At the Hotel Ritz, Paris

I pushed my way through the small, crowded space and took a seat at the bar, in the far right corner. The bartender, a well-dressed, bald gentleman, punctually approached me and said, in a mellifluous voice, "Welcome to the Bar Hemingway, sir. What can I get you to drink?"

"A dry martini, ice cold and crystal clear," I said.

"The gentleman has done his research, it seems," the bartender complimented me. His nametag read "Colin." I recognized the name from the reviews I had read in many famous travel blogs.

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you the story," Colin continued, as he poured the drink, "but legend has it that when Ernest Hemingway liberated this hotel from the Nazis, he marched straight in here and ordered fifty-one martinis for himself and the soldiers with him."

"And the soldiers were forbidden to drink, so Hemingway drank them all by himself," I said with a grin. "Cheers!"

"You know, you're sitting in his spot," Colin remarked, before turning to help his other customers. "That's precisely where Hemingway himself sat, arguing with F. Scott Fitzgerald."

I took a moment to appreciate this wondrous coincidence. Behind the bar, facing me, was a bronze bust of Hemingway.

"I wonder what he'd argue about with me, if he were here today," I mused.

Colin returned later, to make conversation, as all professional bartenders should. "So, what brings you to Paris?" he asked.

"I'm a writer, researching my first big story."

"What were you before attempting this monumental feat, if I may inquire?" Colin asked.

"I retired from the military, after serving ten years and deploying to both Iraq and Afghanistan."

"Then I think you are ready for the challenge," Colin told me. "Hemingway himself said, 'In order to write about life, first you must live it.' It sounds like you've lived as much life as Hemingway did, and I hope you will also write about it as well as he did."

I thanked him, paid for my martini, and went back to my hotel room to start typing.