This afternoon I went to the Ernest Hemingway Museum.
The museum was surprisingly crowded. Usually museums about writers are empty, I remember a deserted Svevo Museum in Trieste.
Most of the visitors at the Hemingway Museum were septuagenarians.
The tour guide was a bearded man – he claimed that he could make Asians believe that he was Hemingway. During the tour he drank a few sips of rum, but he insisted that the rum was part of the tour.
In one of the rooms a picture of the maestro hung on the wall, accompanied by pictures of the four most important women in his life.
Hemingway’s work was barely mentioned.
Almost none of the tourists visited the bookstore next to Hemingway’s swimming pool.