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Channeling Hemingway Over a Bellini in Venice, Italy
It’s unbelievably tiny. It has its fair share of tourists at certain times during the day. But you never know what you’ll find on the other side of the frosted swinging doors at Harry’s Bar, and you'll swear you feel Papa Hemingway at your side as you sip your Bellini in the place where they were invented. Don’t grab a table—you can't afford to install yourself here for a whole winter writing your novel like a post-war lush writer—instead, sit at the bar, learn a little Italian and the ancient bartender might give you the leftovers from his latest batch of peach-puree-and-prosecco goodness.
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