February 3, 2012 - The Wind Beneath My Wings

Warning Sign at the entrance to Haulover Beach

Two songs came to my mind with regard to today's blog. The first was the Drifters' 1964 hit, "Under the Boardwalk," which wouldn't leave my mind all day, but alas, if Miami Beach has any boardwalks, I've yet to find them. As I went through my photos from the day, I asked just who would go to a nude beach and take photos of birds? Well, that brought up Bette Midler's great ballad, "The Wind Beneath My Wings," appropriately enough from her 1988 film "Beaches."

The wind beneath my wings, for the past four years, has been Kevin, to whom I owe so much. Kevin isn't really into showing off his body, so I was quite surprised when he suggested that he would like to go with me to Haulover Beach, the only legal nude beach in south Florida. The beach is located about ten miles north of Island House, and there is a city bus that will take you there, but I'd found plenty of things to occupy my time while Kevin was at his conference, so with our time in Florida rapidly coming to a close, it seemed as if it were now or never. And as a card-carrying nudist, I guess it had to be now. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Neither Kevin nor I slept very well Thursday night. Friday morning we arose, groggy but alive, and decided to head out for breakfast. I prevailed on him to try my Tapas del Mundo find, and sure enough, Jason was right out front to greet us when we arrived. I also spoke with the owner, Roy, and Kevin and I headed upstairs to break our fast on the upstairs deck. Now Kevin does not eat eggs, and the breakfast menu at Tapas was largely egg based. But they did have a "signature dish" in French Toast, so Kevin ordered that and I had an "Argentinian Breakfast" which was pretty much the same thing I ate for breakfast every morning the summer I lived in Paris. Three croissants, toast, a latte, and orange juice. It took me back to my student days, I can assure you of that.

After breakfast, Kevin and I walked to the convention center where he had a half day of meetings, and when he went inside, I headed off to find another geocache. This one took me through Collins Park, another lovely spot I had not yet visited, and right up to a branch of the public library. Now whether there is really a cache there or not, I couldn't say. All the parking spaces around the library were filled with large trucks and police cars as someone was filming something in the immediate area. With all that activity going on, there was no way I was going to get on my hands and knees and crawl around looking in the dirt.

Heading back to Island House, I decided to walk the beach, so I hit it a bit north of where I usually spend beach time, and started walking south. I got a few people shots, lots of shots of shining white buildings bordering the beach, and birds--mostly gulls, but a few pigeons as well. Also lots of shots of beach umbrellas and windbreaks in colorful patterns spread across the beach by the various resort hotels and the local beach vendors. It was sunny, warm, humid, and by the time I opened the door to our Island House room, I had to peel my tank top off. I could have probably wrung water out of it.

The Wind Beneath My Wings, Kevin Kerr

Lack of sleep the night before dictated a mid-day nap, and after awakening, I put the final touches on the February 2nd blog, finishing just as Kevin returned from his final meeting. We picked up the car and drove north, following TomTom's directions to Haulover Beach. Now I've been a practicing nudist since college days, and a member of various nudist groups since the 1990s, so I was familiar with the name "Haulover." This, remember, is my first time in southern Florida, so I'd never visited it, and had no idea what to expect.

Even in a convertible with the top down, it's a long, slow drive from South Beach to Haulover. We passed some pretty fancy houses, even fancier hotels, the largests synagoges and Jewish Schools I've ever seen, and more than a few men dressed in black with their heads covered. Some parts of the area look quite a bit like the pictures I've seen from Israel.

We passed Cuban restaurants, Brazilian restaurants, a Peruvian restaurant, and a Kosher market. The language you hear on the street is almost never English, or if English, a heavily accented version. We passed Trump Tower III, Trump Tower II, and even Trump Tower I. A lot of money has gone into developing Miami Beach, and the north end is nowhere near as shabby as South Beach. The real estate meltdown has had a major impact on Florida, but I had to wonder just how much the gated homes we passed would go for in today's market.

Eventually we saw a sign for Haulover Park, then another for Haulover Beach. There is no parking on the ocean side of Collins Avenue, so we had to make a U-Turn and park by the boat ramp. From there we followed a plank sidewalk (so, I did see one boardwalk in Miami Beach), crossing under Collins Avenue, through heavy vegetation, till we came to the sign that I show above. Roughly one hundred feet beyond that sign, there is another one to match, and I wish I'd had the courage to photograph it, because directly behind it was a naked man, talking on his cell phone. Funny, the sign didn't say we'd encounter nude chatters.

Your Faithful Scribe, Body Surfing--and yes, I'm nude

Once on the beach, I stripped down immediately, and headed for the water, having handed the camera to Kevin. He got several pictures of me in the water and just leaving the water, but you'll have to be content with the one above. You'll also find no pictures of naked people in this post. Yes, I did take them, but I'm not foolish enough to publish them in something that just anyone can read, am I?

Drying myself off, I grabbed my camera and headed out in search of interesting shots. Still naked, I met a man from North Carolina, also naked, and we discussed weather, nudity, the lack of people visiting Haulover on a cloudy day, and a few other topics of mutual interest. Kevin joined us (still fully dressed) and I snapped the portrait posted above. I was on a quest, however. While playing in the water, I'd spotted a type of gull I'd never before seen. This one has a very distinctive black patch on the back of its head, and a bright yellow bill. I just had to capture one with my camera. Sure enough, another of its kind came along, and I started shooting. When I dropped to my knees to get a closer shot, it startled the bird, which in turn flew off. Oh well. And it just struck me, the black patch on the back of its head--could that be an avian yarmulke?

A Royal Tern

My favorite shot of the day (2/3/12)

While I could have spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach, I sensed that Kevin was ready to move on, so reluctantly I put my clothes back on, and we headed to the car. We hadn't yet had lunch, and it was approaching 5 pm, so a meal was definitely in order. Kevin grabbed TomTom and started fiddling with it, showing a bit of frustration in the process. I asked what he was trying to do, and he asked me how to find restaurants on the gadget. I took it away from him, and asked where he wanted to eat. I shouldn't have been surprised when he said "Olive Garden." There are so many wonderful eateries in the area, but Kevin is not an adventurous gourmet, so I capitulated. Entering "Olive Garden" into TomTom's search engine, we soon were en route to dinner. I joke that I know exactly what Kevin will order in any given restaurant, and if it's Italian, he'll have shrimp with linguine and alfredo sauce. Doesn't matter what the menu says, that's what he'll have, and indeed, that's what he ordered. I tend to look for new items, or at least items new to me, and my dinner was Shrimp Mezzaluna--shrimp with ravioli. Delicious.

Thanks to TomTom we found our way back to Island House, where we called it a night. Wonder of wonders, Kevin suggested going back to Haulover on Saturday--our last day in south Florida. Stay tuned for further adventures.

The Wind Beneath My Wings in his rented Chrysler 200

February 4, 2012 - Orange Blossom Special-the Final Post from South Florida

To hear Vassar Clements and other great fiddlers play the Orange Blossom Special at the Grand Ole Opry, click here. To hear Roy Clark (on guitar) and Johnny Cash's version, click here. Or for a recent (2010) Roy Clark performance, showing that he still has the chops, click here.

Saturday morning and no conference or meetings for Kevin, so we picked up the car and headed west. Out of Miami Beach, past the docked cruise ships, through the city of Miami, past the airport, and before you know it, we're in the country. That is to say we are driving west through swamp land that is part of the greater Everglades region. As we pass what I assume (correctly) will be the last strip mall for miles and miles, I ask Kevin if he intends to stop for breakfast. Of course, he replies, and I wonder where in this river of grass are we going to find a place to eat. Silly me, the Miccosukee Indians have a large casino/resort out in the middle of nowhere, and they serve one fine breakfast buffet--at less than $8.00 each, it was easily the cheapest meal we had in Florida.

After breakfast, and back in the car, we continued west, thinking first that we would be visiting Everglades National Park, but instead pulled into the visitors' center for the Big Cypress National Preserve. At the visitors' center, we walked out on the boardwalk, leaving the indoor sales display for later. The boardwalk fronts a waterway that was chalk full of egrets, cormorants, gators, and fish. I overhead someone ask if the gators were kept there as a display, but the ranger assured us all that they are, indeed, wild animals and can come and go as they please. Someone else asked about the fish, and the ranger replied that they were mostly oscars. OK, I thought oscars lived in fish tanks, but apparently they're quite happy in south Florida being gator food.

Eat at Lulu's Bait Shack

Oasis Visitor Center, Big Cypress National Preserve

Off the boardwalk and back at the center, we saw the most colorful bird yet. A fellow wearing a shirt advertising Lulu's Bait Shack was feeding what I have to call a parrot. In doing my research, it would appear to be a Scarlet Macaw, but if any of my loyal readers would like to confirm or contest that guess, please let me know. The man was quite happy to talk about his bird, but I wanted to learn more about Big Cypress, so we went inside.

I'm still kicking myself in that one of the items for sale in the center was a large, folding, laminated and waterproof guide to the birds of South Florida. It was only $8.00, but I left it on the rack, which left me wondering what I was seeing all the rest of the day. We did speak with one of the rangers, a retired Seattlite who spends his winters in south Florida. He handed us some maps, and marked several places he thought we'd like to see.

By now it was warm enough that when we got back in the car, we put the top down. It remained down for the rest of the day--even through the rain shower we experienced in Fort Lauderdale. I've owned convertibles since 1980, and I've learned that in case of rain, you have two choices, neither one very good. First, assuming you have the room to do so, you can pull over and put the top up. Of course this means that you're standing still in the rain, and likely to get very wet. Second, you can just drive through the storm and hope that your speed and the wind blowing past the car will carry the rain drops over your head. That's exactly what Kevin and I did in Fort Lauderdale.

They're so cute when they're small

Kirby Storter Roadside Park, Big Cypress National Preserve

But first, we were still in Big Cypress, and had lots of things to see. Our next stop after leaving the Oasis Visitors' Center was Kirby Storter Roadside Park where a half-mile long boardwalk takes you deep into the swamp. Along the way I caught an egret, a couple of ibes (that's the preferred plural of "ibis," or so I'm told), a wood stork, and a young gator. Not much else for that one-mile round trip.

H.P. Williams Roadside Park had a much shorter boardwalk, but a lot more birds. I caught sight of a female anhinga drying her wings, a great blue heron, a little blue heron (I didn't even know there were such things), another wood stork, and a few cormorants. All seemed quite happy having their portraits done, but the anhinga was so camouflaged that I could barely make her out upon reviewing my photos.

Little Blue Heron, H.P. Williams Roadside Park

Big Cypress National Preserve

We had been warned that there was a seafood festival at Everglades City, a few miles south of US 41 (our route) on Florida 29, and sure enough, as we approached the junction, traffic became much heavier, especially the traffic in the onc0ming lane, heading down from Naples. Everglades City had been our original destination, but seeing all the visitors heading that way, we decided to pass on whatever wonders their seafood festival might hold, and head on to Naples.

While Kevin bought pepsi and chocolate at a Naples convenience store, I tried out my new geocaching app and found that there was a cache just behind the store. Try as I might, however, I couldn't find the camouflaged film can holding the cache, so it was back on the road for us. The road this time was Interstate 75, also known as Alligator Alley in this part of Florida. We crossed the peninsula from Naples to Fort Lauderdale, a distance of about 100 miles, getting caught in the afore-mentioned rain.

We missed our turn in Fort Lauderdale, much to TomTom's dismay, but the trusty GPS unit quickly recovered and got us back on track, this time heading toward Haulover Beach. A quick, if late, lunch at KFC, and we were back on the beach, Kevin clothed, me not, and talking to the same fellow from North Carolina we had visited with the day before. All told we spent a little over an hour on the beach, then as even the volleyball players were packing up, we took our leave, heading back to our final night at the Island House.

Our flight home departed Miami International at 7 am, Sunday, so we were up by 4, dressed, packed, and in the car by 5, arriving in plenty of time to turn in the car, get our boarding passes, clear security, and then wait for our flight to be called. The way home involved three flights. The first leg took us from Miami to JFK in New York on board a 737. A little over an hour after landing in New York, we departed on a Canadair jet bound for Minneapolis, where we had a four hour layover before boarding an Embraer jet heading home. Note that each plane was significantly smaller than the one preceding it. We arrived at home in Missoula without incident at 7:00 p.m. (9:00 pm Eastern Time), or fourteen hours after we first boarded the 737, and seventeen hours since we'd gotten out of bed. It was a long day, and one in which I took no pictures. I suppose I could have grabbed the camera in any one of the terminals, but there wasn't much to see out the plane windows.

Wood Stork, H.P. Williams Roadside Park

Big Cypress National Preserve

All told it was a good trip, but my it's a fur piece from Missoula, Montana to Miami Beach, Florida. Would I do it again? You betcha! But first I want my legs to heal from the cramped seating in the planes. And if New York is the city that never sleeps, I'm convinced that Miami Beach is the city that doesn't want anyone else to sleep either. There were people on the streets at all hours of the day or night, and most of them seemed to be carrying loud music with them--at least that's what it sounded like to me as I lay awake in the Island House watching the hours click by on the clock.

And the Orange Blossom Special? The things you learn on the internet. According to the National Park Service's website for Big Cypress National Preserve:

Ervin T. Rouse (1917-1981) wrote one of the most popular fiddling tunes of all time..."Orange Blossom Special"...about the luxury train from Orlando to Miami. He was a resident of the Loop Road area and a friend of the Seminoles.

February 2, 2012 - The Telephone Hour

Jason: Hawker, Waiter, Barback Extraordinaire

If you need to be reminded what life was like before cell phones, check out this video taken from the 1963 movie musical, Bye Bye Birdie.

After the exhausting bus ride back from Key West, I slept well for a change. When I did get up, I really didn't feel like doing much other than getting some writing done. Kevin and I stopped at Jerry's Diner for breakfast, then headed on up Collins so he could get to the Convention Center for his conference while I stopped at Walgreen's to pick up some supplies. Alas, I had forgotten to take my ID and credit cards out of my backpack when I got in the night before, and found myself completely strapped for cash. No purchases at Walgreen's this trip.

Heading back to the hotel, I passed a motel called Aqua which had a young man out on the sidewalk hawking a restaurant named Tapas Del Mundo. He was cute, and very friendly, so I told him that I'd already eaten breakfast, but would be needing lunch soon. Then I continued on back to the Island House.

Once I finished writing up Tuesday's events, I found I was, indeed, ready for lunch, so making sure I had money in my pocket, I walked back to Tapas where Jason (the young man) seated me at an upstairs balcony table. Scanning the menu, I chose a salade niçoise (listed on the menu as a Nicoise salad) and asked Jason to bring me a "knee-swahze salad." He looked at me in confusion, consulted the menu, and when I pointed my choice out to him, he said, "Oh, I call that the 'Nigh-koyze' salad." I explained the origin of the name (a salad originating in the French city of Nice) and he explained that he'd only heard the Spanish speaking chef talk about it. Whatever you want to call it, it was delicious and as part of the lunch special, it came with a bowl of butternut squash soup and a glass of juice--in my case, pineapple juice.

Salade Niçoise and Butternut Squash Soup

Sitting above the street, I felt somewhat akin to a spy or private dick, taking pictures of people walking by below without their awareness. I grabbed a couple of shots of Jason on the street, but when he delivered my lunch, I asked if I could take his picture and saying "sure," he immediately struck a pose. I wish he hadn't. He's quite cute enough to carry off any random shot, and the pose looked a bit forced, don't you think. Still, he was gracious enough to get in front of my camera, and I didn't want to direct him at all. My friend, Richard Rothman, a New York City based photographer whom I met when he was in Crescent City working on his Redwood Saw collection, always told his subjects not to smile. I'm not sure if any of them ever actually struck a pose. At least none did when I accompanied Richard around the area in 2007. There's a discussion currently on-going among the deviantArtists (a web-based gallery where I post many of my photos) as to the honesty and artistic value of a posed portrait as opposed to a spontaneous street photo. I don't care to get into that particular argument. I will say that it's a bit easier for me to take street shots here in Miami Beach than at home in Missoula. Or maybe I'm just getting bolder.

I'm not sure what it was that moved me to check into the possibility of geocaching.com having an app for my iPhone, but I did, and sure enough, three different apps showed up. I actually purchased one (something I'm loathe to do) and decided to see what caches there might be in my area. In so doing, I started exploring parts of the city I had hitherto avoided. Walgreen's, for instance, is on the corner of Lincoln Road and Collins Avenue, but if you head west on Lincoln, when you cross Washington, the next street west and parallel to Collins, Lincoln becomes a five-block long pedestrian mall full of boutique-type shops and outdoor restaurants. I know this because according to the app on my phone, the nearest cache to me was at the corner of Lincoln and Alton, where the pedestrian mall ends. When I reached the western end of the mall, I remembered what I do not like about urban geocaching--especially in these post 9/11 days. When I'm lurking around, checking my phone (or GPS unit) every few seconds, and stooping to look under benches, around telephone poles or fire hydrants, I always wonder if those passing by figure I'm some sort of terrorist. In this case, the GPS unit in my phone directed me first to a garbage can, then to the middle of a reflecting pool, and finally to a concrete bench next to the pool. As there were people all around, many just sitting and observing the passing crowd, I gave up and moved on to my next target.

There is a geocache hidden on this corner

The second cache was 3/10 of a mile away, and on the corner of two side-streets. By waiting long enough for the mailman to move on, I was able to sit down on the sidewalk and easily find the cache without making anyone suspicious. That simple act earned me a Florida souvenir badge from Geocaching.com. Now I'm assuming that anyone who has been reading my blog for any length of time knows what geocaching is. But in case you're a newby, the best description I've read of geocaching is "I use multi-million dollar US government equipment to find tupperware containers in the woods. What do you do for fun?" In other words, someone hides something, posts the GPS co-ordinates on line, and I go out looking to find the hidden object. Think of it as a high-tech version of hide and seek, except that you're seeking an inanimate object rather than a person. The best part of the game for me is that it gives me a chance to check out places I might not otherwise visit--like the Lincoln Road Mall, for instance. All my previous walks had been toward the beach, and Lincoln Road is in the opposite direction. Since my friend Carl and I found our first cache in O'Brien, Oregon on July 10, 2006, I've logged some 170 caches in sixteen states. That's nothing compared to the fellow who hid the cache at the Lincoln Road Mall. HurricaneJuan (his screen name) has found 1146 caches since he began in March, 2010. His goal is to reach 1500 by the end of this year (2012). The game can be addicting, believe me.

Fresh from my success, I headed back to the Lincoln Road Mall, and this time I noticed something I hadn't see up close and personal. There was a seven-story parking garage right at the edge of the mall. Now people who hide the caches sometimes (not always) give you a coded hint. Juan had done that, saying that the cache was at the "SW corner...magnificent 7." I had an AHA moment, and decided to find a way into that parking garage. In his write up of the cache, Juan had mentioned watching both sunrises and sunsets from the location, and that would be much easier from the 7th floor than from ground level. Alas, even at a higher elevation I could find no cache, and reluctantly called it a day.

View from the seventh floor

Back on the ground, I started walking back to the Island House, passing this magnificent hibiscus along the way. It turned out to be my favorite photo of the day.

Kevin and I arrived back at the hotel within minutes of each other, and he informed me that we would be going out to dinner with some representatives of Nokia later on. That meant that I had to change clothes, as I'd been wearing a tank top and shorts. Jeans and a polo shirt just felt too dressy. We met the guys (Mark and Frank) at a Cuban restaurant on Ocean Drive. I didn't bring my camera along as it was now after dark, and I felt there wouldn't be much opportunity. Once again, I had to learn the lesson--always carry your camera. On the way home after dinner, we passed a beautiful '59 pink Cadillac and an equally gorgeous maroon '54 Ford. Oh well.

My Favorite Shot Taken Today (2/2/12)

So between using my cell phone for geocaching, and having dinner with the Nokia guys, it was definitely a telephone day. That's what made me think of Bye Bye Birdie in the first place, but when I did a Google search for a telephone song, I found a truly bizarre video by Lady Gaga. Not at all what I had in mind.

February 1, 2012--Margaritaville

Key West Street Scene

Cheeseburger in paradise (paradise)

Heaven on earth with an onion slice (paradise)
Not too particular not too precise (paradise)
I'm just a cheeseburger in paradise.

-- Jimmy Buffett

You can hear Jimmy Buffett sing Cheeseburger in Paradise on youtube here.

Monday evening, as Kevin and I strolled around the neighborhood of our Island House home, we met Miss Yolanda who offered us discount tour tickets should we want to see the town, visit the Everglades, or go just about anywhere else in southern Florida. Now anyone who knows me knows that I've not been a great fan of the Sunshine State. Went to a conference in Daytona Beach several years ago, taking advantage of some extra time in the schedule to drive through Orlando and over to the Tampa Bay area. The state is flat. It has NO mountains, and the drivers are crazy. Plus there are just too many people. That said, one place has always intrigued me, Key West. The southernmost town in the continental US, mile post zero on US Highway 1, erstwhile home to Ernest Hemingway, Tennessee Williams, and Jimmy Buffett. Before we left Missoula, Kevin asked if there was anything I wanted to do while in Miami, and I said that I wanted to go to Key West. Well Miss Yolanda had a discount ticket for a tour bus that would take me there, and on Tuesday I bought one. Kevin had meetings scheduled from 8 am till 8:30 pm, so what better time for me to be gone for a day.

Wednesday morning a large white bus pulled up in front of the Island House at 7:00 a.m. and I boarded, taking a seat in the fifth row. There weren't a lot of people on board and I thought we'd have a nice, comfortable, relatively quiet ride. Mapquest had warned me that it's a three and a half hour drive from Miami Beach to Key West, the last hundred miles of which crosses over forty bridges between Key Largo and Key West. The bus driver told us it would be a four hour trip, then we'd have five hours to enjoy the town, and we'd leave to return home around 6 pm. OK, four hours on the road leaving at 6, hmm. That would mean getting back around 10, a bit later than I had planned, but damn it all, I was going to finally see Key West.

Of course we first had to get out of Miami Beach. After picking me up, the bus continued down Collins Avenue, stopping on just about every block to pick up passengers. Turning off Collins, we stopped at the Youth Hostel and waited, and waited.....and waited. Finally three young men got on, and we set off, leaving Miami Beach. Only to stop in Miami proper where we waited for the arrival of a smaller bus which unloaded its passengers who then joined us. We were no longer a small, intimate group, but a fully packed tour bus of people speaking a polyglot of languages. The driver made a final announcement. No coffee or tea allowed on board, soft drinks or water were ok, but no hot beverages, and yes, there was a rest room at the back of the bus which was for number one only. No number two. He repeated this message in Spanish and my California schoolboy Spanish was enough that I could understand that those Spanish speakers on board were forbidden cafe, te and numero dos as well. He then announced in English and Spanish that in an hour we would be passing through Everglades National Park, and in an hour and a half we'd stop for breakfast. By the way, his name was Juan. Of course it was.

Heading south, we drove across a stretch of Everglades which appeared to be a dryland wheat field gone to weeds. Florida has been experiencing a drought, and the normal two to three feet of water covering the Everglades had evaporated in southern Dade County.

Florida City is the last town on this stretch of the North American continent, and soon we were crossing a bridge which led us to the first of the keys, Key Largo. The driver shared a bit of knowledge about the island, then spoke of the 1948 John Huston film starring Humphrey Bogart, Edward G. Robinson and Lauren Bacall. Now I'm not sure how many people on the bus understood the driver in the first place, or had a clue about the movie. I had a song lyric going through my head, and it wasn't Bertie Higgins' song Key Largo, but rather the Beach Boys' Kokomo. You know the one, "Key Largo, Montego, Baby why don't we go."

We'd now been on the bus for close to two hours and one passenger was getting irate. "You said we would stop for breakfast in an hour and a half, and it's been much longer than that." Juan told him to sit down, and shortly thereafter we did stop for breakfast...at the Key Largo McDonald's where we found another tour bus already parked. Fortunately, there was a Wynn Dixie just across the parking lot, so I headed over there to get some "real" food.

Approaching Key Largo, the driver had suggested that if we wanted an authentic Key West experience we should take a glass-bottomed boat tour, or even better, a snorkeling tour. Silly me, I thought it sounded good, and since the driver had a special relationship with the operators (which I took to mean he got a kick back), the cost for us would be reduced a bit. I immediately sent text messages to Kevin and Ron asking if I should do it, and both responded "sure, why not." When I told Kevin it would cost $45 for a three hour tour, he reminded about that other tropical three-hour tour, that of the Minnow with Gilligan, the Skipper, the millionaire and his wife, etc.

My favorite shot of the day--the sail, before she's raised

We still had one hundred miles of water and islands to cross, and that gave me plenty of time to second guess myself. I'm sixty-two years old. I've never snorkeled. I've never swum that far out in the ocean. I'm not that strong a swimmer. What have I gotten myself in for? I was half-hoping that by the time we got to Key West, the driver would have forgotten me.

I tried taking pictures through the bus windows, but I'm not happy with any of them. I think that were I driving a car down this particular highway, I'd be stopping quite frequently to aim my camera at some stretch of water, a bridge, or some island architecture. But through a dirty bus window with lots of reflections? Nope, didn't work.

Approximately two hours after leaving Key Largo, we crossed the last bridge and read the sign, "Welcome to Key West." I don't know what I had been expecting, but it wasn't this. We might as well have been driving into a suburb of San Francisco, Portland, or Seattle, albeit with no mountains in the background. The driver explained that this was the "new" Key West and he'd be taking us to the historic district. But before we could cross Duval Street, the snorkelers had to get off the bus. When I didn't move, he looked straight at me and said, "Aren't you going?" Busted. So I climbed down along with two young men who had boarded the bus at the hostel. Well, at least I'm not going to be the only person going.

The bus drove off toward its loading/unloading point, leaving the three of us in the hands of a young woman who led us into a shack where we had to sign our lives away and give up close to $50. (They have a sales tax in Florida, so nothing costs what you're told it will cost. Montanans have a lot of trouble with that.)

A wondrous bird is the pelican

Now here's the thing. I had brought a swim suit to Miami Beach from Missoula. In Miami Beach, I had bought a new suit in a style that I prefer to the long, baggy suit I brought with me. But of course, both suits were in Miami Beach, one hundred sixty miles to the north. First order of business after lightening my wallet at the dive center was to find a new suit. I really like the one I got on Duval Street, but I didn't try it on, and I let my own self-image talk me into a Medium when reality called for a Large. Oh well. Now I had to find something to eat, as we'd been promised all the beer and wine we could handle on board the boat, but nothing was said of food.

There are lots of places to eat in Key West. Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville being just one place. Trip Advisor offers reviews of 245 restaurants on this small island. I found Sloppy Joe's--yes where the Sloppy Joe was invented. The story goes that Papa Hemingway himself gave Joe his nickname. But I was pressed for time (I'd paid my $50 and had been told that the boat would sail at 1:00 p.m., so I was afraid to go into a sit-down place). After circling much of the historic district, I found myself back at the port where I settled for a Pretzel Dog--pretty tasty, actually, and fast. Then it was just a matter of waiting till we were allowed to board the Marquesa, the catamaran owned and operated by Sebago Watersports, the company that was going to take us eight miles out into the Atlantic then throw us in the drink.

We motored out of the port, but once in the open water the crew enlisted some help to raise the sail, and from that point on we were carried by the wind toward the remains of the Sand Key Reef Lighthouse. Approaching the lighthouse, we were told that the reef was a living reef, part of one of the largest in the world, and as a part of Florida Keys National Marine Sanctuary, it was protected within an inch of its life. We were not to touch anything. We were not to stand up. We were not to dive. We were there to float and look. Float and look. Remember now, all we're doing is floating and looking. By the way, did I mention that there was a strong wind blowing and whitecaps showing on the surface of the water. The swells were impressive, if not perfect storm type waves, but enough that I was wondering just how I would be able to keep my snorkel above water. But hey, floating and looking? I can do that. There's a three-year-old child who's going into the water. Surely if he can, I can.

Once the boat was secured to a mooring buoy, the ladder was lowered and one by one we proceeded to enter the ocean. I think I was probably about number ten to go down the ladder, and the water felt good. Our instructor told me to put my mask on and then to put my face into the water, and that's when I started to panic. I had let go of the guide rope, and was bobbing up and down at a pretty good clip. Our instructor had me go back to the guide rope and hold on until I became used to being in the water. Didn't work. I let go again, and moved away from the boat, but the constant up and down was beginning to get to me, and I just couldn't get used to the idea of breathing through the snorkel. Finally deciding that returning to the boat would be a better course than a full-blown panic attack at sea, I gave up and headed in. Note please, I was not the first person out of the water. Second, yes, but not the first. I feel some small triumph in that.

Back on board the Marquesa, I was free to indulge in my favorite activity, pointing my camera at all and sundry. I got some pretty good shots, if I do say so myself, and by the time the captain blew his whistle three times--the signal to return to the boat--all but one diver was already on board. Yes, the three-year-old stayed in the water longer than I did, but he had mommy to cling to. My own mommy never learned how to swim, so that option would not have worked for me. Toward the end of our time at the reef, some folk discarded their snorkeling gear and just swam in the ocean. I wish I had thought of that. I could have had fun out there if I hadn't been worried about the mask and snorkel.

Waiting to raise the sail on the way out

With everyone back on board, we cast loose of the buoy, raised the sail, and headed back to port. I overheard the captain say he'd never known the Marquesa to move as fast as we were going. The boat was rising and falling with the swells, one of the female passengers tried her Leonardo DiCaprio "King of the World" imitation and got soaked by a wave breaking over the bow of the boat. I was sitting front and center and worrying that my camera would get water-logged, but still snapping away.

And the medium sized swim suit? I could barely pull it up over my hips. It fit ok, once I had the waist band somewhere near my waist, but I wasn't sure that I'd be able to get it back off, so I ended up wearing it home. By the time we reached Miami Beach, I was convinced that Kevin would have to cut it off me.

And since I hadn't taken a swim suit with me, what did I bring to Key West? A bookbag, of course, with three different books to read and a journal for my notes. The bookbag ended up getting soaked, as did the books inside it. Back on dry land, we had roughly an hour and a half to kill before our bus would be ready to board, so I walked back past Sloppy Joe's, cross Duval Street, and on toward the big red building where, we were told, our bus would be waiting. No bus, but it was still early, and frankly, there was room for one bus only to load and unload so they must park them somewhere else. Walking around the big red building which, it turns out, was the Custom House and is now home to the Key West Art and Historical Society, I stopped long enough on the docks to gather some more pixels in my camera, then back to the bus stop alongside the Mel Fisher Maritime Heritage Museum. That complex also housed a small restaurant, so I figured it would be a good idea to eat, in case our bus didn't stop on the way home.

Preparing to raise the sail on the way back in

At five forty-five, another bus arrived, and the driver told us that our bus had a flat tire and wouldn't be available for boarding for another hour. I was ready to get on board, but the good news was that with an extra hour, I could capture the sunset over the harbor. This I did happily, getting some of the best sunset shots I've taken to date. I also got a close-up portrait of a large white bird (some sort of egret or heron, I assume), and in general had a good time.

Our bus appeared close to seven p.m. and we boarded quickly, anxious to be back on the road. The driver apologized for the delay, and promised that we would head straight to Miami with no stop. This would let us make up one half hour of the delay. No one objected too strenuously, so that is, indeed, what we did. All I can say is that four hours in an uncomfortable bus with no stops is not a pleasant way to travel. The one redeeming feature was the friendly folk sitting around me, including the young Parisian gentleman sitting next to me, with whom I tried to converse, only to find that my French is extremely rusty at this point.

And what did I eat in Key West beside the pretzel dog? Well I didn't have a cheeseburger. No sloppy joe either. Not even a margarita. But I did have some of the best key lime pie I've ever tasted, and my main course was a steaming red bowl of conch chowder. I think I'm the better off for that.

As the sun sinks slowly in the west

Shabby Chic

Island House, 1428 Collins Ave, Miami Beach, Florida
Our Home Away from Home for the next week

Click on any picture to see in full-sized in a new window

When Kevin asked if I wanted to travel with him to Miami, of course I said yes. But first I asked why we were going to Miami, would the trip eventually pay for itself, could we afford it, etc., etc., etc. I can't say that he answered my questions appropriately, but when have I ever been known to pass up a trip. OK, Sandy, don't answer that one. I know I backed out of the Escalante Canyon trip back in grad school, but that was then. And so, even though I feel as if I'm fiddling while Rome burns, today I find myself in a kitchenette just a block from the Atlantic Ocean in Miami Beach, Florida.

We arrived on Monday night, and it's now Thursday, but Kevin had to have the laptop with him on Tuesday and Wednesday, so this is the first chance I've had to write anything down. I'm going to treat this trip the same way I did our trip to Las Vegas, a few weeks back, with one blog per day, starting with Tuesday, January 31st, 2012.

Well, ok, I'll actually start with Monday the 30th, but since that day was spent mostly inside a Delta airliner, it will be mentioned only as background. Our flight left Missoula at 8:15, so we had Ron deliver us to the airport at 7:00 am. This time the flight left on-time, and crowded though we were, the flight to Minneapolis was relatively uneventful. The flight on from Minnepolis to Miami was also notable only for the fact that we were in the air much too long when someone my size is crammed into the cattle car seating that modern airlines seem to favor. By the time we landed in Miami, my right leg was throbbing from the hip to the ankle, and I wasn't sure if I'd be able to walk. Miami International is prepared for just that thing--it has seemingly endless miles of corridors through which to walk just to pick up your luggage. Then more miles of walking to get to the rental car center. Kevin, as always, had reserved an SUV, but we ended up taking a Chrysler 200 convertible instead. My prefernce--the convertible, not the Chrysler--but the clerk said we'd have to wait for an SUV and the convertible was available immediately. That was Monday, and the car has sat in the garage ever since we parked it after checking into our motel. (Turns out you don't really need a car in Miami Beach.)

If I Could Fly Away

Miami Beach, Florida

Oh we did stop at the Delta "Special Requests" desk to see about getting exit row seats on the return flight, but were informed that such seats were sold at an additional cost unless they're still available 1/2 hour before departure. We'll see about that on Sunday when we return home.

Kevin had given me the task of finding us a motel, and had given me directions to the center where he would be spending his time--in downtown Miami. I looked for "gay-hotel-Miami" and found a listing for the Island House. What is more, the posted rates were half what everyone else seemed to be charging. I double-checked with Kevin, and then called to make the reservations. Turns out that the hotel is no longer exclusively gay, as young people today are "situationally gay" according to the desk clerk. Besides, all the gay action today is in Fort Lauderdale, not South Beach. Oh well. The room rate was still better than anything else I could find.

When we checked in Monday night, I thought I saw a trace of disappointment in Kevin's face. Yes, the Island House has a nicely painted art deco façade, but inside the best description I could come up with is shabby. Still it appeared clean, the help was friendly, and the room certainly had enough space. And did I say it was half the price of anywhere else I could find? Dinner Monday night was at the Grillfish, where Kevin had something (can't remember what) and I had a calamari dish served with linguine and marinara sauce. The waitress told me that most Americans didn't like that dish, but I pride myself on having more catholic tastes, and indeed I found it quite pleasant, if a bit spicy. We shared a bowl of Banana with caramel cream for dessert, and retired for the evening. I wanted a mojito, but didn't feel I could justify paying $13 for one drink. Oh well, live and learn.

Tuesday morning, Kevin left for his meetings, taking the laptop, and I headed out with my camera for a walk. Wearing my camo utilikilt knockoff which I'd purchased for my birthday in San Francisco a year ago, I stopped by a shop to get a new pair of swim trunks. Continuing on down Collins Avenue, I was practically pulled into a camera shop with the promise of a new lens that would exceed my wildest expectations. Now I'm normally not too gullible, especially where camera gear is concerned, but I couldn't say no to this insistent fellow, and I tried his fish-eye/macro lens combo. Suitably impressed, I listened to his sales pitch and when he got the price down to $299 (starting at $2100), I bought the thing. I have a feeling that even at the lower price I was ripped off, but I do like the clarity of the lens and the closeness available with the macro. I'll have to show you some examples.

Miami Beach Still Life

Eva's Bistro 1506, 1506 Collins Ave., Miami Beach

For lunch I stopped at a nice little sidewalk restaurant, Eva's Bistro 1506, where I ordered a frozen lemonade and a Cuban sandwich. I got into a discussion with another diner who made it a point to say that as an American, I could not go to Cuba, but she, being from Montréal, could and indeed had just returned from Havana. Our loss, I guess, but Cuba has never been very high on my list of places to visit. The restaurant crew was very friendly, from the female hawker on the sidewalk who lured me in, to the waitress, to the very handsome young man who made sure that my water glass was always full. I'll go back to Eva's Bistro.

On to the beach where I spent an enjoyable afternoon surrounded by handsome bears--all of whom were speaking Spanish. Most of my pics in this post are from my time on the beach. One thing I noted, you can rent just about anything in Miami Beach. I saw people riding by on rented bikes, rented Segways (I'd love to do that), and rented Y-shaped scooters in bright yellow. I'm sure these scooters have a name, but I've never seen anything like them before. I also walked past shops offering mopeds and more tradtional, Vespa-like motorbikes. It's almost an Alice's Restaurant of transportation.

Mr. Burberry returns from the Sea

(I didn't know you could swim trunks in the burberry pattern)

When Kevin was done with his meetings, we headed out for dinner. Now as I think I've implied, Kevin is a much more finicky eater than I. I have learned to pretty much let him choose the restaurant when we go out. Tuesday evening we walked past probably ten different restaurants, all of which looked fine to me, and ended up at 9 Ocean Drive. Yes, that's the name of the place as well as its address. The hawker on the street (all the restaurants have them) promised us that the steak special came with salad and potatoes, but when our waiter came to take our order, he insisted that everything was à la carte. At least I think that's what he said, as I was seated directly beneath a speaker blaring salsa music and the waiter's Spanish (Cuban?) accent was so strong I could barely understand a word he said. Kevin order the steak and I got a blacked chicken mango salad that sounded much better than it tasted. The steak also was not up to Montana standards, but we soldiered on. This time I did order a mojito, and it arrived in a small fish bowl of a glass. I should have had one Monday night, as my mojito at 9 Ocean Drive came at a cost of $24.99. I guess that's why there were no prices on the drinks menu. At that price, I felt obliged to drink the whole thing, and found myself a bit tipsy walking back to the Island House.

All told, it was a beautiful day, if a bit spendy, and I found myself enjoying life much more than I had on my one previous visit to Florida. I wouldn't want to live here, but hey, it's the end of January, I can walk around in shorts and a tank top,and even lie out almost naked on the beach. What more can you ask for?

Los Osos A La Playa

Surely someone in Miami Beach speaks English