'The Sun Also Rises'

When I decided that reading books was a pretty good thing to spend my time doing, Ernest Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises was one of the first I took on as I delved into his vast bibliography.

It's still one of my favorites. Not unlike Jack Kerouac's On the Road, The Sun Also Rises made me want to hit the road more than any other piece of art. I wanted nothing more than to be swept away to Paris in 1925. Then take the train to Spain. Drink the wine, soak in the Spanish hospitality and a country that soon would be ripped apart by civil war. It's at this moment -- the second before the storm -- that is the sweetest.

To a certain point, Hemingway was exceedingly lucky. Granted, anyone could jaunt around the world -- big-game hunting in Africa, drunken sprees in Spain, fighting in wars that aren't yours, living the life in Paris. All on a journalist's salary, no less.

Yes, I could do this. However, there's something about the time. The freedom and the relative value of living abroad (folks didn't flock to Paris in the 1920s because they were rich ... the exchange rate was such that a dollar went a long way) was advantageous for this lifestyle. You could go anywhere without any real fear and just find a job doing something. It was a completely different time and place.

Add to the fact that Hemingway came about during a literary and artistic heyday of the world -- the writers, painters, artists, politics and activism. The world was changing. Art was changing. Everything was about to change.

Still, today, I'd give just about anything to be getting shitfaced in Pamplona this spring.