I absolutely loved visiting the Hemingway House in Key West, Florida. The old stone mansion was gorgeous, with floor-to-ceiling windows lining the walls of nearly every room. All of them were open and fans hummed from the corners, circulating the air and gently stirring the curtains in the breeze.
I would have married Hemingway just to live there.
I fit some of the qualifications of his wives: like them, I am a writer. I hadn’t realized that all four of his wives were writers, mostly reporters. I knew he was a womanizer, but thought he was just looking for the next pretty face. Apparently he appreciated their minds, too. Just not their hearts, I guess, since he kept cheating on them.
Maybe instead of a Hemingway wife, I’d rather be one of Hemingway’s cats.
Hemingway wrote the majority of his novels while living in Key West. His studio was just as gorgeous as the house. I think that if I could live there, I’d get some great writing done, too. Or maybe I’d be as lazy as a cat, lounging on a bed in paradise.