Key West, Key West

So as many of you know, Carlin and I spent our Thanksgiving on the little island of Key West. Key West is the southern-most island in the Florida Keys-- it is also the Southern-most point of the U.S. The Spanish used to refer to the island as Bone Island, because it had been either a Native American battlefield or burial ground. Later in its history, Key West became a wealthy island full of people called Wreckers. Wreckers would watch for shipwrecks off the islands coast. The wrecks were common, either due to a captains inexperience, poor navigators, or simply the fact that the coral reefs in that tropical water are so thick. When a ship would wreck, a wrecker would call from one of many tall towers, "WRECK ASHORE!" and the wreckers would dispatch. Their main job was to pull survivors out of the water, but they also got to keep a portion of the cargo they could pull out of the water, and so many considered them to be pirates or treasure hunters first and foremost. There are even rumours, although historically disputed, that these Wreckers would lure sailors onto the reefs purposefully, in order to collect whatever goodies they had in their cargo.

During the Civil War, Key West remained a union territory, despite Florida being one of the original seven states to secede. Key West played host to many presidents, most popularly Truman, and it also hosted Tennessee Williams, and Ernest Hemmingway, who had a house here. Hemmingway even set To Have or Have Not in Key West, and is supposed to have worked on many of his famed novels in the city, including For Whom The Bell Tolls.

During the Cuban missile crises, submarines were stationed around Key West in case of an emergency. After all, Cuba is only 90 miles from Key West, and many brave Cuban immigrants who make the trek wind up in Key West. Once the US figured out not much would happen with Cuba, the submarines departed, and despite a naval air base still present, the military feel of the town is nearly non-existent. Mostly, now, the town is all art deco decour and tropical island air. After all, Key West is home of the original Margaritaville.

Carlin and I left very early, armed with only homemade cinnamon rolls and strong coffee. We passed through many run-down, wind-worn, sun-bleached beach towns, filled to the brim with diving centers and scuba lessons. The keys are connected by a strong, single-lane freeway, rising up out of the water like the road through the red sea, conducting a mass exodus of working slaves to the vacation paradise, the proverbial Israel. The only hindrance on our stretch to freedom was a nine-cop speedtrap half way to the keys. A large turnout spot was filled with cars getting pulled over six at a time, and we were one of the unfortunate ones. The cop, who seemed a bit tired and a little put-off, appeared to like us and our cooperative natures. Our indiscretions? 10 miles over the speed limit in a (poorly marked) construction zone, and Carlin driving with an expired license. The ticket? $400. What did we walk away having to pay? a $90 fine for Carlin's license and a heads up that the speed limit is 55 throughout the keys.

Despite our brush with danger, the rest of the trip (at a steady 55 MPH) was very relaxing. I found myself actually thankful for the officer, because had I been going 60-65, I would have missed all the beautiful sites. By the time we arrived in the actual Key West, Carlin and I were feeling very tropical.

After a few minor set-backs finding the hotel (you think San Fransisco traffic is bad!) Carlin and I settled in. Our hotel was right next to the dock, and our bed was bigger than a California King. We also had a bathtub with jets, and a beautiful courtyard where the pool and hot tub were located. The first thing we did, sharing a mutual passion for food, was grab a bite and a beer. We were pleasantly surprised to find Key West has no sealed beverage law, and people are allowed on the streets with open drink containers. Restaurants even offer plastic cups to those who can't finish their drinks before they're ready to move on. We visited Mallory Square, and acquainted ourselves with the town. Key West is less of a main street, and more of a series of main squares. All of them are adorable little districts with ancient store fronts, very few of which have doors of any kind. These shops are populated by artists, cigar sellers, pass-by bars, upscale restaurants, downscale restaurants, fortune tellers, and lazy shop dogs, graying around the muzzles and sleepily protecting their owners steps.

The long stretch of Duval Street ended at a pier, where pelicans dove for fish just below the water, and seagulls perched on old docking posts, tiredly perched just off the shore. Carlin and I saw a leathery old man in a straw hat and a thong bathing suit, complete with cod-piece just large enough for his penis. We ignored him, caught a picture, saw some jumping fish, rooted for those seagulls, and kept a sharp eye open for jellyfish.

After that, we ventured a little further, to the Southernmost Point of the United States. It isn't much to see, it looks like this:

but it was still cool to think we were only 90 miles from Cuba. After that we caught a ride in a bike-cab with Michael, just Michael. The man invented petty-cab history tours. He had worked in the hospitality industry for a long while, and decided one day he'd had enough, so he called it quits, picked up a bike taxi, and never looked back. One theme of Key West was people like Michael Just Michael, people who had led an average or expected life, one day called it quits, and came to Key West. Michael Just Michael showed us all the good places in Key West: places you could drink if you were a tourist, places you could drink if you were a local, places you could drink in the nude, places you could drink if you liked history, places you could drink if you like topless bullriding, and places you could drink if you liked Happy Hours. We wound up at the place where you could have happy hour.

It was a beach front bar and restaurant. Michael Just Michael said all the locals ate and drank there, and I could see why. We had mojitos, which were ideal. Not too sweet, not too boozy, just enough mint, just enough lime. All appetizers and drinks were half off, so we helped ourselves to a half-pound of chilled, spiced peel-and-eat shrimp and a half dozen oysters on the half-shell, topped with caviar and a dollop of sour cream. Everything was fresh, right out of the ocean there are our feet, and perhaps some of the best food I have ever had.

Afterwards, we mosied back to Mallory Sqaure, which is renowned for it's sunsets. The ocean was littered with sailboats, hopping along the horizon like little shark fins, lit up with the final flash of the sun as it fell off the edge of the earth. The cool breeze that blew behind us heralded the coming of the street performers, all pirates in their own right. They line the dock at Mallory Square and begin their show right after the sunset. There was the Great Rondini, an obvious ex-con who tied himself up in a straight jacket, eighty pounds of chain and handcuffs and freed himself in under five minutes. There was a tight rope walker, whose extraordinary talent was made even more special by the fact that he was drunk while performing, and various fire breathers and mad jugglers. Carlin and I spent the rest of the evening in the pool and the hot tub, enjoying the fine tropical sky.

Next day we went out on a sailboat with it's own pirate crew. There were three men commanding the ship, and all were wanders of some nature. One, for example, was the son of an air force pilot, who had wound up in Key West after living in various other places. He even knew where Placerville was. And Winchester. The other, a hefty red-head who reminded me of a viking, had left his home in Indiana and done, well, pretty much whatever the hell he wanted. He had lived in South America for a period, and is currently living on his own sail boat in the waters of Key West, drinking every night and sailing every day. They took us out to the middle of the ocean, and parked us over a coral reef. I secured my goggles, put my snorkel tightly in my mouth, got my flippers on and went overboard. For the first fifteen minutes or so, I thought, with the utmost certainty, that I was going to drown. I was drinking salt water by the gallon, and not being able to breath out of my noise was highly encumbersome. But after a bit I did get the hang of it. And it was incredible.

If you have not seen under the sea, it is something I highly recommend. The fish completely ignored us, and darted in an out of their reefs and rocks as though we didn't exist. They were brown, mostly, but occasionally we would see a bright blue or yellow one. The ocean floor was littered with sponges, big stones, and even rusty old anchors. Eels, black and slithering, darted up from large, cavernous holes in the ocean floor, peering at us, warning us. Sting-rays, brown and large, skidded across the bottom like modern pool cleaners, kicking up little clouds of settlement as they went. Inside the middle of rocks or the larger sponges, lobsters hid, poking out a claw or an antenna, feeling for fish, feeling for us.

After the snorkeling, the sailboat took us out to an island that wasn't quite an island. In a two person kayak, Carlin, the air force kid, a family from Virgina and an Indian couple sailed around the island. The island had no central land mass, but was made up entirely of mangrove trees.

The island was full of ospreys and bald eagles. The trees sat in silence, twisted, their viney trunks wound like sinew, thin, finger-like roots stretching into the detritus below. Their silver bark was scarred with boils full of the salt-water they lived off of, giving them the appearance of old men. They are some of the oldest and heartiest trees in existence, and the third largest land producer (after lava and earthquakes).

We returned from our day at sea humbled and refreshed. We showered, and dressed up, and headed out for Thanksgiving. On the recommendation of Michael Just Michael, we ate at a place called Square One, which was delicious. They were offering a full turkey dinner, with green beans, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and even home made cranberry sauce. To our delight. Michael Just Michael (cleaned up and in a suit) was expediting that evening as a favor to the owner, so we got to see our friend one last time before we left. We had a glass of wine each, and ate outside in the middle of a beautiful square just off of Duval Street. We talked about how Key West would be a great place to live, and how we had both fallen in love with the town and it's soul. It pulsated with adventure, with the exotic, and yet presented itself as a welcoming, relaxing location. It was full of modern pirates, of wanderers, of artisans and artists and of people like us, drawn to it's calls of "wreck ashore!". That warm wind, laced with the salt of the sea, soaked into our pours, and by the time we left, we were both too relaxed to even bother going over 55.