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I’ve never related to the classic idea of a writer—a miserable alcoholic who’s grossly underpaid and cynical about everything. Ernest Hemmingway drinking absinthe in a dive bar in Spain, Sylvia Plath putting her head in the oven: This is what it means to be a writer. Then you die at a young age and your value is only realized posthumously.
The real reason why I keep coming back to the Ace though are the people. Fact: Rich travelers who stay in hip hotels are the biggest freaks on leashes. They’re like some parody of a Sofia Coppola film brought to life and I live, breathe, die to overhear their conversations.
I was in my car and on my way to buy an Airport Express when my lung collapsed. I decided to go ahead with the purchase, partially because I wasn’t sure what was happening to me, and partially because I had driven 45 minutes in traffic to get to the computer store.