Hemingway saw war, he loved, he drank and he danced with the pretty gals throughout the four corners of my world. I tried to follow his path, to seek knowledge, swim in the shit-storm of life. Maybe find some good reasons to be alive. I learn the taste of the Hemingway’s whiskey. I learn to love the burn, the taste of hardness.
I loved the sea, I loved the girls and I am never was content waiting for death. I needed new muses, new city and new faces. My restless life left me lonely till I knew. I was alone and a 30-30 rested on my kitchen table. I was saved by dear Grandmother’s telephone call. Her words changed me. She whispered. “Are you alright honey, we love you and please come and see me. We need you alive and well.”
I escaped again and I found peace in South and Central American in 1992. I learned to drink the rum and I still drank the whiskey, I would tell Ernest. Mr. Hemingway, I love the Honduras sea, the pretty girls and the tropical forest. You would love this place, you could write and we could drink some Irish whiskey and sing songs till the moon falls into the sea.
One day at the Purgatory Inn. We will drink the Hemingway’s whiskey and I would ask for a story. I would ask him. Ernest, what was your final thoughts my friend?