Key West, Florida
Periodically I find I need an opportunity to shutdown life, ignore any fears, frustrations, and the occasional fight I might wish to have, but do not. Such a time led a fellow adventurer and me to Key West, Florida.
As we start our descent into the Miami area, we are cruising just above a layer of clouds, heavy irregular shapes, piled thickly together, with an opening here or there only to be filled with another below them. As we grow closer to Miami, the clouds vanish and the land below quickly transforms itself into marsh. We are over the Everglades, and I noticed the afternoon sun, reflecting off the pockets of water, appearing as if it lay beneath the surface, intensely shining through only when an area of vegetation clears.
There are lines, mostly straight, like small roads stretching far into the distance, hundreds of them, some turning sharply, and then heading off into another direction. The man next to me lives in Miami and he explains the trails are left from the air boats - the skiffs with large above water propellers that are used to navigate the marshy, vegetative water. Where they pass, they slice open the surface allowing the water to appear. Nature, over time will fill in the gaps.
As we approach the airport, I see rows of palm trees lining the roads and the fronts of buildings, and my heart reminds me of how much I love their shape, and what they represent.
We land, grab a car, and head out, Joshua driving, and I observing. We have 161 miles to cover to reach Key West.
On the way out of town there are several rows of tract homes and what is interesting is home after home has corrugated tin covering the windows facing the freeway. At first glance, it appeared functional, maybe blocking the noise from the cars, then I discover the tin covers all the windows of a home, then another, and another after that. I realized these homes were empty, the tin protecting the windows from vandals and vagrants since the homeowners were no longer able to live there. Regardless of why, they are symbols of people who lost their homes.
The road to Key West is a small two lane rode whose bridges allow the hopping from island to island. As we cross under the archway that signifies the entrance to the Florida Keys, a motorcyclist buzzes by, his hair covered by a helmet but his long blondish beard seems to split down the middle with each half flowing down the sides of his helmet as he sped along.
Periodically, I would see the Gulf and belt out "got water!" Joshua would reply with either a "got nothing" or "got water!" This reoccurring event and his patience and camaraderie are a welcome relief to these last few months.
We pass over a small island; to the left are Kite Boarders. Kite Boarders are people, on a single ski, tethered to very large kites. The kites, fed by the ocean winds, are full and darting here and there, pulling the skier along, popping them up off the water, giving them opportunities to perform a split-second acrobatic flip or spin, before slapping them back onto the water. There are dozens of them in close proximity. Joshua comments there are so many they resemble a swarm of flies. I am amazed they do not overlap and tangle.
We pass business after business, some catering to the boating industry, some to the tourist, and some that are not so discriminating. Take Papas Lounge, the building appears to have seen much better days, what with the lettering on the sign begging for a new paint job - it seems to make the building itself look more dilapidated, though that would be hard to do.
We cross over another small bridge and several fishing boats are on the hunt. Joshua makes the comment we should be out there with them. I wholeheartedly agree.
We cross over Seven Mile Bridge, with its huge rising arch, highlighting one of my favorite places to be. A motorcycle, with its female passenger, pulls over and the girl runs to the edge to take a picture.
As we travel past homes and businesses, I notice a bit of whimsy here and there. Several places have mailboxes shaped like a Manatee standing upright, holding a mailbox between its fins. Often they are dressed as a Santa, an Angel, or the occasional Reindeer.
We approach Key West and curve to the right, then left as we pace the ocean. Another turn here and there and within a short time, I see a marker designating the furthest most southern point of the US. I am in Key West, as far from everything as I can get without getting wet.
We find the hotel, change, and wander down Duval Street. We head to our first stop; Caroline's Cafe for lunch. As we walk, I glance at the bars, shops, and restaurants lining the street. We pass a bar, and I note a man wearing a leather shirt and leather chaps. Somehow, he seems to have forgotten the pants part of the outfit, as the chaps did nothing to cover his rear. Yes, I am definitely in Key West.
We are seated on the patio at Caroline's Café; I order a Grouper sandwich, Margarita, and we relax and watch the sights. A woman skirts by on a bike, a dog resting in her basket, I half expected the Wicked Witch to be chasing her. A moped pulls up with two guys on board; the passenger has a shirt that says "Gal Pals." Another guy passes sporting a bright pink Mohawk and I had to ask Joshua what would possess a guy to get up in the morning and say to himself, "I think I'll get a pink Mohawk today"? As we eat our meal, a chicken wanders by and Joshua comments "you can always tell you're in Key West - the chickens wander into the restaurants."
We head down to Captain Tony's Saloon made famous by Jimmy Buffett in his song The Last Mango in Paris. Business cards cover the ceiling and a good deal of the bar, stapled to every nook and cranny, accented by small herds of bras traded for drinks in previous weeks, months, and years. Much to my dismay, Captain Tony is not in, but we enjoy his bar. After a drink or two, I wander back to the head (bathroom) and, true to the song, written on the bathroom wall, now framed and protected by a sheet of plastic, are the words highlighted in the song: I ate the last mango in Paris, took the last plane out of Saigon, took the first fast boat to china, and Jimmy there still so much to be done."
As we head further down Duval, Joshua comments about his sandals. He shows me the bottom of them and I am amazed they have a built-in bottle opener. Only Joshua - only Key West.
Our next stop is Sloppy Joes, once Hemmingway's favorite hangout. We step to the rear to what is called "Sloppy Joes Backroom Saloon and Sea Breeze"; we enjoy a drink or two and a bit of hypothetical philosophy. A half hour later we head back to the front to blaring music and sheets of people dancing on the floor. Several drinks later, it's late and we decide its time to find the hotel. I felt something on my hip as I stand and my phone decided to jump to its death, hitting the floor and dissolving into several pieces. With luck and the help of a fellow bar patron I find the parts and head on out - reassembling as I go and the phone comes back to life.
It is 7:00 AM. Morning comes too early, and I grab my jeans, slip on a shirt, hat, and a pair of shoes, and head outside to let Joshua sleep a bit more. I again walk down Duval Street, and notice the street is empty save for an occasional bicyclist and the one or two people walking one direction or the other. I head towards the only Starbucks in Key West, nine-tenths of a mile away. As I painfully cover the distance, I note the onslaught of vocal roosters, with their early morning crowing. One would sound off across the street and two more would answer from somewhere else. As I pass a motel, one lets loose and I pause to take a picture. I tried several times but the picture would always come out blurry. As I tried again, the bird suddenly darts towards the other side of the parking lot, startled by the temporary resident in the motel room when he opens the door where the rooster was serenading, and yelled out at the bird "What the Hell's wrong with you?" as if the rooster would know - Yes, its morning in Key West.
I pass a hen and half a dozen chicks consuming a pie tin of crushed corn chips. They scamper slightly, then head back to the plate. Slightly above the tin is a sign that states "This Family is sponsored by the Salsa Loca Mexican Restaurant."
Suddenly I realize I am still on last night's rhythm for I have been humming the Jimmy Buffett tune regarding Captain Tony's. I pass multiple closed shops, restaurants, bars, and the occasional gated entrance to homes and apartments. One such gate is located between two buildings. It is wrought iron with chicken-wire covering it halfway up. On the other side of the gate lies a two foot stuffed rabbit, staring at the chicken-wire as if trying to find a way through it.
I reach the Starbucks and in moments have the coveted liquid in hand. I head back out and pause at a touristy tee-shirt shop. Something is familiar. I see across the street a solitary balcony on the second floor. When my wife and I came to Key West almost a decade ago, we sat at an outside bar, and I saw on that balcony where someone had placed a mailbox on a pole and painted the words "Air Mail." That mailbox is now gone as is the restaurant where we sat, for it is now the tee-shirt shop. Only the brick sidewalk is the same.
As I walk, I see the ocean in the distance down one of the side streets. I head that way and soon enter an area noted as "The Truman Annex," it is lined with tastefully done two to three story condos, all keeping with the Key West style. I notice the lawns are perfectly manicured and here and there, doors are open, some with screens some not. As I pass the condos, a man walking the other direction says good morning to me. He is impeccably dressed and seems very out of place. He reminds me of the literary discussions I have with one of my brothers from time to time, as we sit drinking a beer. We will watch other patrons, attaching a personality and uniqueness to each one. This man would fall under the category of a serial killer.
As I reach the end of the Truman Annex, I am close to the ocean. I expect to be able to follow the shoreline back to the street where my hotel resides. A quick look tells me that will not be possible. I have traveled the wrong direction but this morning it does not matter, I cross the parking lot and bid the water good morning.
Off to the right is a decommissioned WWII ship named the USS Mohawk. She is a retired Coast Guard cutter, and came to Key West after serving her time in the Navy, including seeing action 14 times against German submarines. At 165 feet in length, she is an ironic contrast to the huge cruise ships in the distance behind her, for without her and her kind, the cruise ships would not exist. I pause to give thanks to the men she protected, who in turn protected us.
Time is moving and I head back the way I came, again heading through the Truman Annex where the number of open doors has increased. As I reach the other side of the Annex, I turn the corner of the first street I see. Moments later a familiar sound reemerges: roosters crowing and I realize I had not heard one since I entered the Annex. There is a distinct difference between these two sections of Key West.
As I walk, coffee in hand, a middle aged woman passes me walking her bike - I notice the front tire is flat - every freedom has its risks. A bit further and I see a building whose age is such that a tree, two feet and some change in diameter has grown near the edge of the floor of the home. Long ago there was a battle as to who would win, the tree has pushed the floor of the house up several feet, splitting the wall and collapsing the roof.
Tree: 1, Home: 0.
I turn a corner and head up a block then across another, zigzagging the blocks to get closer to the hotel. I pass a series of '50s style homes, which appear to be made of concrete, each one a duplicate of the others except for one small minor difference, a simple design shift here and there. The last two in the series have experienced a conversion into cafes.
A half block later, I recognize a building across the street. I am staring at the former home of Ernest Hemmingway. I am on Whitehead street/US 1. Close to me is a telephone pole with a faded sign. It reads, "Found, Lost Cat" with a picture of said cat, well washed by the daily rains. I find it funny, for if you have ever been to Key West you know that cats are a commodity, and I wonder how one tells a lost cat from one on the prowl - maybe this one as five toes instead of six.
As I round the corner, I reach my hotel room. There on the porch, Joshua sits in one of the two Adirondack chairs. He looks none the worse for wear. There are yellow Allamanda flowers growing around the porch, with a red one slipping in here and there. I take the other chair and relax for a moment, and slip off my shoes; for some reason my bare feet on the old, weatherworn floor boards gives me a feeling of delight. A third creature decides to join us. A stray cat wonders onto the porch and coaxes some petting from Joshua. Once he stops, the animal lays down for a moment, then up again and wanders to the edge of the porch. The cat shuns us by sitting with its back to us, as if a reminder that we are but visitors, and not to get too comfortable here.
Time for a shower and a quick bite to eat - a continental breakfast by the pool and the morning sky has added an accent of misting rain. I eat next to a gold fish pond, finish up, and get ready to leave.
As we start our drive back, we pause for a moment near the ocean to bid it farewell. We have been in Key West for a very short time, but then there is never enough time when one is in Key West.
G. Steven Nolte
Key West - December 9th, 2007
As we start our descent into the Miami area, we are cruising just above a layer of clouds, heavy irregular shapes, piled thickly together, with an opening here or there only to be filled with another below them. As we grow closer to Miami, the clouds vanish and the land below quickly transforms itself into marsh. We are over the Everglades, and I noticed the afternoon sun, reflecting off the pockets of water, appearing as if it lay beneath the surface, intensely shining through only when an area of vegetation clears.
There are lines, mostly straight, like small roads stretching far into the distance, hundreds of them, some turning sharply, and then heading off into another direction. The man next to me lives in Miami and he explains the trails are left from the air boats - the skiffs with large above water propellers that are used to navigate the marshy, vegetative water. Where they pass, they slice open the surface allowing the water to appear. Nature, over time will fill in the gaps.
As we approach the airport, I see rows of palm trees lining the roads and the fronts of buildings, and my heart reminds me of how much I love their shape, and what they represent.
We land, grab a car, and head out, Joshua driving, and I observing. We have 161 miles to cover to reach Key West.
On the way out of town there are several rows of tract homes and what is interesting is home after home has corrugated tin covering the windows facing the freeway. At first glance, it appeared functional, maybe blocking the noise from the cars, then I discover the tin covers all the windows of a home, then another, and another after that. I realized these homes were empty, the tin protecting the windows from vandals and vagrants since the homeowners were no longer able to live there. Regardless of why, they are symbols of people who lost their homes.
The road to Key West is a small two lane rode whose bridges allow the hopping from island to island. As we cross under the archway that signifies the entrance to the Florida Keys, a motorcyclist buzzes by, his hair covered by a helmet but his long blondish beard seems to split down the middle with each half flowing down the sides of his helmet as he sped along.
Periodically, I would see the Gulf and belt out "got water!" Joshua would reply with either a "got nothing" or "got water!" This reoccurring event and his patience and camaraderie are a welcome relief to these last few months.
We pass over a small island; to the left are Kite Boarders. Kite Boarders are people, on a single ski, tethered to very large kites. The kites, fed by the ocean winds, are full and darting here and there, pulling the skier along, popping them up off the water, giving them opportunities to perform a split-second acrobatic flip or spin, before slapping them back onto the water. There are dozens of them in close proximity. Joshua comments there are so many they resemble a swarm of flies. I am amazed they do not overlap and tangle.
We pass business after business, some catering to the boating industry, some to the tourist, and some that are not so discriminating. Take Papas Lounge, the building appears to have seen much better days, what with the lettering on the sign begging for a new paint job - it seems to make the building itself look more dilapidated, though that would be hard to do.
We cross over another small bridge and several fishing boats are on the hunt. Joshua makes the comment we should be out there with them. I wholeheartedly agree.
We cross over Seven Mile Bridge, with its huge rising arch, highlighting one of my favorite places to be. A motorcycle, with its female passenger, pulls over and the girl runs to the edge to take a picture.
As we travel past homes and businesses, I notice a bit of whimsy here and there. Several places have mailboxes shaped like a Manatee standing upright, holding a mailbox between its fins. Often they are dressed as a Santa, an Angel, or the occasional Reindeer.
We approach Key West and curve to the right, then left as we pace the ocean. Another turn here and there and within a short time, I see a marker designating the furthest most southern point of the US. I am in Key West, as far from everything as I can get without getting wet.
We find the hotel, change, and wander down Duval Street. We head to our first stop; Caroline's Cafe for lunch. As we walk, I glance at the bars, shops, and restaurants lining the street. We pass a bar, and I note a man wearing a leather shirt and leather chaps. Somehow, he seems to have forgotten the pants part of the outfit, as the chaps did nothing to cover his rear. Yes, I am definitely in Key West.
We are seated on the patio at Caroline's Café; I order a Grouper sandwich, Margarita, and we relax and watch the sights. A woman skirts by on a bike, a dog resting in her basket, I half expected the Wicked Witch to be chasing her. A moped pulls up with two guys on board; the passenger has a shirt that says "Gal Pals." Another guy passes sporting a bright pink Mohawk and I had to ask Joshua what would possess a guy to get up in the morning and say to himself, "I think I'll get a pink Mohawk today"? As we eat our meal, a chicken wanders by and Joshua comments "you can always tell you're in Key West - the chickens wander into the restaurants."
We head down to Captain Tony's Saloon made famous by Jimmy Buffett in his song The Last Mango in Paris. Business cards cover the ceiling and a good deal of the bar, stapled to every nook and cranny, accented by small herds of bras traded for drinks in previous weeks, months, and years. Much to my dismay, Captain Tony is not in, but we enjoy his bar. After a drink or two, I wander back to the head (bathroom) and, true to the song, written on the bathroom wall, now framed and protected by a sheet of plastic, are the words highlighted in the song: I ate the last mango in Paris, took the last plane out of Saigon, took the first fast boat to china, and Jimmy there still so much to be done."
As we head further down Duval, Joshua comments about his sandals. He shows me the bottom of them and I am amazed they have a built-in bottle opener. Only Joshua - only Key West.
Our next stop is Sloppy Joes, once Hemmingway's favorite hangout. We step to the rear to what is called "Sloppy Joes Backroom Saloon and Sea Breeze"; we enjoy a drink or two and a bit of hypothetical philosophy. A half hour later we head back to the front to blaring music and sheets of people dancing on the floor. Several drinks later, it's late and we decide its time to find the hotel. I felt something on my hip as I stand and my phone decided to jump to its death, hitting the floor and dissolving into several pieces. With luck and the help of a fellow bar patron I find the parts and head on out - reassembling as I go and the phone comes back to life.
It is 7:00 AM. Morning comes too early, and I grab my jeans, slip on a shirt, hat, and a pair of shoes, and head outside to let Joshua sleep a bit more. I again walk down Duval Street, and notice the street is empty save for an occasional bicyclist and the one or two people walking one direction or the other. I head towards the only Starbucks in Key West, nine-tenths of a mile away. As I painfully cover the distance, I note the onslaught of vocal roosters, with their early morning crowing. One would sound off across the street and two more would answer from somewhere else. As I pass a motel, one lets loose and I pause to take a picture. I tried several times but the picture would always come out blurry. As I tried again, the bird suddenly darts towards the other side of the parking lot, startled by the temporary resident in the motel room when he opens the door where the rooster was serenading, and yelled out at the bird "What the Hell's wrong with you?" as if the rooster would know - Yes, its morning in Key West.
I pass a hen and half a dozen chicks consuming a pie tin of crushed corn chips. They scamper slightly, then head back to the plate. Slightly above the tin is a sign that states "This Family is sponsored by the Salsa Loca Mexican Restaurant."
Suddenly I realize I am still on last night's rhythm for I have been humming the Jimmy Buffett tune regarding Captain Tony's. I pass multiple closed shops, restaurants, bars, and the occasional gated entrance to homes and apartments. One such gate is located between two buildings. It is wrought iron with chicken-wire covering it halfway up. On the other side of the gate lies a two foot stuffed rabbit, staring at the chicken-wire as if trying to find a way through it.
I reach the Starbucks and in moments have the coveted liquid in hand. I head back out and pause at a touristy tee-shirt shop. Something is familiar. I see across the street a solitary balcony on the second floor. When my wife and I came to Key West almost a decade ago, we sat at an outside bar, and I saw on that balcony where someone had placed a mailbox on a pole and painted the words "Air Mail." That mailbox is now gone as is the restaurant where we sat, for it is now the tee-shirt shop. Only the brick sidewalk is the same.
As I walk, I see the ocean in the distance down one of the side streets. I head that way and soon enter an area noted as "The Truman Annex," it is lined with tastefully done two to three story condos, all keeping with the Key West style. I notice the lawns are perfectly manicured and here and there, doors are open, some with screens some not. As I pass the condos, a man walking the other direction says good morning to me. He is impeccably dressed and seems very out of place. He reminds me of the literary discussions I have with one of my brothers from time to time, as we sit drinking a beer. We will watch other patrons, attaching a personality and uniqueness to each one. This man would fall under the category of a serial killer.
As I reach the end of the Truman Annex, I am close to the ocean. I expect to be able to follow the shoreline back to the street where my hotel resides. A quick look tells me that will not be possible. I have traveled the wrong direction but this morning it does not matter, I cross the parking lot and bid the water good morning.
Off to the right is a decommissioned WWII ship named the USS Mohawk. She is a retired Coast Guard cutter, and came to Key West after serving her time in the Navy, including seeing action 14 times against German submarines. At 165 feet in length, she is an ironic contrast to the huge cruise ships in the distance behind her, for without her and her kind, the cruise ships would not exist. I pause to give thanks to the men she protected, who in turn protected us.
Time is moving and I head back the way I came, again heading through the Truman Annex where the number of open doors has increased. As I reach the other side of the Annex, I turn the corner of the first street I see. Moments later a familiar sound reemerges: roosters crowing and I realize I had not heard one since I entered the Annex. There is a distinct difference between these two sections of Key West.
As I walk, coffee in hand, a middle aged woman passes me walking her bike - I notice the front tire is flat - every freedom has its risks. A bit further and I see a building whose age is such that a tree, two feet and some change in diameter has grown near the edge of the floor of the home. Long ago there was a battle as to who would win, the tree has pushed the floor of the house up several feet, splitting the wall and collapsing the roof.
Tree: 1, Home: 0.
I turn a corner and head up a block then across another, zigzagging the blocks to get closer to the hotel. I pass a series of '50s style homes, which appear to be made of concrete, each one a duplicate of the others except for one small minor difference, a simple design shift here and there. The last two in the series have experienced a conversion into cafes.
A half block later, I recognize a building across the street. I am staring at the former home of Ernest Hemmingway. I am on Whitehead street/US 1. Close to me is a telephone pole with a faded sign. It reads, "Found, Lost Cat" with a picture of said cat, well washed by the daily rains. I find it funny, for if you have ever been to Key West you know that cats are a commodity, and I wonder how one tells a lost cat from one on the prowl - maybe this one as five toes instead of six.
As I round the corner, I reach my hotel room. There on the porch, Joshua sits in one of the two Adirondack chairs. He looks none the worse for wear. There are yellow Allamanda flowers growing around the porch, with a red one slipping in here and there. I take the other chair and relax for a moment, and slip off my shoes; for some reason my bare feet on the old, weatherworn floor boards gives me a feeling of delight. A third creature decides to join us. A stray cat wonders onto the porch and coaxes some petting from Joshua. Once he stops, the animal lays down for a moment, then up again and wanders to the edge of the porch. The cat shuns us by sitting with its back to us, as if a reminder that we are but visitors, and not to get too comfortable here.
Time for a shower and a quick bite to eat - a continental breakfast by the pool and the morning sky has added an accent of misting rain. I eat next to a gold fish pond, finish up, and get ready to leave.
As we start our drive back, we pause for a moment near the ocean to bid it farewell. We have been in Key West for a very short time, but then there is never enough time when one is in Key West.
G. Steven Nolte
Key West - December 9th, 2007
posted by G. Steven Nolte at 10:23 AM
1 Comments:
Gary,
Good to see you are still here. Enjoyed!
Toni
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