On our last night in France, we had our best meal of the trip at a small restaurant tucked next door to the Shakespeare and Company bookstore, across the street from Notre Dame, a block from our apartment rental and in the midst of some of Paris’ more mediocre tourist cafes.

  But Le Petit Châtelet was authentic, its prices reasonable, and my rabbit, pureed potatoes and mushrooms bathed in garlic sauce mouthwatering. As we left after lingering two hours, the owner said, “â demain”—until tomorrow. We didn’t have the heart to tell him we had to head home.

The meal was a fitting farewell. But it also was a reminder that every trip, even one planned meticulously months in advance, is a hit-and-miss proposition. Why hadn’t we found this lovely place sooner? And though I’m still enjoying the afterglow of my 75th birthday journey to Nice, Aix-en-Provence and Paris, I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit a touch of melancholy, too, a lingering awareness that my increasingly creaky body won’t be able to sustain the demands of unguided and spontaneous travel all that much longer.

  For Kathy and me, France has long been a special place. I love its language; its culture; the big-hearted toughness of its people; their style, sexiness and sense of humor. Beneath their hard outer shell (French don’t stand in line, they push through), the French once again repeatedly showed us kindness in our casual encounters.

  There was the young man who patiently helped us buy tickets for the RER train. The woman who guided us to the right platform to catch the train to Versailles. The cab driver who told me I looked much too fit to be turning 75. The guard at the d'Orsay who gave Kathy permission to try a “3-pointer” to throw a wad of paper at the trash can (“Next time we’ll try baseball,” he said when she missed. “No, boule,” she countered.)

  Not that everything has stayed the same over the half century in which we’ve visited France. Meals no longer routinely stretch for three or four courses over as many hours. As elsewhere in the world, crowds of zombie-like tourists at times overwhelm, training their phones at museum paintings and historic sites as if somehow being in their own movie on social media means more than actually seeing the beauty around them.

  And the French today, particularly Parisians, speak much better English, undoubtedly a boon to some, but a disappointment to me as I struggle to scrape the rust off my never terribly fluent French.

  Still, when I persisted in answering them in French, most Parisians appreciated it. A few even complimented me. To me, that mattered.

  Perhaps it’s because as we push deeper into our seventies, compliments in the states can be hard to come by. We’re lucky on bad days not to be mistaken for the wallpaper.

  Mind you, I don’t readily shrink into my surroundings. But in an American culture with little respect, let alone reverence, for age, it can take extra effort to be noticed, particularly for Kathy and me as we at times mingle with younger families while raising our 16-year-old grand-daughter, Devon.

  In France, I never sensed the ageism that can at times be awkward closer to home. Devon traveled with us, which meant more pizza cafes, ice cream stops and touristy stores than I would have chosen (and fewer museums, concerts and gourmet meals). Still, I always remind myself that the challenge of keeping up with a teenager has made our lives healthier, lighter and more vital.

  In France, we walked and poked around and walked some more—5 miles, 6 miles, 8 miles every day.  And then, too soon, we were sitting at our last meal. I felt wistful, perhaps, but also ready to see our 3-year-old yellow lab, to veg in front of a basketball game or movie, to accept a little more boredom. For a bit.

  Perfection had once again eluded us on the road. It always does, leaving a travel mélange of excitement, exhilaration and disappointment.  On our second-to-last day the boat that carries tourists around the Seine was fully booked. It’s been a staple of our many visits here, and it suddenly struck me I might never have the chance to ride it again.

  Age has a funny way of doing that, of creeping up the back of my neck when I least expect it. But then the sun came out. Paris pulsed to a day of blue skies and temperatures in the mid-60s. Devon found some cool posters—those of the artist Alphonse Mucha for her room and a Guns N’ Roses one for a good friend—at a bookseller stall along the Left Bank. And all was good.

  We, too, brought home our share of memorabilia and moments. The friendly patisserie manager in Nice, who gave us a free treat when we stopped for bread and dessert; our landlady in Aix who invited us out for cappuccino and cake, the guitar player and singer on the steps of Sacré Coeur who led us and others in old Beatles’ songs, the waiter at one of Paris’ oldest restaurants near Notre Dame who burst into song on the street. I joined him and our short duet made my day.

  Yes, in a way, I always seem to find my voice in France.

Even at 75.