There was no such thing then as Airbnb and we stayed in a mediocre family-run hotel. It was clean. This was the most important thing. Breakfast wasn’t included in the price but I didn’t mind that. I made it clear to Jenny, gently, that we would have so much more fun buying our bread and croissants from the bakery in the morning than eating cornflakes in a hotel. We could picnic by the Seine. It wasn’t like the Liffey where you would be sharing your space with junkies who thought they were athletes, such was the extent of their leisurewear.

It was much colder than it would have been in Dublin. And when we walked by the river we longed to jump on to a Métro to warm up a bit but I explained to Jenny that we would have to stick it out, that you couldn’t really get to know a city unless you pounded its pavements.

We went to a bar one evening and all the chairs were lined up outside in rows. It was like being at the cinema, looking at passers-by. There was a definite voyeuristic satisfaction and every now and then I looked to Jenny to see what she was making of it and she sipped on her demi and she smiled at me. I asked her what she would like to do the following day and she suggested Notre-Dame and I agreed to it even though I wanted to go to Père Lachaise. I had a penchant for visiting sites outside the norm.

The next night we drank Pernod at a place beside our hotel. It was so casual, as if the barman had opened up his house and essentially transformed it into a bar in the centre of Paris. The city was relaxed in terms of licensing, I told Jenny, compared to Dublin and this was all part of the charm. I thought of the large pubs that were all the rage in Dublin with their high ceilings, exaggerating the noise, and I compared it to what myself and Jenny were experiencing, the quiet bar, the two of us, the lone barman. I was happier in a place like this.