I just returned home from a school trip to France and Spain. Nearly every day the tour guide was pointing out this café or that where Ernest Hemingway used to sit for hours on a daily basis with his cronies writing, drinking and people watching. I got a shiver every time. Hemingway has always been one of my personal heroes. From an early age my family often called me Hemingway because of my insistence I would one day be an author. I was always proud of the appellation. After reading For Whom the Bell Tolls, the novel that first drew me to Hemingway, I felt some kind of connection with the writer. Hemingway and I had other things in common as well, which always made me feel closer to my hero in spirit. Hemingway was a traveler. He loved adventure and seeking out new sights. As a language instructor and history buff, traveling has become a great passion of mine as well, although I have never seen myself taking such an active part in my travels as he did – participating in the Spanish Civil war and doing foreign correspondent duties.
Hemingway loved cats and kept one or two about for inspiration. I, too, adore my feline companions. While my menagerie is not quite as large as those now living in the cat sanctuary at his former home in Key West, I assure you they are just as pampered and beloved. Hemingway apparently held much the same attitude regarding his four legged companions as I do, trusting them over their human counterparts. “A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not.” I have to say I agree with the man. I’ve been betrayed by people over and over again, but a cat is always true.
Hemingway was a true outdoorsman. He enjoyed fishing, hunting and camping. Growing up in Montana and Wyoming I often enjoyed these same activities. Although I never had the opportunities to deep sea fish that my hero had, I have been known to enjoy a day out on the lake fishing for rainbow trout and just enjoying the time outdoors. I loved participating in competitive shooting events and the occasional foray into the woods to hunt for dinner. Hemingway often summered in Wyoming where I grew up and lived his last years one state over in Idaho. Now here I was literally following in my hero’s footstep through France and Spain. What could be more perfect?
During some free time in Aix-en-Provence, the capitol of the Provence region, I was eager to visit the café where Hemingway spent a great deal of his time while in that city. A plaque attached to the wall just outside assured me my hero had sat at the very table I chose. The waiter also confirmed I was sitting very near where Hemingway sat with his good friends F. Scott Fitzgerald, Pablo Picasso, and Ezra Pound. Wow! What could be more inspiring? I spent the next half hour sitting at that table just soaking in the atmosphere and reconnecting to my hero’s spirit. The waiter, realizing how enamored I was with the thought of sitting at the same table as Hemingway, offered to bring me the author’s favorite beverage. I was tempted, but being in charge of students and knowing Hemingway was infamous for over-imbibing alcohol deterred me from imbibing, so I ordered a café au lait instead. As I sat sipping my coffee, my journal open on the table in front of me, I was able to imagine what it must have been like back in the 1920’s for the Lost Generation. I wondered if I would walk away from that plaza with some as yet unrealized inspiration for a novel just as my hero had so many years previously when he penned The Sun Also Rises. I was disappointed when nothing immediately came to me, but I never gave up hope my hero’s spirit might reach out to me through time and space and give me a little nudge.
I was surprised when the waiter returned with a second cup of coffee and a tall glass and a bottle. He explained that after some hard drinking Hemingway often ordered the second beverage he had brought me. I was intrigued. The glass was half full of a shockingly green liquid. At first I was a little concerned it might be absinthe, but the waiter soon allayed my fears. It was crème de menthe syrup. He opened the bottle, which contained sparkling lemonade and poured it into the glass and presented me with a magnificent drink called a Diabolo. It was refreshing and I knew I would have to find a way to recreate it once I returned home. I’m sure it, along with the appropriate amount of coffee, could possibly trigger some deep writing thoughts.
He left me alone again to sample my new favorite drink next to coffee. I was overwhelmed once more with the history of the place. The square, aside from the modern advertisements, probably looked much the same as it had when Hemingway visited. Tucked away off the beaten path it was secluded from the tourist routes and quiet, surrounded by more cafes and an old church. The early afternoon sun made it just warm enough to be comfortable and the high walls of the buildings surrounding the plaza kept out the worst of the strong winds. As I finished my drinks and closed my journal, I closed my eyes and strained with all my might to touch, if only for a brief instant, the essence I was sure my hero had left behind in that space. I have always made a point to try to visit the places Hemingway visited when I have the opportunity. I get goose bumps every time and it makes me think perhaps he’s reaching out to me from the other side. If just a tiny fraction of his writing skills and experience could seep through the cracks to me it would be worth the time and effort it takes to seek out his old haunts just to share the space he once touched.
By Billie-Renee Knight
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