The first time I was fortunate enough to visit Paris was in the fall of 1967. I was 29. I was passing through just long enough to taste my first pale yellow pastis and devour my first escargot immersed in garlic butter and accompanied by lots of bread and red wine. I ended that night below street level in a smoky, dimly lit jazz club. The next day I went on to the Pyrenees to begin an assignment for National Geographic on the French and Spanish Basque country. I wasn’t wise enough then to stay on in Paris for a few extra days while coming or going from that assignment. I regret that now. But I had a large family