Hilary and Theresa's Road to Nowhere: Margaritaville

We crossed the border from Georgia into Florida and, just like that, the south was a fading memory. Gone were the southern accents, replaced by the sounds of New York and New Jersey, and as we traveled farther south, Cuba and the Caribbean. Gone too were the manners and the southern hospitality. It was back to brusqueness, I mean business, as usual in Florida. We immediately noticed an increase in the number of senior citizens behind the wheels. They cut us off in traffic, turned without signaling (or even looking) and generally endangered the lives of everyone in the Sunshine State. When the local news reported a hit and run accident and described the suspect as an elderly male, I wasn’t surprised. I doubted the police would have much luck nabbing their guy, however, if “elderly” was the only description they had to work with. And we could forget about getting an open lap lane in the swimming pools that spawned the water-aerobics craze; the old gals had their territroy staked out and they weren't about to budge. The names of the towns in Florida, names like Frostproof and Winterhaven, reminded us why they were all there. It was the same reason we were there. It's the weather, stupid.

We spent our first night in St. Augustine, the oldest city in the United States, on our way to visit relatives in Satellite Beach. Thanksgiving was still a week away, but St. Augustine was getting a jump on Christmas with a "Festival of Lights", an extravaganza that turned the perfectly picturesque historic downtown into a garish Las Vegas-like carnival. We gravitated toward the white sand beaches, then headed south where Hilary spent time visiting with his brother. Meanwhile, I got tips on proper squat technique from our niece, Loni, a personal trainer. I am going to start doing those squats tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow for sure.

The Florida Keys are not known for their beaches as much as for their sunsets and nightlife, but Bahia Honda State Beach, just south of Marathon Key, actually made the cut on several “world’s most beautiful beach” lists. It sounded like the perfect place to camp and we felt lucky when we arrived and were told there was one remaining campsite. We set up camp and went off to look for Key Deer and the No Name Bar. The former are the endangered and very adorable miniature deer that live on Big Pine Key. The latter is a bar that’s become infamous for being especially hard to find. We found the deer on the way to the bar where we stapled a dollar bill with our names on it to the wall, as thousands before us had done.

We woke up on Thanksgiving morning grateful to be alive in paradise. “Not so fast sister” said the forces of the universe. It turns out that the ranger who checked us into the park had failed to clarify that our site was only available for one night. We would have to pack up and leave by noon. Wait a minute, What about the three day rule? Early on we decided that, given the time and trouble and aggravation of setting up a campsite, it wasn't wort the effort unless we stayed for at least 3 days. That was our rule dammit. But it wasn’t their rule. We asked about moving to another site but were told that the whole campground was full. "Some people actually plan their Thanksgiving getaways and make reservations months in advance." We asked about other camping options but were told not to expect better luck at any of the other State Parks either. "Some people actually plan their Thanksgiving getaways and make reservations months in advance." Okay, okay, we were getting the picture. Our lack of preparation had bitten us in the ass this time. This happens now and then on a road to nowhere. We took a final stroll on the most beautiful beach in the world. Hmmpff, I thought to myself, mediocre at best.

We decided to try our luck on the Lower Keys, where we knew there were a couple of private campgrounds.There was space on Sugarloaf Key, but only because their camground had no occupancy limitation whatsoever. Rows of RVs parked on top of each other and hundreds of people wandered around aimlessly. It felt like some sort of a refugee camp and when we saw a smoldering mattress in one of the dumpsters and buzzards swarming over the unoccupied sites, we decided to keep driving. We had come this far, we might as well go all the way to the end of the road.

When we finally arrived at Boyd’s in Key West, we probably would have settled for anything. We didn’t have to. From the palm trees, to the swimming pool, to the colorful reef fish we saw swimming along the pier, this place looked like a five star resort. We understood why it looked so nice when they told us how much they charged; at $75/ night, this was certainly the most expensive campground we had ever stayed at. But it was Thanksgiving Day and we had literally reached the end of the road and the southernmost point of the United States. Plus they had Wi-Fi and the perfect place to set up the big Thanksgiving Video Conference, coordinated with my family in advance and planned for later that night. Nearby Hogfish Bar and Grill was serving up turkey and the trimmings, so we ate dinner at an outdoor table overlooking the Marina and were back in time to set up the video conference.

My first thought when I turned on my laptop and looked at the screen was that I was having some sort of an acid flash-back. It looked like a psychedelic lava lamp. There were blues and greens and purples and something that looked like an oozing black blob around the point that looked like (gasp) a cracked windshield. Confusion turned to panic. Everything on the island was shut down for the holiday. What about the Thanksgiving video conference? And what about my blog? I was already running behind my self imposed deadline and hadn’t posted anything in over a week. Everything looked very grim. And then the storm rolled in. The palm trees turned sideways and the rain began to pour. Several inches of rain fell that night, much of it ending up beneath our tent. The Keys were not making a very good first impression.

When we dried ourselves off the next morning, we drove into town to look for the ghost of Hemingway and a new computer screen. At first glance, Key West seemed like a parody of itself. “Margaritaville” was a tourist bar and souvenir emporium. Jimmy Buffet’s songs were played in the bars and around the pools and the lobbies of the restaurants and hotels. Drunken tourists and locals alike spilled into and out of the bars along Duval Street. This place was called “Key Waste” for good reason. The island’s substance abuse problem was even the subject of some clever tee-shirts. My favorite read: “A small drinking island with a big fishing problem.” At first it was hard to see past the crowds and the drunks and the kitsch. Yet there was more to the island than the drinking and the fishing and every day we’d say “let’s stay just one more day.”

It helped that we made friends with locals who directed us to the best spots on the island. The Keys may not be a beach destination, but Fort Zachery State Park had the best beach on the island. There were palm trees, white sand and light green water. And it was the best place on Key West to watch those famous sunsets.

We quickly learned to explore the town before and after the day trippers from the cruise ship took over. We avoided Duval Street, opting instead for the side streets where we found beautifully restored Victorian cottages, the old lighthouse and, of course, Hemmingway’s house. We took pictures at “Mile 0”, marking the end and the beginning of Hwy 1. And we checked out the giant buoy marking the southernmost point on the southernmost island. We were directed to the little places frequented by the people who lived on Key West - El Mochos for espressos, Chico's for hogfish tacos and Sandy's for Cuban sandwiches. One night we splurged on an amazing dinner at Café Sole, where we were lucky to get in without a reservation. We adjusted our clocks to Key West time, and the colors and the flavors of the Conch Republic started to soak in.

Key West is nothing if not colorful. Along with the sunsets in the west, outperformed only by the sunrises in the east, the characters on Key West put on quite a show. There was a ZZ-Top looking guy, only really tanned and shirtless, who rode his chopper around town with a huge American Flag attached to the back and flying in the wind. Another guy, also tanned and shirtless (tanning is still a sport here in the Keys), rode a bicycle with a mailbox attached to the back that said “Somewhere in Key West.” I had a feeling he wasn’t the only one who had come to this island to get off the radar…

Some of these colorful characters called themselves street artists and performed every night at the Sunset Celebration on Mallory Square. One of the most popular acts involved a maniacal Frenchman and several cats that jumped through fiery hula-hoops. It seemed all wrong and I was tempted to let Layla off her leash just to disrupt the show. Yet he drew the biggest crowds and we were told that he earned enough money to put his daughter through Brown University. Hopefully, she’ll pay back her karmic debt by working for PETA someday. We watched another performance by someone who must be the world’s oldest tightrope walker. This guy looked like he had asthma and Parkinson’s disease and we wanted to give him money just to make him stop. But the worst of the worst was a really terrible Rod Stewart impersonator. Or maybe he was a Barry Manilow impersonator, I couldn't be sure. He was so bad that I was mesmerized and couldn’t stop watching. I finally had to be dragged away. Apparently, the weirder you are, the more likely you are to do well in Key West. A local guy told us about a new act on the circuit. She is called the “Chicken Lady” and she gets paid for letting people feed scorpions to her chickens.

And speaking of chickens, they were everywhere in Key West. The roosters were particularly beautiful and colorful and they strutted around the town as if they owned it. I commented on this to a local guy who wasn’t impressed. “They are a fucking nuisance” he shot back. “They are dirty and disgusting and they never fucking shut up.” I did recall thinking that it was a little early for roosters when I heard them one morning at 3 a.m. Then I started hearing them at 11 p.m. and at 1 a.m. and at 2 a.m. It was true: they never fucking shut up.

More disturbing than their noise, however, was the affect these birds had on Layla. She had developed some sort of homicidal blood-lust after killing the chicken in New Jersey and she would madly lunge at their necks, nearly pulling my shoulders out of their sockets. My worst fears had been realized. And she used to be such a good dog. Actually, she is still a good dog, except when she is a bad dog. And then she is very, very bad. While we were loading up the car, she managed to eat something that smelled so bad I actually washed her mouth out with Dr. Bronner’s peppermint soap. When she threw up the contents of her stomach an hour later, all over the car, we were able to determine that she had consumed all or part of a dead alien. That's what it looked like anyway. We washed her blanket and the towels at the coin laundry and then went to look for a place to have the car detailed. Such a bad dog...

Before we knew it, eight days had passed. We had gotten a little too comfortable in Key West. If we don’t leave today, I thought to myself, we might never leave at all; this island might not let us leave. Staying forever did have its appeal. But we headed for the Everglades, pretty sure we’d find colorful characters there as well.