I just moved hotels yet again this morning. I’m now at the Hotel Bel Ami in the St. Germain, and since my room has no balcony or view to speak of, I thought I’d show you a picture of Cafe de Flore, which is right on the corner of my street. It’s one of the oldest cafes in Paris—Simone de Beauvoir did much of her writing here as her apartment was too chilly to work in during the winter months. Jean Paul Sartre was another frequent customer. Sitting in there today, sipping a piping hot cappucino between forkfuls of a perfectly runny omelette fromage, I couldn’t think of anywhere else I would rather have been.
