The Best Time to Visit Paris

I used to think about destinations in terms of seasons. Spring flowers. Summer light. Autumn cafés. But over time, I’ve learned that the moments I remember most have very little to do with the calendar.

My favorite time to see Paris arrived quietly on my last morning there.

Eifffel tower with tourists milling about in the rain.

The Day Begins Slowly in Paris

It was another moving day. The kind where I have my larger suitcase opened on a chair and my train ticket tucked into my passport. I would soon make my way to the train station, and say goodbye Paris for yet another city.

Best time to Visit Paris is when there's no traffic at Place du Mexico. — Place de Mexico roundabout seen from my French balcony.

With a strand of daylight peeking through a break in the heavy gray draperies of my hotel room, I suddenly awoke. I think I was worried that I might miss something…anything Parisienne. I didn’t want to miss a sound.

I was anxious to see how the early morning light shone on the still-empty narrow streets, that radiated like spokes from my hotel, Le Metropolitan.

The weather had turned overnight. Warm European days gave way to cold rain in France. Paris in April. Damp, puddly pavement. A sky the color of pewter. It was not the typical postcard Paris. The feeling was something about which songs were written. Now I understood.

This was what I dreamed about; a drizzly morning in Paris followed by yet another day of slow travel.

Before I’d check out of the hotel, there was a small span of time, before the sun came up, when I could walk the deserted streets. Maybe find a steamy cappuccino and a buttery croissant. Heck, it’s Paris!

At just about seven o’clock, I was ready to roll. I layered myself in pieces gathered from my travels. Leather gloves from Rome. A grey wool cap from Zurich. A dark green and gold scarf that I wore across more borders than I can count kept my neck warm. My black Longchamps backpack securely rested between my shoulders and off I went.

When I pushed open the heavy glass and brass hotel door, the air felt crisper than I remembered from yesterday. The city was not yet fully awake. Chairs were being set outside cafés. Delivery trucks hummed softly and bumped along the cobblestones and curbs. Other than those sounds, all I could hear were my own foot steps.

Now this was Paris, the Paris I’ll always remember.

Early morning on an empty street in Paris — No one was outside yet. I almost had the street to myself.

Hotel Metropole at Place de Mexico — No worries to stand in the middle of this otherwise busy Place de Mexico.

The streets that are usually frantic with tiny Smart cars, white delivery vans and shiny black taxis were nearly silent. So quiet that I stood in the center of Place de Mexico without hesitation and took a photo of my hotel, the narrow building with green awnings. I would never dare do that later in the day.

Rather than sit in the empty hotel dining room, still slightly chilled from a damp, cool overnight, I walked the short distance to McDonald’s. Or “McDoo” as it’s called there.

It was a short distance to get an Italian cappuccino from America’s Ronald. There was only one other person in sight. It was almost 8 A.M. for Pete’s sake…where was everyone?

By the time I reached McDonald’s at Avenue Victor Hugo, the day was beginning to stir. Flower vendors unfolded their tables beneath white canopies. A woman in a long wool coat maneuvered around the sidewalks, trailing one of those metal “bubby” carts behind her. The air still smelled like a damp April in Paris even as the city was waking up.

With the scent of fresh-baked croissants, early morning must be the best time to visit Paris

McCafé was open, though the main restaurant was still closed. Three college-aged Parisienne girls helped me find the correct entrance. I noticed three gleaming red and silver espresso machines, prepared for whatever rush would come later.

“Un pain au chocolat et un cappuccino, s’il vous plaît,” I said carefully, hoping my accent did not betray me too badly. Whatever I said worked. My order was handed to me in a couple of minutes.

When I stepped back outside, something shifted. In the span of a few minutes, Paris seemed to wake all at once. Café chairs scraped against pavement. More footsteps echoed. Delivery doors slammed. It was as if the city had answered an internal alarm clock.

That was when I realized this was my favorite time to see Paris – as the City of Light awakens.

Best time to visit Paris is when the fish monger sets up the Poissonnerie. — The fish monger at Les Belles Feuilles (The Beautiful Leaves) unloads crates of ice while awaiting the fresh catch to arrive.

Next door at the charcuterie, the butcher sets up the display case.

Rotisserie chickens in Paris — Seemed a bit early, but slow-cooked rotisserie chickens are very popular in Paris.

Fruit stand in Paris — I love springtime white asparagus. Too bad I had no place to cook them.

Balancing a cappuccino in one hand and my iPhone in the other, I wandered slowly back to my hotel, taking as many street photos as possible. I tried to stay undetected but an occasional shop owner spotted me.

Corrugated steel doors rolled upward to reveal fish laid on crushed ice, cuts of meat behind glass, pyramids of produce catching the gray light. A baker fed sheets of dough into a machine and smiled when he saw me watching.

The baker looked up long enough for me to get his picture.

I felt almost as though I belonged there, lingering over markets, deciding what to cook when I returned home. Unfortunately, Paris wasn’t my home.

Only three hours to breathe it all in and then I’d be on my train.

As I walked back to my hotel, I opened my eyes to notice and absorb the details. Small shops were setting up, their insides exposed behind once-folded corrugated steel doors. Fish, meats and fresh produce.

Eiffel Tower Paris seen from a narrow street — Seriously, one glance over my shoulder and there’s this. Could early morning be the best time to visit Paris?

Back inside the dim, velvet-chaired lobby, I climbed the spiral stairs to my room. I placed the cappuccino on the small table and let the pastries tumble onto the bed. When I opened the draperies, French doors across the street were already flung wide despite the cold. Sheer curtains moved gently in the morning air.

I sat on the bed and made a small picnic of it, yesterday’s copy of Le Figaro catching the crumbs. A breeze slipped through the window. The city was fully awake now.

Suitcases zipped. Breakfast finished. I stood at the window one last time. It had only been three days, but I had found my favorite hour in Paris.

It wasn’t in spring or summer or sunny warm days. It was in that quiet space between night and morning, when Paris wakes up and comes to life.