On a chilly December night I laze under the terrace awning of a café by the cobbled Place de la Contrescarpe, staring across to the mouth of winding, fairy lit Rue Mouffetard. There is the musty scent of Gauloises in the air, hot café, the literary spirits of yesteryear lingering in the amber washed night street. I soak up Ernest Hemingway’s Parisian hood, a nook where he and many other literary ... Read Full Article