With that formality out of the way, we retrieved our luggage and wheedled the ATC into giving us transportation to the Royal Monceau, the Navy hotel out near the Étoile. It was time to relax and luxuriate in the thought that it was May and that we were in Paris—that climatic and geographic combination so long a favorite theme of song-writers. I thought about this as we drove along the Champs Élysées. The song writers had something, all right—Paris in May was a wonderful sight. But they had been mooning about a gala capital filled with carefree people, and the Paris of May 1945 wasn’t like that. Architecturally, the city was as elegant as ever, but the few people one saw along the streets looked anything but carefree. And there were no taxis. Taxis have always seemed to me as much a part of Paris as the buildings themselves. In spite of a superficial sameness, Paris had an air of empty magnificence that made one think of a beautiful woman struck dumb by shock. I wondered if my thoughts were running away with me, but found that Craig’s impressions were much the same. These musings were cut short by our arrival at the hotel. The Navy had done all right for itself. The same efficient French staff that had presided over this de luxe establishment in prewar days was still in charge. I left the Baedekers and photographic paper for Charlie Kuhn, and then Craig and I walked to Naval Headquarters in the Rue Presbourg. There we attended to routine matters in connection with our orders. It was almost noon by the time we got squared away, so we retraced our steps to the Monceau. Lunch there was a demonstration of what a French chef could do with GI food. Midafternoon found us headed back to Orly in a Navy jeep. Our plane was scheduled to leave at four. This was no bucket-seat job, but a luxurious C-47 equipped with chairs of the Pullman-car variety, complete with antimacassars. We landed at Bovingdon less than two hours later and from there took a bus up to London. Naval Headquarters was in Grosvenor Square. With the American Embassy on one side of it, the Navy on another, and the park in the center used by the Navy motor pool, the dignified old square was pretty thoroughly Americanized. London was still crowded with our armed forces. The hotels were full, so we were assigned to lodgings in Wimpole Street. These were on the third floor of a pleasant, eighteenth century house, within a stone’s throw of No. 50, where Elizabeth Barrett had been wooed and won by Robert Browning. An inspection of our quarters revealed that the plumbing was of the Barrett-Browning period; but the place was clean and, anyway, it wasn’t likely that we’d be spending much time there. It had been a long day and we were too tired to think of anything beyond getting a bite to eat and hitting the sack.