‘What’s wrong with this one?’, Paul wanted to know.

It just didn’t have the right vibe for good coffee. That was what was wrong. Paris is of course known for many things. The city of lights. The city of romance. But the city of coffee? Many coffee shops in Paris have this whole Paris thing going on, with colourful flower boxes, wicker chairs and little round tables lining the street, positioned just so for people watching. The coffee however leaves much to be desired.

It was however coffee time, and despite having walked past a dozen or more discrete specialty coffee shops in the same part of town the day before, they were now nowhere to be found. It’s very difficult to manifest just exactly the thing you want precisely when you want it.

So we plonked ourselves down at Maison Bichet, an aesthetically attractive cafe, and ordered two cappuccinos and a cafe au lait. The cafe looked like everything you could hope for, but the coffee machine behind the counter was no La Marzocco.

When our coffee came it was weak and burnt with fairy floss like milk froth extending for an inch above the tepid brown liquid. There was a light sprinkle of chocolate dust for the two cappuccinos.

We were crestfallen. It was an otherwise perfect Parisian day. The sun was shining, it was 20 degrees. We had just been for a cruise on the Seine on the hop on hop off Batoboat. The Seine was sparkling, and clean. I understand they cleaned it up for the Olympics and it looked good enough for a swim.

That particular morning we had intended to hop off at Jardins Les Plantation, but that wasn’t to be. Someone sleeping rough had parked themselves right where the Batoboat alights. Still, hard to think yourself hard done by when you’re minorly inconvenienced by someone who has just spent the night sleeping on the pavement.

Instead we headed off to the north, in search of Saint Martin Canal, the Sacré-Cœur and Montmatre.

We had spent the day before this, our second after arriving in Paris, doing laps of the Seine and its sights on the Batoboat. It was all so French! I mean there were French flags fluttering in the spring breeze atop the Hôtel de Ville, Musée de Orsay and of course the Eiffel Tower. Actually… maybe there was no flag on the Eiffel Tower. But then there doesn’t need to be, does there?

I figured any day in Paris was a good day, because in the scheme of things there are not really that many days spent in Paris. Not for your average Canberran anyway. The tower was resplendent and I wanted one of those photos where you make it look like you’re holding it up in the air from the tip by positioning your hand just so relative to the camera lens. We didn’t get far enough back from the tower though so it didn’t quite work.

Cest la vie. We found a boulangerie, fromagerie and supermarche to make up for it, before having a picnic in park overlooking the Seine. These were good times.

Our time in Paris wasn’t all so picture perfect. Back to the coffee shop. Khia abandoned hers after a single sip. We paid the exorbitant 21 euros for three abysmal coffees, and headed back onto the pavement.

I wanted to visit Canal Saint Martin. I’d read a blog on must see things to do in Paris which promised a charming district of galleries and coffee shops all set along a leafy boulevard arching over the canal. There was a leafy boulevard over a canal, but the rest of what was advertised seemed to be missing. It was a bit grim, run down and lacking the Parisian charm of La Marais where we had been the day before. Still there was a boat traversing a series of lochs which made for entertaining viewing.

It got grittier after that as we made our way from Canal Saint Martin over to the Sacré-Cœur. Where did the charming Parisian streets of our first day in the La Marias go? When we had stumbled into the charming Place des Vosges (a fashionable square where famous artists such as Victor Hugo have lived) and spent a half hour dozing in the sun in the charming park with fountains and gallery laden walkways in buildings around us? And where the owner of a closed toy shop saw us peering in the window and came out to open it for us just to show us around.

The charm returned as soon as we climbed the stairs to the Sacré-Cœur with views out over the city. We went inside the soaring domed basilica. More basic than Notre Dame, which we had visited the day before, it was impressive nonetheless. Still I just don’t know how I feel about these places. Inspiring and off putting all at once. The stain glass windows are nice.

Notre Dame had a carved relief which included images of babies being stabbed with swords. It wasn’t quite how I remembered it from 21 years ago when Emma and I first visited, but there it was. Khia remembered her bible stories and informed me it was King Herod who had heard of a prophecy of the coming of a king. He didn’t want to be usurped so thought it better to slaughter some infants lest one of them grow up to replace him.

Notre Dame had a big fire back in 2019 so perhaps it’s unsurprising that it wasn’t quite as I remembered. The fire destroyed the timber structure supporting the lead roof which also turned to liquid and ran down into the cathedral. It could have been worse. The vaulted stone ceiling prevented more damage inside the cathedral itself. The entire place had to be scrubbed clean nonetheless and roof and spire rebuilt. I’ve got to say the facelift has done wonders. It’s magnificent. I mean really. The dark stone work I remembered from twenty years ago is gone and in its place, glistening white limestone forming the vaulted stone ceilings soaring overhead. Gorgeously painted antechambers line the nave. They picked a great colour scheme. A little dark and moody perhaps but no denying the Catholic Church has taste, or good interior design consultants at least.

Meanwhile back out at the Sacré-Cœur, Paul was feeling the pressure. He needed to deliver a quality coffee for Khia. Khia likes a coffee around mid morning, to which I can relate. Cafe Maison Bichet had missed the mark badly and Paul was not keen on seeing Khia go disappointed.

He got excited after consulting Google and declared he had found the best flat white in Paris! Suddenly we were off on a mission. We blew through the hyper Parisian scene of Montmartre (read tourist trap), plunging down steep stairways into more delightful and charming streets (read still touristy but not OTT). Round a corner. And there it was. Spree Coffee. Heavenly choirs sung, Ahhhhh!!

Paul ordered flat whites from a delightful Parisian father and son combo. Who said Parisian’s were snooty? The coffee was from Mexico, with undertones of chocolate according to Khia’s palate. The scene was perfect, a sunny afternoon under the shade of an awning on a cobble stoned street. We sat and we watched the world go by. Paris style.

This all but sums up our three days in Paris, with the exception of our stop at the Tuileries Garden (one of the hop on hop off locations on our boat tour) and an evening dash to the Arc de Triomphe.

At the Tuileries there was icecream, right where Oliver remembered it from ten years ago when we had spoken to him a short while beforehand. Ah, but that was not all. There were boats too and a pond! Little tiny wooden sailing boats for rent. 6 euro for 30 minutes. Paul didn’t hesitate, later declaring it the best 6 euro he has spent in Europe. He shoved it off into the pond where it tacked and turned all of its own accord while he and I ran around the pond lined with sunbathers sprawled in chairs, looking for where it would come ashore. There were other sailors too, but none of them older than 10. May we never grow old.

On our last night I was struck by a dose of FOMO and wanted to visit the Arc de Triomphe and Champs Élysées. One metro and one train later (paid for twice by Paul because his metro travel card played up and not paid for at all by me because my metro travel card played up (I jumped the gate, don’t tell anyone) and we arrived at the Arc just as the sun was setting. We circumnavigated the roundabout admiringly, stopping at a park bench to watch traffic with no rules when a pigeon took a dump from the tree above right onto Paul’s foot. Shit happens.

Au revoir from Paris.