It was a pleasant cafe, warm and clean and friendly, and I hung up my old waterproof on the coat rack to dry and put my worn and weathered felt hat on the rack above the bench and ordered a cafe au lait.  The waiter brought it and I took out a notebook from the pocket of the coat and a pencil and started to write.  I was writing about up in Michigan and since it was a wild, cold, blowing day it was that sort of day in the story.  I had already seen the end of fall come through boyhood, youth and young manhood, and in one place you could write about it better than in another.  That was called transplanting yourself, I thought, and it could be as necessary with people as with other sorts of growing things.  but in the story the boys were drinking and this made me thirsty and I ordered a rum St. James.  This tasted wonderful on the cold day  and I kept on writing, feeling very well and feeling the good Martinigue rum warm me all through my body and my spirit.


from A Moveable Feast, by Ernest Hemingway