What would Hemingway do?

I have never been the biggest fan of Ernest Hemingway. In terms of his literary legacy, I understand the hype and can--at least abstractly--appreciate it. A minimalist, journalistic approach to literature. Check. A man whose vision and defined jaw merit his appearance on the Mt. Rushmore of the Lost Generation, should it so exist. Got it. But I’ve always preferred the fragile longing and desperation a la F. Scott Fitzgerald, whose sentences are as elegantly crafted as the beaded flapper dresses that appear so frequently throughout his works. In short, I guess I favor themes of life and death affixing themselves to a grand ballroom instead of the grisly hide of a bloody bull. I’ll never forget the day I finished The Sun Also Rises; at 15 years old, I wasn’t sure if I should try and get a refund from Barnes and Noble or look up the nearest Alcoholics Anonymous group. That’s it? I thought to myself. Really?

This all has a point, I promise. Not content to dominate the ex-pat scene in just one country, Hemingway’s alcoholism was well-documented throughout Spain--particularly the north. So when Anna, Amanda and I decided to go in that direction and visit San Sebastian for the weekend, I couldn’t help but recount the various slitty-eyed characters who had invariably discovered the true meaning of life while gazing out at the crashing waves of the Cantabrian Sea or something profound of the sort. I also couldn’t help but suggest that, in Ernest’s honor, we should dub the weekend “What Would Hemingway Do?” Clearly I didn’t read any of his shit with a critical eye.

That initially manifested itself fairly innocuously: to counter the seven-hour haul in public transport, we decided to make mimosas and drink them along the way. So at 7 am that Saturday, I popped two bottles of champagne in the outdoor bus station and poured them into two-liter water bottles, causing the elderly couple next to me to jump in fright (and then most likely sneer in disdain). Didn’t exactly practice the most discretion, but at least I made a point to adhere to the weekend’s theme, right? 

me being insufferable

Anyway, was feeling particularly bubbly throughout the journey (we chose to sequester ourselves in the back of the bus for ultimate privacy/brooding potential) and maintained that on our bus ride to a hostel called Olga’s Place. A rather broad-shouldered blonde with a glass eye and the worst Spanish accent I'd ever had the misfortune of hearing greeted us; I could only assume she was Olga and fresh out of the Kremlin. She ushered us inside and showed us the place, which was quite kitschy and cute. On an interesting note, three of the tenants were from Lexington, Kentucky. Though all intrigue immediately vanished when, after a 15-second introduction on my part, they asked if I was going to watch The Game later; to which I responded that no, I planned on downing a bottle of wine and eating fresh strawberries with my friends at the Bay of Biscay. Yes, I’m sure that their interest in me waned faster than a candle in hell, too.

After talking at length about how short Willem Dafoe is in person (Olga met the Green Goblin during the San Sebastian Film Festival the past year), Olga finally led us to our room, which I had hoped would be occupied solely by the three of us. Of course this wouldn’t be the case. “You share room with Australian boy," she said. "Very handsome. You will like much.”

Oh, fuck.

Not a typical reaction, I know; but you must understand: this trip followed a weekend spent on the phone with the American Embassy, Spanish police authorities and two traumatized parents who were convinced that their daughter (my roommate, Amanda) had been raped, murdered, mugged or some dreadful combination of the three when in reality she was simply shacked up with an Irishman for 27 hours and apparently couldn’t find the time to let anyone know. And I knew that Anna, having gone the entire duration of her stay in Spain without much physical contact with a guy, was probably feeling about as sexually repressed as a Catholic priest and thus would likely try to end that dry stint here. Pretty Hemingway, yes, but this ultimately meant that I inevitably would have to assume the role of tawdry spectator as the two of them vied for Kangaroo Jack’s affections, which as it turns out wasn’t even far from the truth.

And so we made our way from the hostel to the nearby grocery for picnic supplies, with me lamenting the fact that we hadn’t shelled out the extra two euro each for a private room. And of course, as I was examining the strawberries they found the Aussie. And even worse, he actually was attractive. The three-person picnic quickly became a party of four, and Amanda and Anna had begun trying to outwit one another for James‘ (that was his name) laughter. Meanwhile, I bought another bottle of wine for myself. 

The storm soon followed. I had just plopped myself onto the sands when I felt a raindrop make its equally dramatic descent onto my forehead. James, of course, suggested that we bear the storm and keep drinking on the beach; I responded with an equally stupid remark that I’d rather not be an accidental extra in The Perfect Storm Part 2, which I don’t think he understood. At this point, I didn't expect him to. At any rate, I began to hear thunder in the distance (which was barely audible over Anna and Amanda’s dueling repartees...), grabbed my bottle and the keys and said that if they wanted to sit next to the tall metal light pole during a thunderstorm they were more than welcome to, but I would be drinking with Olga in the hostel. They followed.   

We get inside and then, after much begging, Anna and Amanda get James to divulge his fascinating life story. He bloviated here and there about his time spent trimming hedges in London, but truthfully, the only two words you need to know in order to understand the nature of his being are the following: finance major.

Moving on. The evening came, as did my appetite. We decided to hit the streets of Old Town for pinchos and Basque wine (it’s renown for being slightly sparkling and served exceptionally cold). Having not eaten, well, anything the entire day, the wine hit me faster than I had anticipated and I quickly became much more genial than I had been some hours prior (as seen below):

But as Hemingway would know, those good times are indeed fleeting and alcohol’s depressive effects always kick in. One minute, James was climbing over the bridge rails and to the river bank (I didn't warn against this...); the next, Anna was crying to me about her bipolar mother while Amanda was sucking James‘ face off. And yes, we were watching the waves crash on the Cantabrian Sea as this all happened.

Still maintaining some semblance of good sense, I recommended that we relocate to the room (it was nearly 3 am and a bunch of drunks next to sharp objects is seldom a recipe for success). When Amanda came up for air she agreed, as did James. Was still consoling Anna, now upset with Amanda’s behavior, when we got back.

Things got quite hazy at this point. Anna decided she wanted to go back to the beach and “didn’t care if anyone came or not”, and given the past weekend’s nearly-filed missing person’s report plus her current frame of mind, I wasn’t going to allow that to happen. After a few minutes of excruciating silence, I stumbled out of my bunk bed and said that yes, I would join her if she wanted. My undesired shadow, James, suddenly piped up and said that he’d like to go, too. Amanda, meanwhile, was apparently comatose. I welcomed that.

The beach was everything you expect at 3 am: black and wet and not fun. I had the bright idea of running off and trying to make a sand angel to cheer up my friend, at which point I also made the assertion that my phone had been lost or stolen. Shrieking in the dark, my cries were received with the sound of Anna and James splashing around in the water, making out. At this point I don’t know if my tears were more the result of property loss or feeling like I was embedded within a real life cliché. Either way, I had some choice words for them--who still, despite my objectively impressive howling (when I was little my pediatrician actually told my mother that she’d never have to worry about me getting raped because of how loudly I can scream)--were unresponsive. 

Took the keys, again, and scurried back to the hostel crying, and this time it was Amanda who didn’t respond. The others eventually returned, and as I was told the following day, I ripped a Hawaiian lei off of James‘ neck and told him that he and his lei were “stupid” and that he had “ruined the entire weekend” (always quick with the sharp, venomous remarks; I know) while explaining to Amanda that she was only a libertarian because she didn't "give a shit about anyone else". I then apparently took the nearest thing I found, which happened to be a wedge of gouda cheese, and thrust it across the room in the throes of what I guess I considered fiery revelation. Fled the scene (largely in embarrassment for having thrown a wedge of cheese at a wall to express my feelings), punched out a few frantic emails to my mother and my boyfriend, then buried myself in the living space where Olga’s husband, Roberto, consoled me and then left me there to cry in peace. I’m not sure what Hemingway would have made of that, and quite frankly I'm not either. At the very least, my first night in San Sebastian was memorable.

Will write more on the proceeding days momentarily, but for now (and for my memory’s sake): all ended well.   

the shadowy depths that are now home to my phone and dignity