Across the River and Into the Trees

                

                   Ernest Miller Hemingway was never my favorite writer. I had almost slept reading his famous "For Whom the Bell Tolls" when I was a teenager bookworm. The only period of time that I started to feel fond of this depressive personality was when I read "Teresa" by Freddy Germanos. In this historical novel, Teresa, member of a famous political family in Greece, lived with and loved some of the most famous artists and personalities in the early decades of 20th century. Her greatest love of all was Ernest.

           Being in Key West few years ago, I stared with awe outside Hemingway's House. Travelling on a satellite, I still see the house-museum in a yard full of trees. He had chosen a place for rest, an exotical destination away from the popular Miami beaches. In Key West of Ernest's era, all he had to do was to put on his summer hat, to catch on his bike and to smell the mixed with sea drops and plant's juice air. Leaving the bicycle to lean on the wooden structures of a dock, he could share a lonely place to write, viewing Mexico Gulf. A tea or a coffee, a cigar and maybe a bottle of alcohol drink could have made him to cheer up; but only until his next episode of melancholia.

           Leaning on my bureau seat, a call from Demetra returns me back to reality. She wants to meet us outdoors someday. That's how Greeks communicate: "Let's go out for coffee someday." "All right! See you!". You never know if you ever meet them, but you are happy that they care about you.  Sweet Heart has gone to the super market for shopping. I grab the keys of Home and go out to pick up my Angel from grandparents...