I'm reading a book by Ernest Hemingway called "A Moveable Feast." It's so amazing it makes me want to punch someone in the face.
There's not a lot going on in it, it's just him and his wife roaming around Paris and drinking lots of wine and making love (at least from what I've read so). It makes me want to travel. I mean, who doesn't want to travel? But more than anything else, it makes me want to appreciate how wonderful New York is.
I've been drinking lots of beer lately, only at places where I can sit outside and watch people wander by. I sit there, sip away, and go back and forth between eavesdropping and admiring how pretty the city is. It's a very pretty city we have.
Everyone complains, I think we have to, but this little book is making me realize what an amazing life I have. How drinking wine and making love should be enough to make any story/ life amazing.
But oddly, the book also makes me depressed. It makes me wish we didn't have the technology we do, simply because it's too easy to find information out on a person. I can click and type and find everything. Nothing to the imagination anymore, so it's harder to create legends. Mr. Hemingway is a legend, and he didn't have a facebook. Obviously that's not the only reason, but there's something mysterious about people from way back when that's completely lost on our generation(s).
But then again, they're only legends because we make them into legends. Maybe if we knew everything about them and saw how many "it's complicated" relationship statuses they had, we'd think they were pretty silly.
I'm going to sit outside and read this book.