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There was even a little balcony with French doors leading to it, no more than a foot above the golden carving of the horse identifying the type of butcher. (As a matter of fact, later when I found that I was being charged for far more baths than I had taken at the St. Georges I did move briefly to the Hotel du Seine;) I did not mind the street noises during the day, but the walls were thin and the voices of my neighbors pierced them.)

Bob made arrangements for me to move in to the Hotel St. Georges the next morning, then took me to dinner. It was strange going to a restaurant so old and distinguished that I had read the name [[strikethrough]] many times [[/strikethrough]] in [[strikethrough]] French fiction [[/strikethrough]] Balzac novels. I am ashamed to say that I ran up the bill by ordering something which I knew only from fiction--pate de foie gras--and as Bob had ordered bifstek american (raw chopped beef) I had to ask him how to eat the pate. He did not smile as he said, "On bread." If it had not been such a wonderful new taste I might have been humiliated. The food of France was pure bliss. 

My hotel was a short block from Boulevard St. Germain, where several streets came together, and the prominent cafe at the intersection was Cafe des Deux Magots, where I soon began going at nine for my second breakfast. There I met Bob once or twice, and he introduced me to Eugene Jolas, editor of transition; later, whenever Jolas came to my table, American or French writers or artists stopped by to talk. It was a cold and rainy winter but I was warm and happy sitting near a charcoal brazier and looking out on the Church of St.-Germain-des-Pres. 

I acquired a habit then that I have always fallen into in cities in Europe: I set in a cafe and look at buildings. In Paris it was the St.