My grandfather was a young writer living in Spain a long time ago. At one point he wrote that he saw Hemingway sitting and working in a cafe, but didn't go up to him since he didn't feel he had proven anything yet.
As a fan, I’m torn. It would’ve been amazing to chat with him, but then there was that passage (in A Moveable Feast, I think?) where he lambasts a stranger (long after the fact, in said piece) for interrupting his train of thought while writing at a cafe.
