When I’m bored and feeling particularly unmanly, I generally grab a Hemingway biography off my bookshelf and read tales of alcoholism, big game hunting, and misogyny. It really is great fun.
This morning, I found a copy of A.E. Hotchner’s Papa Hemingway. I haven’t read it before, and judging from the yellow sticker on the cover, I purchased it for ten cents at a garage sale. There isn’t an index, so I couldn’t do my usual routine with a new Hemingway book and look up all the references to “colon” (try it some time). Instead, I just breezed through the pictures in the middle. There he is shirtless at the typewriter; there he is with Black Dog in Cuba; there he is playing matador for Ava Gardner; there he is using a rifle to shoot a cigarette out of the mouth of a birthday party attendee. (That guy had stories to tell for a lifetime.)
Then this fell out of the book:
And on the back:
I’ve been to the Hemingway House a few times, mainly when I was a kid, most recently on Spring Break of my freshman year in college when a friend and I chased a girl all the way to Key West. (She eventually got away. Twice.) I always saw the Florida/Hemingway connection as more of a tourism gimmick than anything else. Maybe it was just my naiveté (probably it was my naiveté), but the only real takeaway for me was the unsuccessful search for the famous six-toed cats.
But here are Jim and Dorothy living it up in Florida and having the time of their lives. From my hobby as a philatelist (don’t tell anyone), I know the date was somewhere in the early 1970s, based on the eight-cent Eisenhower stamp (Scott #1402, thank you).
Jim and Dorothy seem to making the rounds in Florida, touring Key West on Tuesday and then heading out to Ft. Lauderdale.
And the weather? “Delightful.”
I see Dorothy and Jim slathered in sunscreen, their black socks reaching to the knee, their sandals covered in an entire vacation’s worth of sand and mosquito repellant and foot sweat. They’re well rested because their room at the Flamingo Motor Court has one of those Magic Fingers devices hooked up to the bed, and Jim — always the planner — brought along two rolls of quarters. They can’t believe that the sun is actually shining and the temperature are in the 70s in February, something that never happens back in Springfield. They’re already thinking about buying a modular home in Boca and riding out their golden years in the Sunshine State.
And this is my eureka moment.
Could it be that Florida might make the ideal bike tour? There aren’t mountains and streams, but there is that unmistakeable Florida charm that has bewitched New Jersey snowbirds and retirees for years.
I grew up in Florida, so I’ll always have fondness for the place, but could it, perhaps, be a placed that I’d actually like to explore?
I know, Thomas Wolfe, you can’t go home again. But what if you never really appreciated home the first time around?
And could the focus of the tour be … wait for it … literature? Besides Hemingway, I’m not really sure that Florida has a rich literary heritage. I’ll have to research this and get back to you.
But I’m excited.
A Literary Tour of Florida. Who woulda thunk it? Thanks, Jim and Dorothy.
P.S. In the same book was the following newspaper clipping. It appears that Louisa was very proud of Choon B. Choi. I’m proud of him, too.
biciclettalento 