Walking into History

As the hot summer sun began to set on the Plaza de Santa Ana, we gathered with a two-person film crew and a dozen members of the Hemingway Society on  their first trip to Madrid. Our mission is to step back into time and retrace the footsteps of Papa Hemingway through the mystery and splendor of  Madrid and its lore.

Imagination helped us step back to the 1930s when Hemingway walked the streets, frequented bars, and wrote dispatches for the National American Newspaper Alliance before and during the Spanish Civil War.  The film crew,  along with Hemingway's niece Hilary Hemingway, recently finished its  two-year documentary effort that involved four trips to Cuba for a film about Hemingway's life in Cuba. PBS station WGCU in Fort Meyers, Florida, in concert with Susan Lesko, is producing a four-part series of Hemingway in Cuba, Spain, Africa and France. Tonight the crew is filming the Madrid  segment.

We stood in the middle of Plaza de Santa Ana. Tabernas and Restaurantes line the sidewalks around the square. We gathered just a few steps from a statue of Federico Garcia Lorca, who stands with his arms reaching above his head,  fingers pointing upward guiding a bird to flight. The statue was erected only two years ago by the Popular Party, only his name adorns the figure, no other written tribute to him. This is not uncommon in Madrid where  historical monuments give few clues to who or why they're there.

A warm breeze blew, the sun fell slowly behind the stone buildings, but the  heat continued to emanate from the cobbled street. In the square, several  children kicked a soccer ball, and a few toddlers peddled their bicycles  with training wheels in the open square.

We walked a few steps across the plaza and entered the friendly Cerveceria Alemania at 6 Plaza de Santa Ana. The overhead fans pushed air across the crowded room. The dark brown wood-paneled bar hadn't changed much in the  past 40 years. A bronze of a bull in fighting stance sits on a ledge near  the door, and just above it is a photograph of the famous bullfighter El  Gallo.

We shared a glass of red wine, a few tapas and dodged the waiters dressed in  uniform black pants and white shirts. We gazed up in the crowded bar at the  black and white photographs of Hemingway. We imagined Papa Hemingway  sitting in the corner booth at one of his favorite bars and reflect on the  old Spanish saying, "if you're not a bullfighter you're a waiter."

Leaving the square, it's not long before we reached Plaza Canalejas. From there, we came upon one of Hemingway's favorite watering holes, Bar El Patio.  Stepping inside the historically preserved green-and-white tiled 1960s style, we noticed the brass kickers that lined the base of the bar. Cigar cutters hanged in close reach of bar patrons. The ceiling is papered with bullfight posters and on the walls boar's heads, deer antlers and a Bull's head. It gives the small bar a machismo vitality. It quickly became clear why Hemingway frequented the bar during 1959 when he was writing A Dangerous Summer.

Bar El Patio's owner Don Alberto sported a thin salt and pepper moustache, the short-sleeves of his white button down shirt rolled to the tops of his  bulging biceps. He welcomed the group with a deep, raspy voice.  A few days  earlier, Don Alberto discovered in the basement of El Patio, black and white  photos of bullfighters, and one of Hemingway with a younger woman near San Ysidiro church and the flea market. After a quick photo, Alberto stepped to the counter and hangs the picture of Hemingway above the bar.

Leaving the bar, we walked past the Hotel Suecia where Hemingway lived in one of the two 5th floor suites near the end of his life. He confided to his  friend after a terrifying dream of his imagined death and said, "I have just  walked my nightmare." Across the street was a park he often visited and in  the opposite direction the Church San Jose.

We looked into the glass windows of Bellas Artes to see the art deco chandelier where Hemingway spent long hours every week reading newspapers, magazines and books.  A few blocks up from the Bellas Artes, on the Calle de Alcala, we look up and see the prominent arms on the clock tower as they  inch toward midnight.

Further up the Calle de Alcala, we passed the Plaza de Callao where Hemingway watched as shells from Franco's National forces fell in 1937. The  night inched toward morning and our bodies and legs started to fatigue.

We ventured a short walk from Hemingway's living quarters, walking down a quiet street side street and heard the magic beat of Cuban rhythms as it filled the air.  Inside, young Spaniards huddled in small circles, and danced in perfect step. The night belonged to their youth. We heard a few more stories about Papa Hemingway and feast on black-and-white photos on the  walls of a back room.

We shared a few laughs beneath the strong beat of bongo drums. A Mojito helped us soak up the last few impressions of our journey. In the back room hung a collection of photos of Hemingway with bullfighters and friends, and  quiet moments sharing stories and drinks.

We said goodnight. Our legs, ready to give out, we realized we were a long way from having the energy and endurance for a Spanish style night. The heat  beat on our dry throats, but our spirits were lifted from the echo of  Hemingway's immortal lines and gregarious life.

Lee Bruno