Lately I’ve taken to writing at the local café—a practice with a proud history:
When there were the three of us instead of just the two, it was the cold and the weather that finally drove us out of Paris in the winter time. Alone there was no problem when you got used to it. I could always go to a café to write and could work all morning over a café crème while the waiters cleaned and swept out the café and it gradually grew warmer.
—Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast