"Ah, sure," Hemingway nodded emphatically, as if that all made perfect sense to him suddenly. "Your broadcast on the radio here when you arrived... yeah, okay, that was more polished than the usual." He felt himself relax - a fellow journalist was an easier man to drink with civilly than a fellow novelist. As much as he missed the likes of Scott Fitzgerald, those relationships tended towards the explosive.
Hemingway took a drink, quirked an eyebrow, and then gave a short laugh. "Hell, I've been in and out of these kinds of situations for... I don't know, feels like twenty years or some shit," he explained. "The days I don't take it in my stride... well, they happen. Sometimes more loudly and obnoxiously than others," he shrugged. "You learn to adapt, for the most part. You've got to."