Recently I returned to Spain. It was a holiday but also a pilgrimage, a search for something not located in geographical space. I was tracking my parents' dream of Spain, of each other; my own dream of Spain as a place where we'd all been together.
When I heard rumors about Jay-Z and Beyonce heading to Cuba, I was feeling pretty confident about my trendy choice to go that way. But then I bagged Cuba, and booked a flight to Vienna, Austria, home of the Lipizzaner stallions and Wienerschnitzel.
Since nobody has the attention span anymore (thanks, Twitter) required to slog through an epic tome about the Spanish Civil War, or even a breezy novella about a geriatric fisherman, Marty Beckerman has collected Hemingway's manliest wisdom.
The Rodney Dangerfield of spirits, rum, is rarely given its fair due. In the post-Hemingway world of serious drinkers, it's either maligned as super saccharine, or pigeonholed as a beachside one-trick-pony.
Again, not that Hemingway wasn't tough, but why let his particular brand of toughness drown out the more interesting, and sometimes more complex, forms that are out there? I'm thinking specifically now of women.
He's enshrined here. In more than one location you can find him in bronze. In this Spanish city and traditionally Catholic country, I'm not referring to the Crucifix, or even the co-patron San Fermin, but American author Ernest Hemingway.
Why is hate-watching the only realistic option? Because loving or even liking this expensive misfire is simply not possible. Don't let the fancy names in the cast fool you: "Hemingway and Gellhorn" is a stupid, stupid movie.