Not Crying Over Spilled Americano

We were back in Paris, and this trip was special — Notre Dame had finally reopened, and our reservation was set for the morning of our third day. Like every other morning, my husband made the short walk to our local boulangerie for pastries. Once back at the hotel we carried them out to the balcony, coffee in hand, watching the city come to life.

That day was warm, and instead of my usual second cup of hot coffee, I was craving something cold. So, on our way to Notre Dame, we stopped at the café next to the famous Shakespeare and Company bookstore. I ordered an iced Americano (yes, even in Europe, I still love my ice) and grabbed one for a friend as well. Drinks in hand, we stepped outside, where my husband and son had struck up a conversation with a gentleman who had been living in Paris for years. They were happily deep in historical chatter — the kind I usually nod along to but rarely contribute much.

And then it happened.

In one clumsy, ungraceful moment, my iced Americano went flying. Not just a drip — an explosion, splashing my shoes, and decorating the cobblestones in a caffeinated mess.

But here’s the thing — I didn’t rush back in for another. I’d already enjoyed a few sips, and honestly, I didn’t feel like waiting in line again. Instead, we laughed. The Parisian gentleman seemed a little surprised that no one was upset, and even complimented my husband’s “dance moves” as he hopped out of the way. We cleaned up, wrapped up the conversation, and continued to Notre Dame — still smiling.

Now, whenever I wear those sneakers, I still see the faint Americano stain — a small reminder of that morning in Paris. The laughter, the warm air, the cobblestones underfoot, and the feeling of being exactly where I wanted to be.

Because that’s the beauty of traveling at a slower pace. You don’t cry over spilled coffee. You don’t let small mishaps ruin the moment. When you’re not rushing, you’re free to roll with the unexpected, to let things be what they are. And sometimes, those little stumbles become the moments you remember just as vividly as the grand cathedrals.

Paris was waiting. The day was still perfect. And the spilled Americano? Just part of the story.

Wander through Paris where it all began — from the stones of Notre Dame to the winding lanes of Île de la Cité. This walking tour invites you to slow down and see the city’s story unfold.

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