So, this is France. Nice place. Bayonne, specifically. Having left San Miguel de Allende on Sunday morning by ETN bus, it is now Monday night and I got to Bayonne just in time to catch the sunset.

Let me tell you that between there and here, not much happened. In Mexico City, I sent my Uber driver to the wrong terminal at CDMX.

No problem. That’s what the tram is for.

On Air France, I discovered the joy of Premium Coach — or, as we call it “the way airplanes used to be.”

Legroom! Champagne! Toiletry kits! Silverware and white cloth napkins! Exclusive bathrooms! Free WiFi! Soft and thick blankets!

This isn’t even the best seating in the house.

But it did just fine by me.

Landing at DeGaulle and clearing security was a breeze — at least six times. Starting the moment you disembark, you must work through a scrum of agents who scrutinized every passport. Half-dozen more checkpoints and machine readers probed and prodded passports and boarding passes.

All this to get to Terminal D2 for the commuter flight to Biarritz, and an Uber to Bayonne.

I did get to see the Eiffel Tower, from about 10,000 feet up, after takeoff. I think it was the tower. It was pretty hazy. And so was I.

The Uber driver from Biarritz to Bayonne delivered an impassioned lecture on being a Basque — almost entirely in French. Or Basque. Not sure.

What I got is, “We are not French. We are not Spanish. We are Basque. Basque. Basque. We were here before the French and Spanish.”

Bayonne is where I found the sunset and a mushroom and yogurt/cheese mixture at the quayside Bistro L’Atalante. With a black coffee.

Heavenly.

And the French turn out to be very kind people. When I pointed to the menu and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand a single thing on your menu,” a young staffer tsked sympatheticly and broke it all down for me in flawless English.

No shame was dispensed.

Tomorrow morning, the 9am train to St. Jean Pied de Port and the actual start of the Camino Frances. The train is a 10-minute walk from the hotel. St. Jean is an hour and 10 minutes away.

I think I spotted a Boulanger along the way.

My Camino begins Wednesday, unless I decide to to a sweeping survey of French sidewalk cafes instead.

There’s a need for that in the world, too, you know.