My boyfriend and I have a lot in common. We both like zombie movies, folk music, the civil war, dogs, good food, new places, riding bikes, camping, hiking, cooking, fishing, swimming, and more and more things. One thing, however, that we did not have in common were guns. My boyfriend is a member of the NRA, and enjoys, from what I understand, going to the shooting range every now and again (especially the ones outside where you can get some fresh air) and seeing if he can challenge himself and his shot. He also keeps it in the rare occasion that he may need to use it for home protection. He has taken many safety courses and takes gun safety very seriously. In essence, he knows how to handle a gun.
I, on the other hand, don't know much about guns except they are lethal, and they are scary. I know their evolution-- mainly the muskets used in the revolutionary and civil war, you know the kind, with the bayonet attachment at the end. But real, modern guns have always been a point of conflict for me. The country in me says they are a necessary evil. When we were out in the sticks (Mt. Aukum), there were a lot of times we, as a family, were exposed to some dangerous animals. Raccoons who tried to drown our dog, mountain lions who ate (not tried, but succeeded) one of our prize goats, mountain lions who attacked our dogs, foxes who would try out for weak points in the chicken fence... I know that if I ever have a farm, as I someday hope, that the harsh reality is a gun, and knowledge of it, will be necessary to protect my livestock. The hippie, gentile side of me, on the other hand, sees guns as an instrument of destruction, a destroyer of lives and worlds, a cold killing machine that allows soldiers and criminals alike to disconnect themselves from the act of taking life. So which, then, is the right thought?
Growing up, I always knew my father had a gun in the house. As a paranoid child (I saw my first horror movie, Predator, in the 3rd grade, followed by Critters a week later, and an ensuing lifelong affair with the genre) I appreciated the feeling of security I had knowing my father had it and knew how to use it. Whether or not I ever truly thought my home was going to get broken in to, whether or not I ever truly thought my dad would have to use the gun, knowing it was there in case of need was a safe feeling. It was, in so many words, like a first aid kit. You hope you're never going to have to use the burn cream, the arm splint, or the oodles of gauze, but there's a very rare, and very real, chance that you might have to, and therefore the first aid kit provides you with a feeling of safety and preparedness.
Carlin thinks it is important (not mandatory, just important) that I know how to shoot a gun. If it should ever come to the point where I need to defend myself, God forbid, and he is not home with me (whether this be in Florida, in Placerville, in Virginia, or on my dream farm), then I need to know how to defend myself. I thought two things about shooting a gun. One was, if I want to be a writer, a real writer, then I have to experience everything (this is, for those who don't know, always my first thought whenever an offer is handed to me). Secondly, I thought, "Is my ignorance of guns more dangerous than knowing how to use a gun?" I decided that yes, in fact, not knowing how to use it, how to use the safety, how to load and unload it, was by far more dangerous than knowing how to do that, and so I decided when Carlin offered to teach me, the answer would be yes.
We called around til we found a range. Carlin has a Beretta of some sort (I don't remember if it's a .9 or a .22, again, I don't know THAT much about guns yet), and so we bought some bullets for that, four targets, and borrowed eye and ear protection. Carlin explained to me the rules of the gun.
1. NEVER POINT IT AT ANYTHING YOU DON'T WANT TO KILL
This is the most important rule of them all. Always point the gun away from people, pets, expensive paintings, you know. Anything you don't want to have a hole in it. In a range, this means you must always point the gun downrange.
2. RED MEANS DEAD.
If the safety is turned so it's showing red, that means it is off.
3. DO NOT PUT YOUR FINGER ON THE TRIGGER UNLESS YOU ARE READY TO FIRE.
Even when aiming, it is important not to leave your finger on the trigger. A finger on the trigger leads to temptatiton to pull, or accidental pulls, so just leave it off til you're ready to shoot.
He also instructed me that if the gun should misfire, I am to lay it down, pointing downrange, and wait for him to fix it.
When we entered into the actual range, things changed. We had in earplugs, AND we had earmuffs on to block out the sound, but it is still one of the most profoundly frightening experiences of my life. Up until this point I had not heard a gun fire (that I can remember), and the sound is so loud that it CAN'T be blocked out. Every time somebody fired, despite it being within a confined area, I jumped. Someone had a large gun, because every time they shot it my teeth rattled. I could feel it start at my gums and shake my teeth all the way down.
Now they say that when soldiers first enter into combat, they have a moment where they are rendered dumb from the gunfire and the carnage. I didn't see the carnage, but I know the gunfire. I felt scare, maybe more scared than I have ever felt, and it wasn't an internal fear, like when I get my blood drawn, but an external one, full of nervousness and absolute fright. I knew, somewhere in me, that these people were permitted gun owners, all shooting down a metal range, backs turned to me, firing at targets down a large, bowling like alley, blocked off by metal walls. Yet, the sound creates an imminent and instinctive fear that caused me to break out sweating, my hands trembling violently, and according to Carlin, turning my skin white and causing me to look pale.
I had told Carlin I wanted to watch him shoot it first, and so he loaded his clip, took aim, and shot out five rounds, each shell discharging out of the top of the gun with a spark and a flurry. This is also horrifying during your first time around a gun. Once the clip was empty, Carlin turned to me and asked, "ready to try?" I said "Um no. I don't want to. You go ahead and shoot." I was shaking and balmy from the sweat. "We can just leave." Carlin said, obviously spooked at how spooked I was, and began to pack up the gun.
Then came Mental Mallory. Mental Mallory is the same Mallory that makes me get my blood drawn, ride roller coasters, get shots, and the wide array of other things I am afraid to do. She chimes in and says, "You're going to feel really disappointed in yourself if you let your fear run you out of this place. Remember," she says, and she loves this quote because she knows it will get me every time, "bravery is not the absence of fear, but the will to overcome it."
"Fine." I say to Mental Mallory, and "Can I watch you one more time?" to Carlin.
Carlin, who is the best boyfriend in the world, obliges and fires off another clip. Then he says to me, "How about if I only put one bullet in the gun, and you just try to fire that one bullet?" I agree, and he sets up the gun for me (I am, by the way, still too afraid it's going to explode to load the gun, so Carlin still does that for me). He teaches me how to hold it properly, tells me how to aim ("line up the castle, the little white dot in the middle of the V, but don't focus on that, just line that up and look at your target, it will all come to focus, you'll get it") and then steps out of the way.
So I'm sweating, and trembling, and having a million worries a minute. Mental Mal is still strong in my head, but a smaller and more powerful voice, who I call Mortifying Mal, is saying the following: "What if the gun backfires? What if the casing hits you somewhere you didn't cover, like your artery? What if the glasses fall off right when it shoots into your eye? What if your finger is in the way? What if the kick breaks your arm?" "I'm not going to fire it." I keep thinking, "How am I even doing this?" When I finally think I've lined up the sights, I sit, frozen, sweating, eyes watering, breathing heavy, as Mortifying Mal shouts "YOU'RE GONNA SHOOT YOUR EYE OUT! YOU'RE GONNA HURT SOMEBODY! YOU'LL HURT YOURSELF!" And then one, solid line from Mental Mal: "Pull the stupid trigger, you coward." Squeeze. Shot. That was it.
I was trembling still, but felt a lot of relief, mostly because nothing happened. I definitely missed the target, but no one fell down dead anywhere on the range, and both my eyes were still intact. I didn't even notice the casing fly out, which I thought would be scary, but I did smell sulfur. A lot of sulfur. I put the gun down hard, turned around with both hands up, and said "Ok I did it." Carlin said, "not bad!" although it was kind of bad. The next thirty minutes he helped me figure out how to stand better so the kick didn't fling the gun upward, always reloading the clip with only one bullet at a time. Finally I got used to the feeling of the gun shooting. The sound, the clip, the smell all became secondary.
Carlin shot some in between, much better than me. Eventually I let him load the clip all the way for me, and I began to work on my aim. Toward the end I was doing very well, but we ran out of bullets, and the sulfur smell was starting to become overwhelming, and so we left.
So what did I take from this? I enjoy shooting. I'd like to go back with Carlin and see if I can challenge myself to improve my aim. I'm proud of myself, for being afraid and fighting through it. But I also understand the power of the arm more than before. As I was shooting, holding it, aiming it, the weight and the heat of it, I kept thinking to myself, "What sort of a person can do this, hold this and aim this, and even think about firing it into a person? An animal? This," I thought again and again, "is one of the biggest responsibilities in the world." I still feel that way. When I look at that gun, when I think about shooting it, I think how safe I have to be with it, how responsible. It's not a toy. A hobby, perhaps, to be shot at a range or, god forbid, in the absolute most dire of emergencies, but NOT a toy, not something simple, not a video game, none of that. It is a tool, it is dangerous, and I understand that. When we are at home I want it hid in our hiding spot, safely tucked away there unless being cleaned (which is Carlin's job), and I really only want to take it out at a place where that is okay, like a range.
So what did I learn? What did I take away? That anything that can take away life should be treated like anything that requires nurturing to live. In other words, if I take in a pet, or if I have a child, I am going to read about it, make sure I am ready for it, make sure I am responsible enough for it, and then make no rash decisions regarding it, make no games about it's use, and in doing so, hope that the outcome is something harmless and fine.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Meet the ratties!
As many of you know, Carlin and I live in a kind of small townhouse, with kind of busy schedules, and not much money. We did, however, both miss pets an incredible amount. After some deliberating, taking into account my prior experience with them, we decided to pick up a pair of rats. Rats are the most intelligent of rodents, smarter even than rabbits. They're low cost; the most expensive part is their litter, which we ration out well, and any medical expensive if (god forbid) something happen to the little buggers. They also provide you with affection that rivals that of a dog, sometimes even rolling over so you can scratch their bellies.
Carlin was hesitant about them at first, going along with the idea, I think, to humor me. We stopped into Petsmart to look at them, and the guy took us into the rodent pen to meet the candidates. The first one out was a little female hooded fancy rat, what they call "faun" colored, or blonde. The attendant handed her to me, and we looked at each other. Her little pink nose was moving a mile a minute, her little ruby eyes curious, a little freaked out. Then, in one swift movement, she was up my arm and on my shoulder, perched safely in my hair, giving my ear little rat kisses that said "I think if I go with you, I'd be pretty happy!"
I loved her the moment I held her. I reached up and grabbed her around her little rat belly, and handed her to Carlin, who very bravely took her. She immediately took to Carlin, dashing up his shoulder, kissing his cheek, and chittering happily. "They're not so bad..." Carlin says, "Let's get them."
"Don't you want to meet the other one?" The attendant asked, and out of the little aquarium that was their home he procured another little girl, also hooded, but with a black hood this time. In a subtle way she looked very differently from girl one. Her eyes were not ruby, but little onyx jewels, and she had a big black spot on her tail. I took her from the attendant (Carlin was preoccupied with our little blonde ratty, who loved then, and loves still, her dad most of all) and she buried her little rat face in the crick of my arm, shyer than her sister, but equally as eager to go home with us. I felt as though she said, "If you take her I'll be all alone here. I know I'm just a plain black rat, but could I come with?"
They were the last two little girls, and they were equally different, but equally lovable. Together, we picked them out a cage, a little water bottle, food dish, little blue igloo, wheel, and Carlin got them a pink-and-green polka-dot rat hammock as a special gift.
Now, today, they live happily in our home as our sweet little pets. Whenever I get home from school or the grocery store, they are hanging on the wires of their cage, little pink feet wrapped around the bars, twitching their pink noses at me excitedly, asking if they can come out, please, and run around free! I get to make them little meals, like little bits of liver and broccoli or scrambled eggs and peanuts. They like to run free for about an hour, then take a nap for about two hours, then run around for another hour. Their cage gets cleaned and sprayed with white vinegar every three days, their hammock gets washed every two weeks. And if you want to meet them, then keep reading!
CALIFORNIA
Likes: People, petties, soybeans and peas, running in the wheel, licking fingers, sleeping in wet hair, when people chitter back to her, when her dad flips her upside down, wrestling with her dad, rubs between the shoulders and behind the ears, her rat hammock, sleeping on the bed, her sister, Virginia.
Dislikes:Her sister Virginia, being locked up in the cage, not being allowed to run on Trevor, blueberries, sleep, linoleum, the outdoors, Call of Duty: Black Ops.
Virginia
Likes:Peanuts, sleeping, burrowing under blankets, chewing, stealing from her sister, stuffed animals, paper towels, curling up at her humans feet underneath a blanket, her rat hammock, sitting on her dads leg and watching him play Call of Duty: Black Ops, scratching down the bridge of her nose, ratty shoulder massages.
Dislikes:Water, being picked up or held, being discovered under a blanket, surprises, clean cages, corn, being told she can't chew on something.
Rats usually freak a lot of people out. But these two are some of my favorite pets I've ever owned. They know their names, they love being social, they're curious about everything, and best of all, they actually LIKE to be around you. They enjoy smelling humans, and especially enjoy sitting around and listening to people talk. Pet stores tend to sell 20-90% of their pet rats to snake breeders (according to Rats: Complete Care Made Easy, by Debbie Durcommun) as food. I'm glad my two girls were not fed to snakes, but instead are sitting (California) on my shoulder and (Virginia) beside me in a pile of stuffed animals. They're my little babies and I'm happy to have 'em!
Carlin was hesitant about them at first, going along with the idea, I think, to humor me. We stopped into Petsmart to look at them, and the guy took us into the rodent pen to meet the candidates. The first one out was a little female hooded fancy rat, what they call "faun" colored, or blonde. The attendant handed her to me, and we looked at each other. Her little pink nose was moving a mile a minute, her little ruby eyes curious, a little freaked out. Then, in one swift movement, she was up my arm and on my shoulder, perched safely in my hair, giving my ear little rat kisses that said "I think if I go with you, I'd be pretty happy!"
I loved her the moment I held her. I reached up and grabbed her around her little rat belly, and handed her to Carlin, who very bravely took her. She immediately took to Carlin, dashing up his shoulder, kissing his cheek, and chittering happily. "They're not so bad..." Carlin says, "Let's get them."
"Don't you want to meet the other one?" The attendant asked, and out of the little aquarium that was their home he procured another little girl, also hooded, but with a black hood this time. In a subtle way she looked very differently from girl one. Her eyes were not ruby, but little onyx jewels, and she had a big black spot on her tail. I took her from the attendant (Carlin was preoccupied with our little blonde ratty, who loved then, and loves still, her dad most of all) and she buried her little rat face in the crick of my arm, shyer than her sister, but equally as eager to go home with us. I felt as though she said, "If you take her I'll be all alone here. I know I'm just a plain black rat, but could I come with?"
They were the last two little girls, and they were equally different, but equally lovable. Together, we picked them out a cage, a little water bottle, food dish, little blue igloo, wheel, and Carlin got them a pink-and-green polka-dot rat hammock as a special gift.
Now, today, they live happily in our home as our sweet little pets. Whenever I get home from school or the grocery store, they are hanging on the wires of their cage, little pink feet wrapped around the bars, twitching their pink noses at me excitedly, asking if they can come out, please, and run around free! I get to make them little meals, like little bits of liver and broccoli or scrambled eggs and peanuts. They like to run free for about an hour, then take a nap for about two hours, then run around for another hour. Their cage gets cleaned and sprayed with white vinegar every three days, their hammock gets washed every two weeks. And if you want to meet them, then keep reading!
Rats usually freak a lot of people out. But these two are some of my favorite pets I've ever owned. They know their names, they love being social, they're curious about everything, and best of all, they actually LIKE to be around you. They enjoy smelling humans, and especially enjoy sitting around and listening to people talk. Pet stores tend to sell 20-90% of their pet rats to snake breeders (according to Rats: Complete Care Made Easy, by Debbie Durcommun) as food. I'm glad my two girls were not fed to snakes, but instead are sitting (California) on my shoulder and (Virginia) beside me in a pile of stuffed animals. They're my little babies and I'm happy to have 'em!
Monday, November 29, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Gardening and blogging in Florida.
As many of you know, my name is Mallory Tomei, and I am a 23 year old student. Recently I moved from a very small town in California to a slightly bigger town in Florida, in the name of love and progress. As much as I enjoy it, I find myself missing my family and extended family back in Placerville, and have decided to start this blog as a means to stay connected. I live now in a house right on the lip of a rolling river. There are always birds and jumping fish in my backyard. I live with three guys, and they are all medical students at Nova Southeastern. One out of the three is my boyfriend, Carlin, who is the funniest, smartest, most interesting boy I've ever, ever met.
But that's enough about who I am. The things about me that are going to be important are going to be hidden throughout this blog anyway, so there's no point giving up too much too soon. Not to mention, I feel as though a majority of people reading this already know me, and therefore, how much could there be to say?
Today, the sky here in Florida seems to be reminding us that it could, at any time, open up and let go that warm, tropical rain it is so famed for. But the river is only slightly rippling due to a warm, southern breeze, and the birds have not flown, but are complacently beneath their favorite tree, and so I am not too worried about a storm. The task for today was to start a garden, rain or not, and that is exactly what I did.
I went early to a local farmers market, where I picked up some plants I knew would do well in heat and full sun. I knew they had to accompany my basil plant, who I have nicknamed Stanley, who has lived on our riverside for almost a month now, and is getting too big for his little plastic pot. I picked up a hearty looking eggplant, a few spriglettes of broccoli, a healthy jalapeno (complete with one tiny, baby blossom), and a packet full of soy bean seeds, just to give them a try. Next I went to Home Depot, and bought some cheap terra cotta pots that were on sale, a cheap bag of organic dirt, and a trowel. Next I was ready to start planting.
One forgets how stimulating dirt can be. I know, I know, that sounds weird. Just take drugs right? Kidding! But in all honesty, once I opened that bag and got the musty, earthy smell of planting soil, I found myself energized and excited. I turned on some soft, acoustic music, and listened to the quiet flowing of the river, and dug my hands in that soft pot of earth.
Next, I wrestled up my little plants, which sat eagerly on a folding chair beside me. The first to go in, because he had waited the longest, was my basil plant. When I pulled him loose from his plastic container, I found his roots had started growing out the bottom. He truly is a happy, hearty plant who has enjoyed his time by the river so far. I cleared a large hole in the moist dirt, and in he went, now sharing his little pot with two of the smaller broccoli sprigs.
I proceeded to put the other plants in their respective pot. The eggplant with the jalapeno and some broccoli sprigs (the remaining sprigs have a pot to themselves), and the soy bean seeds in Stanleys old plastic container. Once it was done, I swept the dirt out by a curious, noble looking duck, who had come this way to spy on what good things I was putting on my porch.
I am sitting out by my little garden right now, overlooking my river, on which there is a family in a canoe fishing. I am about to finish up this blog entry, which I apologize for if you found it boring beyond belief. But I am using today and the garden story as a trail period to see if I enjoy this, and also to get in the groove of it a little bit. My next blog, when I have more time, will be a retelling of the Key West trip Carlin and I took recently. For now, enjoy my new garden as much as I am, and please remember how much I love you all!
But that's enough about who I am. The things about me that are going to be important are going to be hidden throughout this blog anyway, so there's no point giving up too much too soon. Not to mention, I feel as though a majority of people reading this already know me, and therefore, how much could there be to say?
Today, the sky here in Florida seems to be reminding us that it could, at any time, open up and let go that warm, tropical rain it is so famed for. But the river is only slightly rippling due to a warm, southern breeze, and the birds have not flown, but are complacently beneath their favorite tree, and so I am not too worried about a storm. The task for today was to start a garden, rain or not, and that is exactly what I did.
I went early to a local farmers market, where I picked up some plants I knew would do well in heat and full sun. I knew they had to accompany my basil plant, who I have nicknamed Stanley, who has lived on our riverside for almost a month now, and is getting too big for his little plastic pot. I picked up a hearty looking eggplant, a few spriglettes of broccoli, a healthy jalapeno (complete with one tiny, baby blossom), and a packet full of soy bean seeds, just to give them a try. Next I went to Home Depot, and bought some cheap terra cotta pots that were on sale, a cheap bag of organic dirt, and a trowel. Next I was ready to start planting.
One forgets how stimulating dirt can be. I know, I know, that sounds weird. Just take drugs right? Kidding! But in all honesty, once I opened that bag and got the musty, earthy smell of planting soil, I found myself energized and excited. I turned on some soft, acoustic music, and listened to the quiet flowing of the river, and dug my hands in that soft pot of earth.
Next, I wrestled up my little plants, which sat eagerly on a folding chair beside me. The first to go in, because he had waited the longest, was my basil plant. When I pulled him loose from his plastic container, I found his roots had started growing out the bottom. He truly is a happy, hearty plant who has enjoyed his time by the river so far. I cleared a large hole in the moist dirt, and in he went, now sharing his little pot with two of the smaller broccoli sprigs.
I proceeded to put the other plants in their respective pot. The eggplant with the jalapeno and some broccoli sprigs (the remaining sprigs have a pot to themselves), and the soy bean seeds in Stanleys old plastic container. Once it was done, I swept the dirt out by a curious, noble looking duck, who had come this way to spy on what good things I was putting on my porch.
I am sitting out by my little garden right now, overlooking my river, on which there is a family in a canoe fishing. I am about to finish up this blog entry, which I apologize for if you found it boring beyond belief. But I am using today and the garden story as a trail period to see if I enjoy this, and also to get in the groove of it a little bit. My next blog, when I have more time, will be a retelling of the Key West trip Carlin and I took recently. For now, enjoy my new garden as much as I am, and please remember how much I love you all!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)