

My flight from SFO to Paris had all of the usual flight stuff, delays, crabby staff. My checked luggage—hiking poles you can’t take on the plane —didn’t arrive in CDG until much later with other supposedly oversized items.

My airport transfer did not show up at the airport, so I had to navigate the Paris RER system again for the first time in a number of years. I missed a transfer, but knew my way around well enough to get to the hotel on foot (poles and all).

Where I was greeted with, hello Mr. Proctor, so nice to see you again, but we were expecting you yesterday!

Undoubtedly my fault (international dateline and all), but as Victoria and I have stayed at the lovely Thoumieux in the 7th arr. at least 5 times together, and Jennifer at the front desk remembered me, she cut me some slack on the room mixup.

There are two restaurants at the Thoumieux, one a very nice brasserie and the other a celebrity-chef “gastronomique.” We’ve done the latter once or twice, but it is a 5-hour tour-de-force of crystallized, nitrogen dipped, frappéd, and who knows what other exotic food you might see on those TV food shows.

I believe I snookered Victoria into a plate of “cuisse de grenouille” (frogs legs) at a nearby restaurant the night we got engaged. But for *my* one night in Paris I wanted my favorite dish, ris de veau, proabaly illegal elsewhere, and the brasserie here no longer serves it.

The staff found a place nearby that featured ris de veau, but they don’t take reservations. Just go early (7:30) walk in, they said.

My main goal today was to arrive in Paris in one piece, and to stay awake long enough to get in GMT+2 time. So, mission accomplished.

Against all odds, I met another peregrino, a European man named Ronald who was perhaps 10 years older than me. He was also starting his Camino this week, but in Le Puy—1,400 km total, not just 1,000.

I had a nice long walk to the 16th C ruin of the Tour de St. Jacques near the Cité de Paris, not far from Notre Dame. French “perelins” often start their pilgrimage there, so I paid a visit.

I had heard a rumor that there was a brass “coquille” shell, marking the path to Santiago, in the vicinity of the ruin. Also, that some of the cafes or tabacs nearby could stamp your pilgrim passport. Sadly, I could confirm neither rumor.

David Downie, an American expat writer living in Paris, once left a signed copy of his latest book for me at a shop near the Jardin de Luxembourg. An earlier book, “Paris to the Pyrenees: A Skeptic Pilgrim Walks the Way of St. James,” was one of the inspirations for me doing this trip.

The Auberge Bresson that the hotel recommended did not in fact have any seating availability for dinner. I pointed out that I was the only one in the restaurant, but he said, it’s impossible, in an hour most of these tables will be full.

I explained that in America we often consume entire meals in less than 15 minutes, with our left hand only, while driving, and have no idea what we have eaten! In the end, I talked myself into a tiny table in the corner and surprised my host by finishing my ris de veau in under an hour, a near record.

The waiter rewarded me with a complementary Calvados. I will be coming back here! (Don’t worry honey they have other stuff too).