What happens after you have been to Paris more than a few times … you no longer have the same plan of attack. The Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Sacre-Coeur … you’ve done them, and probably more than once.

Instead, you might take a look at a Paris activity you missed the first “x” number of times around, for the sake of something new — as well as avoiding the tourist hot spots, which in the mind begin to be associated with “pain and suffering”.

So, a busy day — without a museum or a famous restaurant. A different sort of Paris but no less interesting.

It began when I burst out of the apartment in the 11th arrondissement at 8:30 a.m. for a return to the American Church of Paris.

The service was at 9, and getting there, on the Quay d’Orsay, in the 7th, is a challenge, and giving myself 30 minutes to get it done was not reasonable.

I can now vouch, however, that Paris at 9 a.m. on a fall Sunday is a very quiet place, indeed, one designed for fast-walking. No one is out, aside from dog-walkers and joggers and a handful of people who appear to be straggling home from an assignation — or, perhaps, in this case, a really intense Halloween party.

The Metro train was ready to pull into the Republique station just as I hit the platform, so I caught a break there. The Metro also is faster when few people are on board; the stops are tidier, mostly.

We did 11 stations in 14 minutes. I was checking my watch. It left me with about six minutes to get to the church.

I was power-walking by now, even though I was wearing hard shoes. The sun was out, which is great, this time of year, but it was just bright enough to highlight the Paris smog, which can be fairly intense, sad to say.

Scurrying along, crossing the Pont d’Alma while shifting from one side to the other, walking against red lights … and I picked up an order-of-service from an usher about 15 seconds after the service began.

I was doing something “not new” because the previous Sunday had been a special occasion, and the 11 a.m. service, which has more choral elements.

The 9 a.m., however, is a more traditional service, with hymns I knew, and communion.

(The top pastor at the church mentioned he had attended Princeton, which left me thinking about how the ACP must have its pick of ministers, when jobs come open; tending a flock in the City of Light might be tempting.)

I liked this service better, on the whole, and I would try to attend it semi-regularly, if I lived here.

Back to the 11th, a quick walk of the dog, and then off to a day at the races.

A late start, then a failure of the bus system (which has been letting us down, of late); the No. 96 bus we caught took us only four stops before everyone was told to get out, nicely, at the Filles du Calvaire stop on the 8 line, and we took it to the 1 (the main east-west metro) at Concorde before going west to Port Maillot.

Where we called an Uber cab, my first, which took us on to the Saint Cloud race track, where a trainer friend of ours was helping a friend of hers who is trying to break into the trainer biz.

The sun was out, still, and it was quite pleasant, and Saint Cloud has only the one grandstand, not particularly long, and just about no one was in it, preferring to stand on the sunny part of the grass.

We went upstairs to the restaurant with a dress code (and a view panoramique) and met a couple of owners, one from the States, one from Canada, and we all had a massively overpriced lunch (gazpacho soup, 19 euros, or about $21) slowly delivered by some of the least competent waiters in Paris. Disastre!

The racing was fun, however, especially with horse people dissecting it for us, and we went down to the ground for the finish of one race, where an English guy in a nice suit betrayed less-than-genteel origins by shouting at the top of his lungs: “Go on Cristophe! Go on, Cristophe! (referring to the jockey Soumillon). The guy in the suit launched himself when his horse finished first, punching the air. Perhaps he really needed those 40,000 euros for winning.

We had a fine view of the proceedings, from up above, at the sprawling track, hundreds of acres of grass in the middle of a Paris suburb; the track has a pitch-and-putt golf course inside one of its rings.

Then, my second experience with Uber, which was pretty impressive. Way out in the suburbs but someone found us in 10 minutes, and then our trip took 53 minutes from the western suburbs to the right bank of the Seine … and cost 30 euros. A regular taxi would have been twice that much.

Another walk with the dog, who didn’t seem happy we had been gone for six hours, meantime scouting for a place to eat dinner.

We settled on a little bistro only a few yards from the one we had tried a few nights before, and this one turned out much better. Les P’tites Indecises (the Little Indecisions) has no pretensions but food just as good at about one-third the cost. (Granted, without oysters, without a cheese plate and with a 17-euro carafe of house red, instead of the 53-euro bottle of Somebodies white.)

I had noted the place from the first day, and over the course of a week-plus had rarely seen empty tables.

So, no great works of art seen, no famous names to put a check behind, but a couple of not-routine Paris experiences, and a happy choice at a local bistro, and a vague sense of accomplishment.