ABSTRACT
I arrived in Paris December 24, jumped into a taxi and asked the driver to take me to the Left Bank or wherever else he thought I could find a cheap place to stay. After stopping at two or three run-down hotels, we went to a tiny hotel on rue Monsieur le Prince. I got out and when the concierge showed me what she assumed was a charming room, a little larger than a phone booth with a wall-to-wall pistachio-colored moldy rug covered with wine stains, I eagerly accepted, paid the driver, took in my gigantic straw box and called up Jay. I was ready to wail.
