When I dream of afterlife in heaven, the action always takes
place in the Paris Ritz. It’s a fine summer night. I knock back a couple of
martinis in the bar — Rue Cambon side. Then there’s a wonderful dinner under a
flowering chestnut tree in what’s called Le Petit Jardin. That’s the little
garden that faces the Grill. After a few brandies, I wander up to my room and
slip into one of those huge Ritz beds. They are all made of brass. There’s a
bolster for my head the size of the Graf Zeppelin and four square pillows
filled with real goose feathers — two for me and two for my quite heavenly
companion.
Ernest Hemingway
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