Living Life 'All the Way Up' Part II

On a seven hour flight to Hawaii, I found myself seated beside an archaeologist. What followed was one of the most interesting conversations I've had with a complete stranger. I listened as he talked about his work, envied his enthusiasm for it and took notes on everything he said, thinking I might write about him someday. And here he is. Denny told me he had spent the first decade and a half of his post-college career working in a meaningless job. And though it took several years to complete, he went back to school in his late 30s to fulfill his dream of becoming an archaeologist. Now, he works for the U.S. government organizing overseas digs for the remains of U.S. service personnel. On that particular flight, he was on his way to Hawaii for a briefing before traveling on to Vietnam.

I peppered him with questions. What was his most interesting dig? Finding Native American remains in the Rockies. What was the greatest aspect of his job? Never knowing what he's going to find or where he's going next. He gave me his card, "in case you should ever want to write a book about me," he said jokingly. "It's you who should write a book," I said. "You're living life all the way up." (Denny would turn up again a couple of years later in Washington D.C. to work on a project with an acquaintance of mine. The world is small that way.) As it turned out, Denny was a Hemingway junkie as well, so the rest of our conversation was set in Spain, particularly the Casa Botin in Madrid where Jake and Lady Brett Ashley share a meal at the end of The Sun Also Rises. It's a nice place to have a glass of sangria and imagine young Hemingway sitting at a table outside, a pencil poised in his hand and a glass of red wine warming in the Spanish sun. On this trip to Key West, however, I'll see him at his writing table in a room over the guest cottage. His beloved boat Pilar would be anchored not ten walking minutes from his front door. The lighthouse, visible from his second story balcony illuminates his way home from his favorite bar, Sloppy Joe's, where he would meet his third wife, journalist Martha Gellhorn. (In all reality, I'll see him everywhere. Hemingway Days will be underway, complete with a lookalike contest, drawing Papas from all over.) The irony is how quickly he peaked as the kind of writer who could live from desk to boat to bar and back again, with a war thrown in here and there. He's attained an immortality that invites imitation (much like Elvis), though we choose to ignore the heavy price he paid for it.