Why Are Famous People's Homes Interesting?

Ernest Hemingway. A sexist, philandering, war-monger. A drunk, a manic-depressive, a cad. But for all this, he's Key West's favorite son. Truman spent time there, Jimmy Buffet made it famous, but “Papa” Hemingway's is the legend that matters. And let's face it... the guy could write!


His home and gardens occupy the single largest privately held plot of land on the island. He bought it, back in 1931, for the princely sum of $8,000. His wife got the house in the divorce, and following her death in the early 70's, their sons took ownership. Neither wanted the place or the responsibility for maintaining it, so they sold it to a Key West local businesswoman. She managed to live in the house for 3 days before the endless knocking at her door drove her back to the gardener's house at the rear of the property.

Tourists.

Hundreds of tourists at all hours of the day and night, hoping for a glimpse at the House that Earnest Built. It's unclear if Hemingway's wife had to deal with this as well, or if she was just better at dealing with it (after all, she'd dealt with HIS drunk ass all those years...) But our Conch businesswoman turned agony into opportunity. Using the instincts that had gotten her ahead in an economy based largely on rum and sun-screen, she turned the house into a museum.

And based on the size of the crowd on an off-peak weekday... average of ten bucks a head... even given upkeep, maintenance, and staff salaries... She made a good choice. Certainly one I benefited from.




Sure, the house is pretty. The grounds are GORGEOUS. And all the tour guides look more than a little like Hemingway himself. But the most striking thing is actually the cats. Papa really loved cats (it's SO hard not to make the obvious joke...) Apparently cats with extra toes (“polydactyls”) are supposed to be good luck. And among his other... “charming” traits, Hemingway was incredibly superstitious. The 45 cats still on the property are supposedly direct desendents of the original residents. More than half of them have 6 or 7 toes. And all of them are allowed on the antique furniture. In fact, the tour guides make up (I mean “remember”) names for each cat. There's even a 24/7 internet “CatCam.”




Speaking of things feline, there was a Picasso figurine of a cat on top of the bedroom dresser. The tour guides explain that it's only a replica. It seems the original was stolen a few years earlier, and it broke during pursuit and recovery. What the guides don't mention is that it wasn't exactly a gift from Picasso. He'd traded it to Hemingway for a case of hand grenades.

Wait... What?

Forget for a moment what Papa was doing with a case of hand grenades... What the Blue Period did Picasso want them for?!?!? Ever wonder why so many of his subject's eyes and noses are on the wrong parts of their body? Hmmm....

While we were in his bedroom, we also got to see what was probably the first king sized bed in America. They didn't sell such things in the 30's, so Ernest bought two twin mattresses and wired them together. But of course no standard headboard would fit. So while touring a Spanish Monastery, he saw a wooden gate he liked. So he bought it, had it shipped home and turned it into a headboard. The hinges are still visible. And I'm willing to bet that gate saw more action in Key West than it ever did at the monastery...



From the wrap-around porch that surrounds the bedroom, you can see the old kitchen. It made sense that the kitchen was in a separate building so the house didn't get overheated. But Hemingway had even grander designs. He had a room built over the kitchen and made it his writing studio. Then he built a wrought-iron walkway from the porch over to the studio, the only way in or out. Privacy was important to our hero. Why, he probably even did some writing up there.

The studio is kept much the same way he left it, right down to the many creepy hunting trophies. The kitchen below has become public bathrooms and a gift shop. But it's what's behind that building that makes for the best stories.

When the Hemingways first moved into the house, there wasn't a swimming pool. This was the first thing Papa looked into correcting. Until the estimate came back. The reason there weren't many swimming pools on the island was how devilishly expensive they were. So... he built a regulation boxing ring instead. He had training facilities, equipment, the whole nine yards. But that's not what those touring the grounds today observe. You see, his wife knew well his love for boxing in general and that ring in particular. So when she got word that while in Spain (supposedly covering the Spanish Civil War, Hitler's dress-rehearsal for World War Two), he was also having an affair, she took matters into her own hands.




Upon his return home, where his boxing ring had been, he saw a huge swimming pool. He asked how much it cost. She replied cooly “Twenty thousand dollars.” Remember that the whole place had cost them only eight grand a few years earlier. Furious, Hemingway reached into his pocket and flung a penny at her. He raged that since she was determined to spend all his money, she might as well have his last cent. He then stormed off to “Sloppy Joe's”, his favorite bar, to drink away his ire (presumably on credit?) His wife kept that penny and had it set into the patio by the pool. She delighted in showing it to guests: Of his four wives, she bragged, she was the only one ever to take his last cent.



Which isn't to say that Hemingway didn't exact a certain measure of revenge. One night the proprietor of Sloppy Joe's was informed his rent was going up a huge amount. Rather than pay, he decided to move the whole bar around the corner. Not just the liquor and stools. Joe was determined not to leave ANYTHING for the landlord, and even took the bathroom fixtures. When Hemingway arrived to get his drink on one night, and saw a row of urinals lined up outside the bar. After being told what was going on, Papa declared that he'd poured enough money down those urinals, that he was entitled to one. After a moment's reflection, Joe decided that was reasonable, and Ernest proceeded to drag the thing over a mile to his home. He left it in the garden and stumbled up to bed.

In the morning, his wife was... displeased to find a urinal in her garden. When she demanded he remove it, he pointed at the swimming pool and declared that he'd move his as soon as she moved hers. So with a resourcefulness born of years with a beast, she surrounded it with decorative tile, placed a beautiful Spanish olive cask above it, and made the whole thing into a fountain. Of course, for all that, it's still the most photographed urinal is the history of the world.



These are just a few of my favorite tales. And if you think I've done them justice, you should really go down and see the thing in person. If you have the time to wait for a particular tour guide, ask for Stuart from Ohio. I've met a lot of fantastic story tellers, and he is absolutely one of the best. But no matter how well the story is told, it's nothing compared to actually seeing the gorgeous home, the lush gardens, smelling the tang of the salt air laced with a hint of rum, and feeling the southern sun on your face...

The Hemingway Home and Museum in Key West, Florida. A tourist trap? Perhaps. But a worthy one nonetheless.