I hate Hemingway; he is so memorable. Too much of Paris and Venice are under stencilled with the face of Hemingway in my memory. Venice not as much, but Paris . . . perhaps I should not be as upset about this. After all, Paris and I are not entirely on good terms with each other. We could meet in social places with small talk but never got around to affection that runs beyond a week's necessity of crepes and Belgian waffles.
OH. Did I mention you can get sweet waffles at the organic market here in Dublin?
Also that the loovly jazz of Harry Connick, Jr. goes very well with stale scones and mugs of cold milk and the sound of people cheering on the marathon runners outside my window? And my plaid pyjama pants? But not Latin. Oh no it does not.