I was pondering a scooter parked at Florida Keys Community College next to my Bonneville. 
They don't make Rivas like these at Yamaha any more, or if they do they are no longer imported into the US. I think this one was a 125 cc model though they made them up to around 200cc, pretty much identical to this one, ridden two up on North Roosevelt Boulevard:
I was pondering the little white Yamaha, not least probably because I was facing a mid term exam and dawdling on my way to class. It occurred to me this Yamaha was pretty close to being an ideal scooter, especially when I started noticing the details. The sturdy and useful luggage rack with built in bungee attachment points and a helmet lock:
Let us not forget the ridiculous safety stickers designed and deployed solely for the litigious US market:
I liked the two stands that are provided, a solid side stand as well as the neatly folded center stand:
The scooter had a rubber foot mat and a foot brake for the rear drum:
The right hand switch cluster had the kill button, the left hand pretty much everything else:
All big and easy to use like the speedometer (notice the stand deployed light!):
I haven't ridden the Riva but I suspect a 125cc model would be gasping if it closed in on 60mph (95kph). I read a comment by an owner of a 200 Riva and he said it was big enough to maintain freeway speeds so that sounds a bit more like it. In any event I look at this Riva with just 1500 miles on the clock and I see an eminently practical machine, check the mud flap built in...
... and a nicely proportioned ride with a big comfortable seat and a hand rail for the passenger:
...with nice lines reminiscent of a Vespa, a much more expensive ride. Of course I liked my Vespa 250 which closely resembled this machine parked in Key West:
When it ran it ran beautifully, up to 85 miles per hour and used but one gallon of premium every 72 miles. However mine was plagued by unreliable electronics and I was forced to sell it. My wife's Vespa 150 runs just fine with a simple carburettor, hitting speeds up to 65 mph (105kph) and I enjoy taking it for a ride from time to time:
Between the two Vespas and an ill fated Indian Stella 150 two-stroke scooter I must have commuted around 15,000 miles (25,000 kms) on Highway One and I have noticed a big difference when I ride the same route on a motorcycle. While I remain a big fan of scooters I find it easier to be on the road on a motorcycle when surrounded by homicidal car drivers. They just don't seem to respect scooter's right to be on the road like they do big nasty Triumphs and I should note I have owned several Vespas in my previous life starting early with a 50cc special in 1970. I also rode a Vespa P200 across the US and Mexico in 1981 and enjoyed using the Vespa as my daily rider for another ten years in California. The largest motorcycle I owned was an 1100cc Honda Gold Wing which was not a good fit for me, unlike the 900cc Bonneville, shown here scaring wildlife:
The Bonneville means business, and though I ride it no faster on my commute than I ever did the 250cc Vespa GTS, I rarely get crowded by stupid car drivers. People used to cut me off, tailgate me and try to outrun me when, to their amazement I passed them while riding my "moped." The Vespa was a wonderfully practical way to get around with lots of lockable, dry storage, a more comfortable seat than any motorcycle I've ridden along with excellent weather protection. Yet I find my 900cc Bonneville with three times the horsepower of the Vespa to be more practical, even though it uses more gas (45mpg) simply because it inspires more respect.
The Keys aren't a practical or sensible environment for boy racers, with not many roads and all of them desperately straight, yet lots of people ride these superb, over-powered machines and as you can see lots of them ride wearing a bare minimum of protective gear. I don't always wear a helmet or my protective clothing when I ride and I find the suffocating blanket requirement on web forums for all riders to be armored at all times to be rather tedious. New devotees of the sport tend to be rather more focussed on the risks than the pleasure it seems to me. They've discovered this excellent new-to-them means of locomotion and they want everyone to share their need for total protection all the time, so they get preachy. I also find the debates between scooter riders and motorcyclists to be irritating because I don't see the need for riders to worry so much about what they ride. Hell I rent Harleys when I can and I enjoy them very much! On the scooter front I like, in theory, Yamaha's 500cc, 100mph (160kph), T Max recently introduced to the US. I found this photo on a French motorcycle website and I think it looks gorgeous:
Bobscoot in Canada, like me (horrors! we have something in common), rides a scooter as well as his rather toothsome Suzuki 650. His scooter is a powerful Kymco 500, pictured rather suavely in France in this picture (not chez Bobscoot incidentally). This is another good looking scooter able to cruise at highway speeds with excellent weather protection and comfort:
The Frenchman depicted above is very relaxed and debonair in full riding leathers, zooming across town. Apparently there are scooterists in the US that believe they don't need protective gear because they are just scooters which is silly because falling off is falling off and it hurts and the ground doesn't care what you are riding. As long as you understand the risk, make your own informed choice...hell, my knee still hurts from tripping while walking and chewing gum! Check out this portly Honda Goldwing, known to Allen Madding as a honda-potamus thanks to it's general massiveness:
It's too much motorcycle for me, with its reverse gear, built-in everything electronic, optional airbag, and all it's bulk. I'd rather buzz around town and into the country on a slender, perky BMW 650 single like this one which is ridden daily around Key West:
But whatever you ride you need training to be truly as safe as you can be. I am a believer in the value of using your head for active safety, rather than worrying so much about what you wear or choose not to wear. Or worse yet what you ride. If I were planning another cross country trip I'd think about that other Japanese work horse, the Honda Helix, a 250cc machine that can barely hit 70 miles per hour but that has a record for reliability and sturdiness second to none, with huge load carrying and extreme comfort built in (no air bags though):
There is a reason we ride what we ride and that boils down simply to image, like it or not. Our machines reflect the image we want to project of ourselves, and practicality has almost nothing to do with it. Car drivers frequently claim they are locked into practical requirements like load carrying and cost rather than driving for the sport of the thing- and their tedium and lack of interest shows as they steer. Motorcycles in the US are still viewed largely as toys, so instead of riding a sensible scooter we give ourselves a thrill by commuting like a Grand Prix racer, or like me by invoking the gods of my youth- fuel petcocks, air cooled engine fins and sexy rounded fuel tanks: 
I don't need a Bonneville, I like my Bonneville and I really don't care what other people ride as long as they are enjoying themselves in their own way and leave me to enjoy my own self image. Long live all scooters, motorcycles and Harley Davidsons. And their well trained riders, of course.
They don't make Rivas like these at Yamaha any more, or if they do they are no longer imported into the US. I think this one was a 125 cc model though they made them up to around 200cc, pretty much identical to this one, ridden two up on North Roosevelt Boulevard:I was pondering the little white Yamaha, not least probably because I was facing a mid term exam and dawdling on my way to class. It occurred to me this Yamaha was pretty close to being an ideal scooter, especially when I started noticing the details. The sturdy and useful luggage rack with built in bungee attachment points and a helmet lock:Let us not forget the ridiculous safety stickers designed and deployed solely for the litigious US market:I liked the two stands that are provided, a solid side stand as well as the neatly folded center stand:The scooter had a rubber foot mat and a foot brake for the rear drum:The right hand switch cluster had the kill button, the left hand pretty much everything else:All big and easy to use like the speedometer (notice the stand deployed light!):I haven't ridden the Riva but I suspect a 125cc model would be gasping if it closed in on 60mph (95kph). I read a comment by an owner of a 200 Riva and he said it was big enough to maintain freeway speeds so that sounds a bit more like it. In any event I look at this Riva with just 1500 miles on the clock and I see an eminently practical machine, check the mud flap built in...... and a nicely proportioned ride with a big comfortable seat and a hand rail for the passenger:...with nice lines reminiscent of a Vespa, a much more expensive ride. Of course I liked my Vespa 250 which closely resembled this machine parked in Key West:When it ran it ran beautifully, up to 85 miles per hour and used but one gallon of premium every 72 miles. However mine was plagued by unreliable electronics and I was forced to sell it. My wife's Vespa 150 runs just fine with a simple carburettor, hitting speeds up to 65 mph (105kph) and I enjoy taking it for a ride from time to time:Between the two Vespas and an ill fated Indian Stella 150 two-stroke scooter I must have commuted around 15,000 miles (25,000 kms) on Highway One and I have noticed a big difference when I ride the same route on a motorcycle. While I remain a big fan of scooters I find it easier to be on the road on a motorcycle when surrounded by homicidal car drivers. They just don't seem to respect scooter's right to be on the road like they do big nasty Triumphs and I should note I have owned several Vespas in my previous life starting early with a 50cc special in 1970. I also rode a Vespa P200 across the US and Mexico in 1981 and enjoyed using the Vespa as my daily rider for another ten years in California. The largest motorcycle I owned was an 1100cc Honda Gold Wing which was not a good fit for me, unlike the 900cc Bonneville, shown here scaring wildlife:The Bonneville means business, and though I ride it no faster on my commute than I ever did the 250cc Vespa GTS, I rarely get crowded by stupid car drivers. People used to cut me off, tailgate me and try to outrun me when, to their amazement I passed them while riding my "moped." The Vespa was a wonderfully practical way to get around with lots of lockable, dry storage, a more comfortable seat than any motorcycle I've ridden along with excellent weather protection. Yet I find my 900cc Bonneville with three times the horsepower of the Vespa to be more practical, even though it uses more gas (45mpg) simply because it inspires more respect.The Keys aren't a practical or sensible environment for boy racers, with not many roads and all of them desperately straight, yet lots of people ride these superb, over-powered machines and as you can see lots of them ride wearing a bare minimum of protective gear. I don't always wear a helmet or my protective clothing when I ride and I find the suffocating blanket requirement on web forums for all riders to be armored at all times to be rather tedious. New devotees of the sport tend to be rather more focussed on the risks than the pleasure it seems to me. They've discovered this excellent new-to-them means of locomotion and they want everyone to share their need for total protection all the time, so they get preachy. I also find the debates between scooter riders and motorcyclists to be irritating because I don't see the need for riders to worry so much about what they ride. Hell I rent Harleys when I can and I enjoy them very much! On the scooter front I like, in theory, Yamaha's 500cc, 100mph (160kph), T Max recently introduced to the US. I found this photo on a French motorcycle website and I think it looks gorgeous:Bobscoot in Canada, like me (horrors! we have something in common), rides a scooter as well as his rather toothsome Suzuki 650. His scooter is a powerful Kymco 500, pictured rather suavely in France in this picture (not chez Bobscoot incidentally). This is another good looking scooter able to cruise at highway speeds with excellent weather protection and comfort:The Frenchman depicted above is very relaxed and debonair in full riding leathers, zooming across town. Apparently there are scooterists in the US that believe they don't need protective gear because they are just scooters which is silly because falling off is falling off and it hurts and the ground doesn't care what you are riding. As long as you understand the risk, make your own informed choice...hell, my knee still hurts from tripping while walking and chewing gum! Check out this portly Honda Goldwing, known to Allen Madding as a honda-potamus thanks to it's general massiveness:It's too much motorcycle for me, with its reverse gear, built-in everything electronic, optional airbag, and all it's bulk. I'd rather buzz around town and into the country on a slender, perky BMW 650 single like this one which is ridden daily around Key West:But whatever you ride you need training to be truly as safe as you can be. I am a believer in the value of using your head for active safety, rather than worrying so much about what you wear or choose not to wear. Or worse yet what you ride. If I were planning another cross country trip I'd think about that other Japanese work horse, the Honda Helix, a 250cc machine that can barely hit 70 miles per hour but that has a record for reliability and sturdiness second to none, with huge load carrying and extreme comfort built in (no air bags though):There is a reason we ride what we ride and that boils down simply to image, like it or not. Our machines reflect the image we want to project of ourselves, and practicality has almost nothing to do with it. Car drivers frequently claim they are locked into practical requirements like load carrying and cost rather than driving for the sport of the thing- and their tedium and lack of interest shows as they steer. Motorcycles in the US are still viewed largely as toys, so instead of riding a sensible scooter we give ourselves a thrill by commuting like a Grand Prix racer, or like me by invoking the gods of my youth- fuel petcocks, air cooled engine fins and sexy rounded fuel tanks: I don't need a Bonneville, I like my Bonneville and I really don't care what other people ride as long as they are enjoying themselves in their own way and leave me to enjoy my own self image. Long live all scooters, motorcycles and Harley Davidsons. And their well trained riders, of course. 
The highway remains open but traffic tends to slow to a crawl along Mile Marker 10, as drivers gawp at the big bad back hoes doing their job:
The main force project is aqueduct-speak for putting in sewers, a project that will be good for the reef no doubt, after twenty years of procrastination and delay. The reef has been dying and shrivelling up for years as everyone stood around and wrung their hands in despair, even as they shit into septic tanks which "filter" the waste through limestone rock. I have no doubt agricultural run off from the Everglades and any number of other factors hurt the reef, but septic tanks just seem an obvious problem in need of a solution. And here it is, one slow, expensive mile at a time:
The Florida Keys Aqueduct Authority is responsible for piping water to Key West from the South Florida aquifer and they do the job very well. You would have thought a complex job like sewering the Lower Keys would be right up their street. Not so our previous county commission, whose majority signed off an a sweet heart deal with a very shady outfit to sewer Stock Island. It was a cock up of Ruritanian proportions. The commissioners opposed to the deal were even denied golfing privileges at the public course thanks to Resort Utilities connections there, meanwhile residents of Stock Island found sewage backing up into their homes and plans for the project never made it to the county offices as promised prior to the start of construction. Connections were thus built incorrectly, pipes were of the wrong size; it was a scandal created by the county Gang of Three in charge of the county commission and their lax oversight.
A state audit revealed unauthorized expenses including charging the company owner's family's private cell phones to the tax payers of Stock Island and a request for a massive rate increase was rejected. The Aqueduct declined to take over the misery of the Stock island project and that mess exists to this day. I was ready to go ballistic if the county was going to foist Resort Utilities on my island but fortunately we have a commission made up of sensible people and the new county manager seems incorruptible and (amazing!) competent, so the Aqueduct Authority is now in charge of sewering. We breathe a sigh of relief.
Like the Aqueduct, Toppino is not a construction company that messes around either. They are the family that made their name in the early twentieth century helping to build Flagler's railway and they have thrived ever since. The work itself has gone smoothly enough, well off to one side of the remaining lanes on the Highway:
It's a pain in the neck for people who live in the area no doubt, dealing with the dust and the confusion and it can't be much of a picnic for the businesses that line the overseas Highway to the north:
There's Hitch King, Bobalu's Southern Cafe, Tina's vegetables, the Mobil gas station (with Dion's chicken!), a used car dealer and a church too. I have high hopes that once the work is done there will be a proper sidewalk and bike path and quite likely a proper turn lane down the middle. Traffic has always been a bit stop-and-go on Big Coppitt thanks to cars turning off the roadway and blocking traffic. A nice big fat turn lane in the middle would work wonders...
I guess for someone viewing the pictures from under a snow drift it must look a bit odd to see so much dusty construction in February:
And this is the big traffic time of year, when all those snowbirds, as winter residents are called, are joined by numerous visitors to create unusually crowded streets in the Lower Keys (seen here gassing up at $2:10/gallon):
I have no doubt work will continue through the summer when heavy rains will turn dust to mud and temperatures will rise with the humidity. After all, the work is supposed to be done by 2010, an impossible deadline thanks to the idiot procrastinators, and you can bet Monroe County is holding out it's hands for some stimulus money. This is a "shovel ready" project if ever there was one! As the cost, in 21st century dollars, could amount to $20,000 a home, we could sure use some stimulating!
It was about time, but the job is done at last, and now I can count the revolutions of my engine as I ride. When the new Triumph factory at Hinckley in England brought out the original 800cc Bonneville in 2000 the machine was viewed as being a little lacking as it didn't come with a tachometer, the instrument that measures the engine revolutions.
Traditionally, motorcycles have been supplied with this tool to help the rider determine the best gear to be in for the speed of the motorcycle. I don't remember buying more than two motorcycles that didn't have one, and then I bought my basic Bonneville in 2007. This was the "upgraded basic" Bonneville, with the 865cc engine but still no tach...So I decided I wanted a tach for my Bonneville and my wife came through for my birthday and I bought the little round object illustrated above from Performance Triumph USA's catalogue, priced at $200. It's illuminated at night too:
I decided to go with the "retro" upgrade instead, with the smaller instrument that fits alongside the original fascia. It only took Jiri at JK Motorsports two weeks to install it for me... 
...his excuse was that he was rushing to fix his race bike for a meet at the Homestead track...whatever! I was delighted with the final result:
The Parabellum windscreen does a great job of keeping the wind and weather off me and the instruments, and the windshield mounting system is simple and solid even though in this picture it looks rather bulky as it surrounds the instruments in the middle. I now have a plethora of instruments, speedo, tach, clock and air temperature gauge. My, we are sophisticated now on the carburetted basic Bonneville.
The Triumph is known for sounding like it needs a sixth gear and riders of the Bonneville frequently complain that they would like one more cog. Personally I like the gearbox exactly as the ratios come from the factory, but there is no doubt the tach has a useful purpose to serve.
I now know that when the speedo shows 70mph and the tach shows 4,000rpm I am in top gear and cruising comfortably and economically in 5th gear. When the tach shows 3,000 rpm I am in the same gear as the speed indicated- above 50mph I'm in fifth, above 40mph I'm in fourth, and above 30mph I'm in third, very suave I'm sure. I think I am congentially compulsive.
The question then might be, if one wants a tach so desperately why not buy the T100 over the basic Bonneville, especially as engine size and everything in the performance area is identical? Well, the T100 was considered an upgraded model in the carburettor era when I bought mine. The T100 has chrome engine covers which I'm not a fan of, especially in salt air environments, it also comes with two color paint jobs; plus there's the matter of the giant tach and the fact that the T100 commanded a $2,000 premium over the basic Bonneville. However nowadays, in the new 2009 line up, the only Bonneville that comes with wire spokes and traditional "pea shooter"exhausts is the T100. This is the basic SE Bonneville from the Triumph factory website:
The basic Bonneville called the SE, is aimed at a younger demographic with alloy wheels, reverse cone exhausts and smaller wheel size to accommodate the petite among us. I am very fond of my old fashioned carburetted Bonneville, at last complete with tachometer...
So with my wife at a staff meeting and my chores done I thought I'll take a little ride and see what I could picture. It was a beautiful winter's evening, cool air blowing strongly from the east and clear skies and a strong patch of pink and orange to the west. There were lots of motorcyclists, cruisers, rumbling up and down the highway.
I stopped a couple of miles from home and parked the Bonneville next to the new Niles Channel Bridge that arches 40 feet over the water next to the old, flat 
Well, I thought, I'd better get the picture taken as the sun was rushing to the horizon.
Nice enough but perhaps one without the intrusion of human ingenuity?
That was more like it. But where did that bloody bush come from? I realised I was running out of time if I was going to catch the golden orb above the mangroves of 
But between those two images I met this:
And I hit it stoutly with my tennis shoe, propelling me forward onto my hands and knees and forcing me to launch the camera and gorilla pod into a sublime arc across the pavement. The camera, amazingly, still works okay even though it now sports a big scratch across the back. I amazingly, still work okay even though I managed to graze my right palm, my left elbow and my left knee which started to pour blood in imitation of a very active and scarlet volcano:
"Wow!" I thought, "I should have stayed home!" But then immediately I realised that was an unworthy thought. I stood there dripping blood and stinging like a 51 year old version of 18 year old me when I laid my first "real" motorcycle down. I was doing hairpins up a hill in central Italy in 1976 on my 350cc 
In this case too no one was around to witness my stupidity so I took a few more pictures before darkness closed in, which happily would also hide my stupidity and then the phone rang. "Great," I thought, "now what? Do I tell her the truth or hide it?" In the event it was my buddy Bruce from Santa Fe. I wondered why he was calling me at that very moment. What a coincidence! Nice to hear a friendly voice through the dripping blood! "Well," he said, "You called me!" We figured my phone must have decided to call him as my parabola ended and I probably landed on the phone which must have felt compelled to call for help.
We shared a laugh at my temporary predicament while I fished around a for a rag in my saddlebag to contain the spreading pool of blood which threatened the top of my sock...by now it was getting dark so I hoped that I could get home with no one being any the wiser. Because you know they'd see a bloody elbow and a bloody knee and start making groaning noise about those dangerous motorcycles....
This whole kerfuffle was actually planned a as a response to the recent essays discussing risks and riding techniques recently posted on Scooter in the Sticks and Musings of an Intrepid Commuter. My point? Walking can be bloody dangerous too, so perhaps we should wear safety gear all the time, not just when riding those nasty dangerous two wheelers.
The East Martello Museum, of which I wrote previously, has a wing devoted to local artists, and of those two in particular struck my fancy. Stanley Papio lived in the Upper Keys and settled there after he had a career as a welder. His artwork developed from his passion for found objects and he took a fancy to welding them together to create objects of whimsy:
The story goes that Papio's neighbors were none too excited about his welded junk lining the Highway, but he didn't much care it seems.
And the way these things go, before too long the welder became an icon:
And the East Martello has a number of these "culturally important artworks" in it's collection:
The other artist on permanent display is Mario Sanchez who died in 2005 and who, like Papio came to his art later in life. Sanchez took to making wood carvings, intaglios, of Key West life. Including a picnic at the East Martello Tower:
He carved street scenes from memory, and made three dimensional the Key West of his childhood, remembering the merchants, the buildings and the activities of Key West long ago. These wood blocks are much more vibrant and immediate than the posed stiff black and white photographs of the era:
Funnily enough Sanchez himself springs to life out of a simple black and white photo:
He drew his ideas on old paper bags before committing them to wood:
And then he went to town with all the finely carved details, like this scene from a cigar factory:
I particularly liked the caption on the wall: "...in Spanish English or Bahamian..." The mind boggles, and ponders the life and times of Mario Sanchez.
I have often pondered whether or not I could ever do a wordless essay,
...so I'm guessing this is as close as I'll ever get:
It was a cool evening:
...but this woman was talking loudly about how she was glad to be back in Florida after moving Up North for a spell, as she checked the jewelry on offer:
This woman reminded me of my buddy Giovanni's wife with that school teacher expression on her face of amused disapproval, like when Giovanni and I take off motorcycling: 
Nothing to do with people watching but I like looking at it.
There is a fee to get in, but all I noticed was that with the local's discount I paid five bucks so I'm guessing an out of town visitor might pay $6. It's well worth it, as the museum has been spruced up quite a bit since last I was there a few years ago. Fred the cat patrols the front desk area and gift shop:
The first stop was a diorama of the lighthouse with some of it's history but as I've already written about that delightful point of interest I limited myself to recording this gruesome instrument of torture, which previously I had only ever seen in the movies:
No museum worth it's salt in Key West will skip the desperate love affair that Karl Tanzler enjoyed with a young Cuban woman:
The German X-Ray technician employed at the naval hospital looked paternal enough but he conceived a most vivid love for the young Cuban woman called Elena depicted while alive just above Tanzler's shoulder. He promoted himself to Count Von Cosell and lived in a hut on the beach, whence he repaired with the unfortunate young Elena and played the pipe organ to celebrate their love. The only glitch was she had died of tuberculosis and he had been forced to dig up her body and repair the ravages of the grave as best he could. This ghastly parody of love went on for about seven years and when he was finally busted it was the 1940s and there are people alive today who remember Elena's waxy remains on display in the city:
That story never fails to give me the creeps and Ben Harrison's biography Undying Love spares no gruesome details. East Martello is also host to another of Key west's weirder characters, known simply as Robert the Doll. It is traditional to respectfully ask permission of the doll prior to taking a photograph, and you'd better believe I did.
The story goes that a servant in the Otto family gave the son and heir Gene this doll in 1896, and because the Otto's treated their servants so badly the servant put a voodoo hex on the doll which became Gene's constant companion. The adult Gene set Robert in a room overlooking Eaton Street and such was the doll's reputation people were afraid to walk past it. Even today there is a wall at the Martello Tower dedicated to letters from people thanking the doll and apologizing to the doll asking for their bad luck to be lifted:
In the interests of my own good fortune I have no comment. There are others who had bad luck but of the meteorological kind, namely Cuban rafters. There is one such machine,if it can be called that, in the corridor of the East Martello, dating back to the 1960s. It was basically a collection of saplings bound together, found with three ID cards, and the fate of their owners remains unknown:
The sign behind the raft says, Could the last person to leave Cuba turn out the light... Before the US decided to embargo Cuba there was a long history of exchange, both cultural and economic between Key West and Havana. That exchange was typified by the cigar industry which settled in Key West for a while before moving north to the wide open spaces of Tampa and Ybor City. The Key West era is marked in the museum:
The first international flight left from Key West in 1913, and took two hours to reach Havana 90miles (150 kilometers) to the south. Cuban Domingo Rosillo was at the controls of his featherweight monoplane: 
Augustine Parla, another Cuban aviator was the second person to make the flight a while later. Pan Am started mail flights between the two cities in 1927. 
And aside from all those splendid lawns there is a viewing platform at the top of the central tower, reached by climbing three narrow flights of an iron spiral staircase. From the top one gets a view across the Straits of Florida.
A pleasant afternoon at the Martello Tower.
Rest Beach is one of my preferred spots for a quick break because it's right there, it's got parking next to Atlantic Boulevard, it has beachfront seating in the form of rather insalubrious tiki huts and from the comfort of the hard wooden benches one can sit and ponder the meaning of life:
The nice thing is that there is also stuff to see out on the water, in winter sailboats are traveling Hawk Channel to and from Marathon, cyclists and walkers are enjoying the White Street Pier and the sun sparkles on the water giving it a festive tinsel-like sheen.
I feel the need to remind people who don't know, that magnificent beaches are not part of what makes the Keys attractive. Unlike mainland Florida which is a gigantic sandpit that produces incredible arcs of beach, the Keys are more like the Bahamas, lumps of hard limestone rock that don't produce much in the way of sandy beaches. But what there is people do try to enjoy:
My wife and I very much enjoy spending our summer afternoons,when she gets home from work and before I leave for my night job, going swimming. Because I live 25 miles out of town I get to keep our little 14 foot skiff on the canal behind our house and its a matter of no effort at all to get out into Newfound Harbor, a wide expanse of protected water, drop the anchor and go for a refreshing swim. However I have to admit I am not fond of swimming in waters cooler than 80 degrees (27C), so the boat comes out of the water in late October usually and goes back in around mid April. Visitors to the islands are less fussy and they go swimming even in February, and some of them manage to get some sunburn on their delicate northern epidermis:
Not everyone is so informal. I spotted one gent, nattily dressed, out for an afternoon constitutional, quietly resting at the tiki hut nearest the condos by the beach:
That's the great pleasure of the beach, and Key West in general, the whole philosophy of come as you are. I am not really a great fan of beach vacations, all that suntan oiled indolence, the uncomfortable posture for reading, the sand in the crevices, the immobility. However the beach is the place where you can wear a cardigan, or a diaper; the beach is the great leveller:
And one has to reflect that I took these pictures on an average afternoon in February, amidst reports of snow ice rain and cold almost everywhere north of here. I can sense winter is crawling towards a gradual close, but in conditions like these winter is no real hardship, even if it is too cold for a swim.
I like having the opportunity to ride to work the "long way" round the island, taking South Roosevelt, stopping at Rest Beach on Atlantic Boulevard, and perhaps getting a cafe con leche at Sandys on White Street before reporting for work at the Police Station. It's good to take the time to enjoy the sun, smell the sea air and watch the water for a while. 
It has some pretensions to history, though of the more dilapidated type:
Modern Conchs, and newcomers enjoy living in modern homes too, with all the modern conveniences, including scooters on the porch if they feel like it:
And chickens in the front yard:
The lane itself isn't very big, comprising as it does two right angled arms which pass between Key West Bank on Whitehead Street and Crabby Dicks on Duval Street. Looking out towards Whitehead Street and Robert Gabriel public housing:
Looking halfway up the lane ( against the one way traffic flow):
And out towards Angela Street:
Samaritan Lane is more of a series of interconnected parking lots in some respects, including the big lot behind Crabby Dicks, which is some unremarkable bar and restaurant serving tourists on Duval:
And then there is the big old apartment complex at the turn, with convenient covered parking underneath:
Even in this unpromising lane there are the signs of Key West architecture on view, including the multi level staircase:
The endless "No Trespassing" signs:
And the bane of all vehicular traffic in Old Town, the lack of parking:
And a nice peek of the magnificent A.M.E. Zion Church on Whitehead Street, a fine juxtaposition to the bulk of Crabby Dicks on the other side of the lane:
Samaritan Lane may not be much to write home about but the residents appeared quite house proud the early morning I was there (filled with fish from nearby Dennis Cafe):
Another one down, many dozen more lanes to go.
There was a time when Dennis Cafe was a name that attracted all sorts of people to the breakfast counter on the corner of United Street near the southernmost side of the island. In those days it was called Dennis Pharmacy because the squat little building with the Coppertone ad on top housed an old fashioned chemist's with an old fashioned diner attached. Nowadays it's a bank, which used to be Marine Bank but which sold out to an out of town concern that goes by the delightfully distinctive bland moniker (as bland as it's logo) of Centennial Bank:
The old diner lived off it's reputation as a breakfast hang out for the rich and famous of a bygone era and the walls had photos and autographs to prove it. I ate there from time to time (and failed to take any pictures!) but it wasn't on my route around town and I wasn't particularly upset when the institution closed. Some people penned awful laments to the paper about the passing of an era, etc... which is odd because the news that the pharmacy was to re-open in the decidedly unromantic Professional Building in New Town wasn't greeted with any great fanfare:
The formerly unified pharmacy/diner operation split and the restaurant opened, again with no fanfare in Bahama Village across the street from another institution, Floyd's Barber Shop on the Three Hundred Block of Petronia Street:
Finding myself at a loose end downtown early one morning I followed my wife's advice to try somewhere new and at 8:05am promptly walked into the new Dennis cafe for a quick breakfast. 35 minutes later, long after I had placed my order my breakfast arrived, a plate of grouper and grilled onions, a cup of grits covered with molten American cheese, two eggs and a slice of Cuban toast:
This substantial breakfast stuck to my ribs all day, of that there was no doubt, but a bill of $17:15 rather put the kibosh on any plans I might have had for a return visit. This slow simple meal set me back one clean crisp twenty dollar bill for a breakfast that used to epitomise poverty in old Key West. "Grunts and grits"was the daily menu during the last depression, a grunt being a small, tasty, but bony fish caught around the island and grits being cornmeal ground up very fine and boiled in water. Nourishing but bland. Grits is good they say, because in the South grits is singular and only damned Yankees say grits are good.
In it's old location Dennis Pharmacy was a community center and there was lots of hustle and bustle around the old diner counter with the rushing dinner ladies hurrying back and forth. Nowadays there is still a counter in the new Dennis Cafe, but the pace is more languid:
There are paradoxically many less expensive items on the breakfast menu, all the usual meat and eggs and potato choices one expects from a cafe, and the bright blue exterior marks the Key West institution:
Dennis Cafe is just up the road from Blue Heaven on Petronia Street.
I was called to serve as a juror in Monroe County one recent Monday, and a most enlightening experience it was too. I had never served previously owing to a lack of this or that in my life, citizenship, stability ("out sailing" leaves the mails far behind), but my civic duty caught up to me finally. I was last called just as Hurricane Ike was barrelling down on the Keys and the Justice system shut down for a week excusing all potential jurors. I felt deprived as I have always wanted to observe up close the lynch pin of Anglo Saxon justice, the jury of one's peers.
I missed the public tour of the Freeman Justice Center when it opened last year so this was also my opportunity to see the inside of the building that replaces the venerable and rather tatty building that currently sits between the Freeman Center and Whitehead Street. There was of course some controversy about the structure, an arcane debate over what sort of exrterior decoration was suitable for a building that represents stability and dignity in town and the end result, the more expensive result looks quite good, even from the rear on Thomas Street: 
However, like Gilbert and Sullivan's Lord High Executioner I have a little list, and in the event we get a revolution and a people's tribunal I would put, in descending order, architects, bankers and lawyers on my little list. The Freeman Center reinforces my prejudice not least because the architect forget to create a security area so the 250 jurors lined up around the block, and stood in the sun while the head of the line did the usual ridiculous removal of all dignity along with belts, buckles and water bottles. I don't think they took down one potential juror as a threat as we stood and waited and waited and waited. Then when we got past security we had to squish in the lobby like sardines waiting for the elevator and we couldn't take the stairs because there aren't any! To walk to the upper levels the stairway is outside the building which is beyond the security apparatus...Then one of the two elevators wasn't working in the brand new building which just made the whole approach to jury duty one more painful sardine experience.
We went through the process of whittling people in front of Judge Taylor and as I sat in the room I heard a bunch of great excuses about why people should be excused their civic duty. The loudest laugh was reserved for the man who stood up and said he cooked lunch for the homeless and they wouldn't get lunch if he was in court. He didn't get excused. I sat and waited and read my novel and was wondering if I would ever get selected. In the event I was in the middle of the second group of twenty selected for a battery trial to be heard before Judge Miller. The second round of the selection process was heard downstairs before my main man Tegan Slaton who was seated after winning the recent election by two votes (mine and my wife's). His opponent is suing for a new go round and votes are being scrutinized in court so he may or may not stay in his $150,000 judicial seat. 
I did not get selected of course. My wife (the former public defender) thinks the prosecution eliminated me as being too smart, I think the Judge eliminated me for being a wiseass (I was a bit wordy on my answers, not a surprise I suppose). It couldn't possibly have been the defense worried about my place of employment. And suddenly I was free to go and sit in the sun.
I find it tedious that everyone wants to get out of jury duty. I understand that losing money is a drag and God knows getting up at 7:30am to the sound of an alarm is tough for someone on my schedule, but without jurors there would a very unpleasant legal system to deal with. A friend of mine in Italy is sitting on the murder trial of the century in the city of Perugia. A young American from Seattle, stuying in Umbria, stands accused of murdering a fellow student from Great Britain in a blooody sex triangle which has titillated the press to distraction. Irene is described a "popular judge" which in Civil Law (known to some as Napoleonic Law) is the equivalent of a juror in the Anglo Saxon system. However she is one of six civilians working with one judge to figure out the truth in her tangled web of sex and lies and death. The system we live under is a much better separated system of justice in my opinion, with lawyers to prosecute and defend, juries to decide, judges to sentence. In Civil Law all parties work together to figure out what really happened so the adversarial pursuit of legal loopholes as happens in the US doesn't taint the truth. In fact I would rather be defended by an advocate than sold down the river by a bunch of legal geniuses working together to figure out what they think really happened. So I feel an obligation not to whine when called for jury duty. I stand ready to do my bit, for fifteen dollars a day. Erk. And no one is exempt.
No one is exempt: unless they are hard of hearing, self employed charter boat captains suffering through the worst season in living memory, don't speak much English, have a condition that doesn't allow them to concentrate, are pregnant, or it turns out happen to work in the Police Department. I was hoping I might get selected on this round because none of the trials was scheduled to last more than a day and the next round I was told, included a potentially month long trial, an event that would try the patience of the most civic minded jury applicant. This is the original Monroe County Courthouse, typical of Southern solidity:
I have since discovered that the big hitting trial is supposed to be Key West's most recent murder, an event that occurred two years ago, I feel safe in assuming that's one long assed jury event I could not possibly be called to serve on as I was working when the murder was discovered.
I think from here on out I shall enjoy the Freeman Justice Center in passing like the tourist above, but not I hope like this: 
Perhaps I should expand the Lord High Executioner's list of people who should be removed as societal annoyances:
We decided a while back to install some insulation underneath our home, and this was a very good idea. It probably would have stayed an embryonic idea had it not been for some firm pushing by our friends Lisa and Josh who want to do the same thing on their larger house. So our's was the guinea pig, as it were, the 700 square foot (65 square meter) home which because it was built in 1987 is lower to the ground than Josh and Lisa's newer 1,000 square foot stilt home. Ours may be only eight feet above flood plain but installing strips of fiber glass matting still requires holding one's head back and stretching out one's arms.
Eight hours of this crap yesterday with bits of prickly insulation spilling all over oneself can put quite a dent in the notion of how uplifting home improvement really is. We spent about a thousand dollars on strips of fiberglass in 6 and 3 inch depths, we spent some of that money on staple guns and staples, masks gloves and goggles and we hope this attempt to make our home "greener" will reduce our already modest electricity bills. We generally pay about two hundred dollars a month in summer with the air conditioning and less than fifty a month in winter so it will take a while to enjoy the benefits of reduced costs. The benefits of reduced heat and noise are immediate.
Plus there is the satisfaction in knowing we've done what we can to make our home more energy efficient and that offsets to some degree the absolute agony of my joints and my burning, aching feet.
We took wads of the cotton candy and stuffed them between the wooden joists overhead:
Then we took the thinner strips of insulation and tacked them up underneath the six inch deep insulation strips:
The last step will be completed by a pro who is supposed to show up at some point and tack weather -proof sheeting over the cotton candy to finish the job. It will be brilliant I am sure, and even I think we were all aching by the end of it...
...it was a worthwhile job well done. On another note the greening of our windows was much easier to deal with. Captain Jeffrey, the most talkative window tinter in the Keys, came by and with a splash of soapy water and a few quick slices of his box cutters stuck some really remarkable silver tint on the south and west facing windows and doors. From the outside the effect was astonishing, a pure mirror reflecting almost all of the sun's heat:
From the inside the effect of the silver coating is to give the view a polarized look which is actually quite pleasant:
Additionally Jeffrey added some very dark tint to the sliding doors and the window in the bedroom so now I have a very cool, dark, refreshing place to sleep during daylight hours. It was a nice job, swiftly and efficiently done for $600 by the smiling Captain:
I suggested to Lisa and Josh they might want to do the same to their windows because we all know energy costs are going to go back up and we all want to be ready for the summer heat this year. I can hardly wait to prance around sticking insulation under their house. The purity of self sufficiency has to be enjoyed to be understood.
I was wandering an area between Duval Street and Bahama Village one sunny morning recently taking pictures as I went, not thinking too much about the whys and wherefores and before I knew it I had a couple of other essays sewn up and some pictures left over, which as I laid out the other stories were stating to look like they end up as pictures without a story. But there's always a story or two to liven up a few pictures...I don't think I could do a "wordless Wednesday" as some others do:
The Miami Herald last Thursday reported that Key West Mayor Morgan Macpherson appears to have stretched too far in his determination to become mayor of the southernmost city, and is now facing foreclosure. Macpherson owes around 1.1 million dollars on his former residence on Rockland Key (Mile Marker 9) which is outside city limits. He chose to refinance that one a few years ago when made his first run for the office, rented it out and bought a New Town home for himself, his wife (a school administrator) and four kids. The Mayor's job pays just $10,000 a year and Macpherson's "real job" as a realtor has dried up. Hence the foreclosure.
I remember that after Hurricane Wilma flooded some seventy percent of Key West the year Macpherson first became mayor in 2005, City Commissioner Clayton Lopez, representing Bahama Village, was washed out of his home. The paper ran a story on how he struggled to help his constituents while he himself lived with the disastrous storm effects. In that same spirit Mayor Macpherson has been a noisy advocate for affordable worker housing in the city, even as he himself was losing his own home. There is a temptation sometimes to forget that our leaders have their own demons to deal with...
I found the Whitehead Street sign slightly amusing in an ironic sort of way. In the rest of the country bankers love their planes and their absurd office remodels, while in Old Town a space to park your car is worth all the prestige and gold...
I can't imagine myself dressed all in white, I am too absent minded to be able to function and stay that clean...and as I thought about my distant relationship to starch I spotted an old timer across the street, paused, stuck in stationary mode, lapping up the early morning sunshine:
And then, without warning he started up again and strode off down the street. I wondered what his story was. The next picture is as close as I can get to saying nothing:
It just sits there with it's old fashioned air, and I wonder who the original Curry was, descended no doubt from Florida's first millionaire, the businessman responsible for the mansion on Caroline Street. And when i looked up and saw this I had to ask myself if it could possibly have been fate that lost the "L" or was it a drunken tourist with a sense of humor as puerile as my own?
A decade in an English boarding school leaves it's mark. And because this is my diary of life in the Lower Keys when I passed this next instrument of torture (we get so many 9-1-1 hang ups form these diabolical things!), I figured I'd better remember the day we used to have fifty cent coin phones:
This next picture is of the Honda motorcycle dealership on Southard Street, where the owner parks his machines awaiting repair on the street and every winter, regular as habit, the Citizen's Voice column records anonymous complaints against the practice of storing machines on the street:
On the subject of the newspaper there was a report on the meeting called to discuss the fate of the palms at the cemetery. I think its a storm in a teacup from what I could glean from the paper. Apparently the city arborist has determined that the extra tall Washingtonia palms (remember I'm no botanist) have reached the end of their lives and could fall at any time. Someone offered to donate some palmetto palms to replace them and even though everyone is a little on edge after the struggle to save the casuarinas at Fort Zachary Taylor . It's rather tiresome really, a nice controversy stymied.
The funny thing for me, about Valentine's day is that I grew up in the Italian province that gave rise to the St Valentine's legend that is being "celebrated" and I had absolutely no knowledge of the connection. Poor self promotion you might say, and you'd be right but there is something refreshing about an entire city that has no clue how to sell itself as the birthplace of one of the more international and popular holidays. 
San Valentino da Interamna was a bishop who was martyred sometime between 250 and 300 A.D. for marrying a pagan Roman soldier and a Christian girl. As he was led off to his execution he reportedly kissed his jailer's blind daughter and pressed her hand whispering "from your Valentine" and as he was the Bishop of Interamna, the Roman name for Terni, and he was about to die, it was assumed his was the gesture of spiritual love. But the Church needed a new holiday ("holy day") to supersede a pagan fertility celebration and St Valentine was dredged up to fill the gap. In the next century Constantine declared Christianity the faith of the Empire and Valentine's gesture was no longer necessary. All this stuff is shrouded in myth and legend enough to make Terni the focus of worldwide attention today. However Terni has failed completely to capitalize on the myth. Besides my original home town is an industrial city famous for steel mills and Beretta handguns, not much of the city is ancient, or pretty like its medieval neighbors in the surrounding Umbrian hillsides. And actually living there surrounded by relatives is an intimidating prospect for a young man who harbors ambitions to see the world. Madame Bovary could easily have been set in the provincial chatterbox drawing rooms of this small city! 
The place got bombed flat during World War Two and now boasts a mostly American style grid pattern of streets in a natural bowl in the mountains that gets blisteringly hot in the summer and bitingly cold in winter.
And to think my mother could have raised me in Rome, The Eternal City, but there it is. I have come, in middle age, to really like Terni, a city overlooked by tourists, because of its unpretentious provincial style, its care of the few Roman monuments it has and the lovingly redeveloped old quarter that has enjoyed modest renewal in the boom years of the 1990s. And the fact I no longer live there, I enjoy being a tourist in my home town.
This was the street my grandmother grew up in, Via Barberini, before she left to become a teacher and a singer in the early 20th century.
Valentine's Day appears to be a day for the western world to celebrate chocolates cards and flowers. We are encouraged by radio stations to observe the proprieties for our "sweeties" ( I am not fond of that word; it makes my wife sound like a box of Goobers) and all that stuff. For me its a day that encourages thoughts of tolerance and kindness, the foundations upon which love is built. I'm a nominal Catholic (I'm Italian what else could I be?) my wife is a Jew and neither of "our" religions can countenance either of us getting married to each other. Little wonder I have not much time for them.
And that brings me to tolerance, and why I like Key West. Key West does a good deal better job than Terni of self promotion, but Key West, unlike Terni, tops the list of places to be an outcast. In California I found a great deal of judgement despite the stereotype, it could hardly be any other way in a state composed of 30 million type A personalities. The things that drive me crazy about Key West, the lackadasical approach principally, the lack of order and orgnization, are the things that give me hope for my old age. It's a small town, and one in which you can cherish chickens or put them (illegally) in a ring to fight, you can drink yourself into a stupor each night or appear toasted at the breakfast table and no one really minds. You can even be openly gay in 21st century America and no requires you to keep your fundamental self behind closed doors. Really, the absence of judgemental attitudes is striking, and it is refreshing, even though frequently irritating. Not passing judgement does not mean that one cannot hold an opinion, that would not be human, and as best as I can articulate it my definition of tolerance is not acting on one's (worst) impulses towards one's neighbors. Which in itself is a pretty loose definition! The gates to my heaven stretch wide when they are open...
But that has always been the thing about St Valentine's day for me, its such an important day, the day of tolerance, I tend to overlook it, and I have all my life.
National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration weather synopsis for Key West:
I looked west as I rode into town and below the setting sun, bright in my eyes, I saw a bank of fog. Hmm I thought as I slipped onto Stock Island wedged in between rows of cars jockeying for position at the triangle. Hmm, this looks like a genuine California marine inversion layer, and I felt a cool blast of air hit my chest as I rode under the gray bank of cloud. It felt just like a summer day in Northern California. Behind me was the sun:
In front it looked like the Sunset district of San Francisco:
For me it was deja vu, for others it was an opportunity to get home without too much sweat:
Or to get some exercise in an unaccustomed cool breeze taming the afternoon heat:
When I got to work I talked to Noel who is certainly not used to these conditions, and he was marveling at how cool the air was on his skin. "Refreshing" he marveled. Out on the water it looked weird in a town used to unending vistas of blue skies and blue water:
I was meeting my wife for cafe con leche in Searstown, at the end of her work day and the beginning of mine, and we marveled at how much the low ceiling sea fog reminded us of Santa Cruz, California.
We neither of us liked it much, as we are both fans of crisp unadulterated sunshine, but like all less-than-perfect-weather in Key West, we know it will pass soon enough. It is a trial working police dispatch into the night though as the officers are grumbling at the lack of visibility and unaccustomed burden of "bad" weather:
It's not a blizzard or anything, I know that, but it is a bit weird when you're in the police station and can't actually see the fire station next door. I'm glad this is a temporary phenomenon. 
The numbers for January were 7,841 visits and considering last May the numbers were under 4,500, I have no idea where all these people are coming from. I guess pictures of sunshine in the northern hemisphere winter has to be an attraction but the numbers boggle my mind. So, let's mess with Sitemeter and everybody that reads this entry now has to tell at least one person they meet in the course of the day, to visit Key West Diary. There, that should freak the system out. It would certainly freak me out completely. Thank you for your attention. 
Appelrouth used to be known decades ago, according to J Wills Burke as Smith Lane and in 1981 it got a new name, in honor of a man described by the author as a Jewish merchant by the name of Billy Appelrouth. We get no more information on the man but I can't help but wonder if his appreciation for the peculiarities of this street would delight or appal him. From Whitehead Street Appelrouth is closed to traffic as this is a one way from Duval:
Walking the wrong way one passes a guest house which according to friends who know better than I, prefers the company of men (though others are not excluded I am assured):
I could hear the sounds of cheerful female laughter from behind the stockade as I strolled by...and made my way towards the back of the San Carlos Theater, the old center of Cuban culture in Key West. It had the air of a Spanish mission church in the early morning light, a touch of California I thought:
Across the street is the abandoned remains of a funky old German restaurant called Martin's which is now in a spanking new modern building on Duval. I liked the funky slightly askew diggs that Martin's used to enjoy on Appelrouth:
But closer to Duval things get a little kinky...which isn't something I am too knowledgeable about and if I were I probably wouldn't admit it here. Just thinking about a hairy man wearing these makes me feel a bit off kilter, but it does happen:
I managed somehow to miss this festivity, though friends that take great pride as it were, in doffing themselves up for these events say you can see the most surprising people being led round the event on a leather leash...
But if you feel the need for a leather, nail studded, speedo, Leathermaster can oblige:
I am told this is also an excellent place to bring your bourgeois leather goods for repairs, bland things like sandal straps and handbags and the like. There are limitations though:
There is also a handy rack on the street filled with straight, gay and lame publications for you to pick up and check out:
And if all this leather fetish nonsense isn't enough there is a rather nasty place further up the street called Zoo, or something Teutonic like that:
I have to rely on the word of friends who tell me you can meet perfect strangers here and take them home with you, if you like that sort of thing. It's not as seedy as the commercial parts of Amsterdam but you get the idea. They have a long "tasteful" spiel in the window if you need more clues and need to feel reassured that you can explore in comfort the more bored parts of your personality. Across the street is Virgilio's a clubby sort of bar and restaurant where everyone keeps their clothes on as far as I can tell, but I guess you might stand a chance of taking someone home from there too. Why else would you be in Key West? To enjoy the scenery? Only simpletons like me do that.
And then happily you pop out onto Duval Street:
And there's the cheerful converted cinema, formerly The Strand, now called Walgreens, selling sun tan lotion and mugs with "Key West" printed on the side. Not a leather jock strap in sight, and thus safe browsing for the most reticent of visitors. Caveat hospes!
When I was a child in England it wasn't at all uncommon to drive past clumps of vegetables on the outskirts of small towns. They were little gardens on common land called allotments a place for city dwellers to get back in touch with nature, and subsequently eat it. The little tool sheds were also, by reputation, places where manly men could go and do manly man types of things away from the eyes of their all seeing wives. You could smoke a pipe, sharpen a blade, read the sports pages, and not get interrupted. Which is something I don't suppose anyone needs to bring up in the context of the new community garden in back of May Sands School on United Street, not least because the tool shed is small enough a man standing in it might be grounds for calling the fire department to extricate him.
The garden is a thing of wonder to someone such as myself who is struggling to get vegetables to sprout at home. I was at May Sands doing a chore for my teacher wife when I spotted what had been a wasteland a few weeks ago. I had seen the raised beds going in but this was the first time I was exposed to such vigorous growth:
This tomato plant is about as big as I am:
And quite large enough to swallow a small boy whole:
His proud grandfather confided in me, when I expressed my unbridled envy of such prowess, that he too couldn't grow a tomato to save his life. His grandson though had become an avid gardener thanks to the communal plots behind May Sands School.
It was an educational experience wandering the rows of vegetables (and flowers) checking out techniques and ways of doing things:
I was particularly fascinated by the beds made of cement blocks. Where I had built movable beds out of plywood and planks they seemed simple and solid and offered a strange and interesting new way to plant, in the blocks themselves:
I like my wooden planters not least because they are portable as I am still looking for their final location around my house. No such doubts here apparently, and I will be back in the heat of summer to see what they are planting and what's growing. I saw a mother and two children picking up food as well as a woman silently and industriously plucking the evening meal out of the ground:
I hate to say it, but there something very un-Key West about the community garden. In a city where hedonism is the superficial prevailing culture there is something sturdily peasant like and not Key West about the food on the table culture of this garden. I felt less alone in my quixotic attempt to grow my own food when I stood in the midst of all this successful effort:
And there was no one to ask when I saw this, but I am glad someone is honoring this unknown gardener if he has anything at all to do with the creation of the project:
The sun was setting and it was getting time to go, but it was hard to tear myself away and I wasn't alone in that:
I checked the shed for unhappily married men but none were in evidence, and of course I admired the rain barrel collecting that precious rain water. Such a simple way to not waste water and so rare in the Keys, land of tropical rainfall:
I have no idea which architect deserves to be shot for designing the abomination that is May Sands School, a building that resembles a nightmarish nuclear bunker with all its cement and bizarre roof supports and impossible angles:
The building looks ugly but the garden has done a lot to cheer it up, make it look pretty in a way no architect seems able. Call it the Triumph of Nature.
An old road, barely more than a track that runs through the mangroves is meat and drink to me, a mouse for a mouser, the source of the Nile for Speake and Burton. I had to go see what was what. Trash was to be my portion, my reward for my curiosity:
Someone with a can of spray paint had taken the time to describe in some graphic detail how much better he was at certain acts than any woman could possibly be. It was left to me, not one to ignore a challenging thought, to wonder how lonely this Summerland man must be, to find himself just 25 miles from the fleshpots of Key West and reduced to this to get attention:
The trail wound it's way under a leaden sky, a muddy rocky trail underfoot and an unpromising sky overhead, full of gray foreboding:
Taken on foot the trail seemed long, but it's probably a half mile, easily ridden on a bicycle to a deep square pool of what appears to be freshwater, possibly an old quarry. The building in the distance sits alongside Highway One:
There were signs of trash all the way:
Until I turned a corner and came across the treasure trove!
This looked like an innocent wonderland to me, a place that would have ignited the imagination of a 13 year old me. I parked the bicycle and took a stroll:
The parental cry of frustration that rings across the Keys is that there is nothing for children to do in these islands. I have no children, I rejoice in that newly minted status described as "Child Free" yet in my memory I keep the seeds of a very active outdoor childhood. This collection of unused concrete pipes would have served me very well 38 years ago.
Upon my arrival at home in Italy from my English boarding school Diego and I (in the stylish hat) would have broken loose from the grip of his parents and my older sisters and we would have made slingshots for ourselves out of Y-shaped tree branches, bicycle inner tubes and patches of leather begged from the local shoe maker.
And we would have run through this splendid array of trash turning it into a wonderland worthy of the multi-colored plastic Ronald MacDonald. It even has its own enemy dirigible (the very innocent Fat Albert checking for intruders in the Straits of Florida):
I must be bacterium resistant after spending so much of my youth running around most unsanitary places. We had a blast. I was however alone on Summerland Key that afternoon free to wander and wonder. I have no doubt someone will be able to identify this reeking lump of rust:
Or this old trailer, I wonder how and why it found it's way out here to dissolve slowly into a pile of rust alongside a load of roofing tiles:
Of course I had to climb up and enjoy the view from atop the rusty heap. I may be 51 years old but I still feel some sort of kinship with the little boy pictured above. The view across the mangroves was hardly startling:
There was more artwork to admire among the ruined fort of my imagination:
While I was amusing myself taking pictures and enjoying the view someone was sneaking up on me. He turned tail and scooted as soon as I spotted him. Perhaps he was the author of the rude scribblings I found earlier. Or perhaps, even more titillating, he thought I was the author the doodles and he turned tail through the bushes to escape my horrid intent.
I made my way back through the trash to the start of this little adventure:
But when I looked up the street and spotted his broad brimmed hat the last I saw was the mystery cyclist pedaling hard to get away from the weird dude photographing rubbish.
Even the trash piled up in people's yards.
Travertine floors, granite counters and only one point two million dollars. Good luck securing that loan! I was pondering the value of my 800 square foot 400,000 dollar mortgage and the only similar home sold last year in my area was 912 square feet for $370,000, which annoyed my wife. Coldwell Banker has some other higher priced, not really comparable homes, but these are the listing prices not the sold price!
I'm just glad we can afford our mortgage still and we don't want to sell. Coldwell figures house prices have dropped about twenty one percent across the Keys, and around Summerland Key only ten percent which compares favorably to the national average of black hole plunges in value. However I think these statistics mask a little problem likely to rear it's head in 2009.
Here's the thing, and if my guess is correct 2009 is going to be anything but promising in Keys real estate. I have been wondering why prices have stayed so high when the real estate market has tanked so badly across the globe and I think Alt-A loans may be about to put paid to the anomaly. Alternative A loans were low interest loans for people with good credit scores, but like sub primes Alt-As were low interest only for a few years before zooming up in cost. The idea was to allow the better heeled to get into homes cheap and allow them to flip them or refinance them before the switch. It seems reasonable to imagine a lot of people wanting to invest in the Keys, land of perfect weather figured on getting a second home down here and if necessary selling off the surplus home as prices rose.Thus they have been able to hold off selling while the interest rate was low but now, with Alt As set to kick off higher rates I expect a wave of foreclosures as the second homes become financial liabilities.
I don't much like to make predictions, on the other hand it just seems bizarre to me that people (whose living depends on it) are making predictions of normality in a world going decidedly crazy. I don't see how anyone can figure that things will be back to normal, with available credit, busy businesses and flowing trade by next year. Certainly jobs in South Florida have evaporated. Everyone noticed that people spent the last weekend of January camped out in line to apply for 35 firefighter jobs in Miami. The Dade Fire Department announced they were cutting off applications after the first 750!
The other piece of news that fascinated me was that Florida's Republican Governor Charlie Crist has organized an office specifically to apply for stimulus funds from President Obama. The promise is that any Federal money sent to Florida will be put to work immediately, putting unemployed Floridians back to work. We're all Keynesians now! Especially when the state is running its own massive deficit, estimated between 5 and 9 billion dollars for Florida.
I did notice some potential good news on Summerland Key where my wife's favorite restaurant has been shuttered for months. Fishcutters may be coming back- not that we're sure what exactly it may be coming back as, and far less certain are we that whatever it is, it will sell the famous LBT-lobster bacon and tomato sandwiches which were a treat from Fishcutters for the lobster lover in my family. Its really good to see some construction rehab underway:
If the LBT doesn't materialize there will be something good and across the street the Mobil Station has the delights of Dions Fried chicken always for sale:
I think real estate will be a lot more affordable in a year in the Keys but that thought isn't going to staunch the flood of people leaving, because even though housing is finally dropping in price the money that has sustained the hospitality industry is drying up. I have a hard time figuring how the city and the school district will keep paying myself and my wife if property values and property taxes keep spiralling down. We live in interesting times, of that there is no doubt. 
Jim took me on a fabulous tour of Boca Chica which is the largest military facility in the Lower Keys. They train huge numbers of fighter pilots there with the most up to date facilities and it was a tremendous privilege to get to ride the Bonneville around the base. Things being the way they are photos aren't allowed, but I retain fond memories of Bombfarm Road, Old Highway One running through the middle of the base, the much lusted after bowling alley (the only one in the Keys!) and of course the astonishing main runway, a place whose size makes Key West "International" look very rural indeed. Thanks to Jim and his very flash V-Star for an excellent ride. 
I'm not sure which trees exactly are slated for destruction, perhaps all of the non natives, because the debate about their worthyness has returned to that intractable desire to maintain forests wherever they may be of native plantings only. And despite every tourist's ardent desire, coconut palms, among others, are not natives. Just as at Fort Zachary where casuarinas were the issue, supporters of palm trees argue their beauty outweighs their non native status:
Unlike Fort Zachary's pines which were spared after years of arduous debate, it looks as though the palms are going to be cut down. Perhaps it's their fate, but there is to be a discussion about this on Wednesday in the city commission and perhaps they will reveal which trees exactly are slated for destruction :
As I made clear in my essay on the cemetery, I like the palms, but these days what do I know? 
There is a house in the Lower Keys built after Hurricane Wilma flooded the islands, that developed a personal response to hurricane threats. It seems like a nice idea but horribly expensive.
It's a bit hard to photograph as the greenery is abundant and the front gate not very welcoming, and I am not one to go trespassing for the sake of a picture. The owner of this newly built home decided the vehicle was worth saving in the event there might be another flood. So the garage was built up in the air on the same level as the house:
I've pondered this idea a bit and though it isn't practical for me, lacking as I do the lot size or the money to build it, I wonder who exactly it is practical for. After all for a regular vehicle, even a Bonneville (gasp!) it makes more economic sense to replace the wheels than to pay to build an elevated garage with all the costs involved.
Parking one's car 15 feet above ground level (4.5meters) may have more to do with sentiment than hard headed economic sense. Me? I try to rent a ground level storage locker when a hurricane threatens for a modest $200 a month and put my machines there for good or ill...Good, so far. 
There is a canal alongside Highway One in this neighborhood that accommodates more of the commercial type boats and less of the recreational:
I'm not sure if this fisherman is tired of the lifestyle or unable to make a decent living but he has turned to selling the tools of his trade as ornaments:
It struck me as sad. 
But across the Overseas Highway, chicken done right is still going gangbusters:
I read a comment a while back that someone actually tried my recommendation and liked the fried chicken. I was quite surprised. This one is at Mile Marker 25, at the Mobil gas station ($2.11 for a gallon of regular). 
So much for getting my zincs and spark plugs here... Hurricane season is also a reminder that pretty soon the waters will be warm enough for swimming so I want my skiff ready to launch in a couple of months. Boyz N Their Toyz was all boarded up, boats on trailers for sale, everything despondent and abandoned:
Well I guess they hadn't been open that long and in this economic climate it's the longer established businesses that tend to hold on (sez I rationalising magnificently). However this company has been around for a while:
I'd like to think it's just the land up for sale but it doesn't look that way. And the space between those two businesses is also available:
Come on down the weather's lovely!
The good life, at least for the dog.
Bonnie Albury died in August of 2007 and I am still surprised by the thought that never again will she be calling Key West Police Dispatch. I never met Ms Albury, I never saw a photo of her during her long life in Key West, but her voice, that I knew, only too well sometimes. Bonnie Albury lived on Southard Street in a large white house which is now for sale. It is large and picturesque and that was a constant source of irritation for Ms Albury.
In a small town the police department inevitably gets to know a lot of the people in the jurisdiction, many of them want to label themselves as "characters" but others among us are genuine characters, and not necessarily eccentric. I heard tell that Ms Albury in her younger days had been a fierce and fiercely devoted teacher and students in Key West owed their intellectual accomplishments to her supervision. I also heard she tired of the teaching life and quit because it was an unruly way to earn a living even then.
Bonnie Albury was born after World War One into a name that is well known in the Keys and in the Bahamas too. Alburys are a big name in the Abacos and in Key West as they are merchants and have been boat builders of some repute. Ms Albury ended up living alone in the large family house in Key West, far too large for her needs. She guarded it fiercely and all members of the police department responded sooner or later to Ms Albury's demands for service. She was always polite, always firm but sometimes fierce if she thought she wasn't getting through.
It is my eternal regret that I never made the trek to her house during daylight hours but I lacked the nerve to knock on her door and introduce myself. After I was trained and moved to night shift, where I prefer to work, Ms Albury faded from my mind I have to admit. She was one of those early to bed early to rise people and though we heard from her a couple of times over the years, night shift usually deals with more pressing issues on the streets than errant photographers and fewer calls from querulous citizens who tend to be asleep (unless wakened by noise, then we hear from them, and how!). Ms Albury had a sense of humor and quite a memory, so on slow days I would try to keep her on the phone reminiscing about Key West. She tended to bark her orders and hang up. I felt like I had been hung up on by the Queen of England such was her presence.
Peter 
On the whole the plot was daffy but plausible enough. Neither the "device" nor the traitor who sold it played much of a role in the plot which was really a vehicle to explore friendship and the 
Driving home in the Nissan before dawn Thursday I had to pull over to fumble with the unfamiliar heater controls in the car. I accidentally fired up the air conditioner and I couldn't remember how to turn that off and replace it with necessary heat. The last time we used it was last December in North Carolina, but my wife was in charge of heat on the road trip and it took me a moment to figure out how to warm up the car (push the knob to the red. Doh!). The outside temperature gauge read 46 degrees Fahrenheit which is less than 8 degrees in new money. That is cold when you are used to 80 degrees/27C. 
The good news, when I awoke six hours later and crawled out from under a heap of every blanket we own, was that there was sunshine. That same cloudless sky that allowed all the warmth to drift up into the stratosphere was making for a glorious, bright winter day. One pair of socks was not enough so I pulled another pair on top of that and contemplated heading out in the brisk north wind. The outside temperature gauge under the house read 58 degrees (14C) and it didn't even feel that warm. Nevertheless I wheeled the bicycle out and decided I had to make an effort. Besides, sitting at the computer reading about wonky economics and unhappy people worldwide wasn't doing my mood any good. I rode north to the pool.
Even in winter, when the water temperature is 70 degrees, there are some fruitcakes that come out and sit on the rock hard "beach" and take swims in the little salt tidal inlet that constitutes the "park." Aside from a trash can and and a gravel open space "parking lot" there are no amenities here which suits me (and lots of others) just fine. I have to confess I am losing my faith in the will of our leaders to do anything radical about our economic woes and the continued news of bankers and their poxy proxies continuing to line their pockets at our expense fills me with rage and a bicycle ride is a fine antidote to the wilful inability of our new president to follow through and bring a new economic attitude to our nation's capital. I shouldn't be surprised, he got donations from the same skanky investors who always pay to get their candidates into office, the ones who enjoyed a 150 million dollar inaugural party. The pool was looking delightfully unattended in the brisk afternoon sun:
I'm figuring that as time goes by and we print money to fund a stimulus that will do nothing more than patch the gaping holes of an economy in endless decline we will all have to find our own amusements, after we have gone through the tedious business of completing all the chores we will need to do to stay alive. In that respect I plan to take advantage of living on the water and enjoying the views and hell, perhaps even learning how to fish and fillet. It's all in the attitude I guess, so I will enjoy it all.
It's hard to maintain a grumbly attitude on a day like this, especially knowing that decent people in British Columbia are getting snow and fog and general nasty dampness. Plus we have a new head of the CIA who is decidedly opposed to torture and now with Associate Justice Ginsburg revealing, as it were, a very nasty cancer, perhaps the President will show us his ability to appoint a new attitude on the Supreme Court. There's no doubt his economic advisers want more of the same wasteful spending of our money, and it irks me mightily to see that. But the sun is out: 
Perhaps a gigantic financial meltdown really is the only way to get re-started, though I cannot begin to imagine the pain we shall be forced to endure, not only here but across the world where people have a lot less than us to start with. Perhaps on second thoughts they, who have less of an entitlement attitude will do better than we shall. Perhaps, on third thoughts, not: especially when their meager rations get cut even more to feed our political demand for this ridiculous ethanol.
Ah yes, Thursday was a glorious day in the Keys. My wife said she loved me before she left for work, I'm not even missing the Triumph as it's so bloody cold and my job for now seems secure even as the city mandates no overtime and tries to figure a way to enforce such a rule when public safety is at stake. Who knows, perhaps I'm wrong and President Obama will carefully and subtly put a collar on the financial shenanigans and for once my gloomy prognostications about politicians in general and some in particular won't be borne out. The anti mosquito canals filled with water in the thunderstorm we had earlier in the week. No sign of the mosquito eating fish though:
I had left overs for lunch, and burned not a drop of ethanol to get these pictures. I hope their immoral bonuses choke them, I'm having a "no dollar day" off work.
Carsten Lane is become a bitter disappointment to me. First it used to have a messed up name and it was impossible to tell if it was supposed to be Carsten, or in the plural Carstens because the signs at William and Margaret Streets couldn't agree. Nowadays they seem to agree on the singular. Very boring:
We still have it listed in our computer aided dispatch as Carstens, long may it stay in confusion. Worse than that is the fact they have cleaned up the back of the old Harris School and now the lane is wide open to the northwest and any air of dark and forest-like mystery has been lost to efficiency:
I mentioned the Harris School in a previous essay (30 November 2008) and it seems no one wants to buy the building, nor the huge chunk of land it sits on so here it is, all cleared and ready for unbridled development. Meanwhile Carsten(s) Lane is no longer a shady jungle of growth, overpowered by the building that used to be occupied by the MARC House.Now its just a one sided alley, but at least it's only the middle piece. The opening off William Street still retains some of that closed in look I am so fond of:
And the overgrown bit still curves wildly as it always has:
Of course there is still a chance that you can rent a house, rent a bicycle and enjoy looking out without missing a thing:
Then there are the attempts at beautification which looks really nice, all symmetrical and tidy and stuff and in the middle of it there is one of those bizarre signs. I wonder why anyone imagines that some dolt who lets their dog crap all over a flowerbed is going to be put off by a vivid little sign:
Besides the sign spoils the effect, but there we are. These signs are all over the place because too many people who walk their dogs, and there are tons of them in Key West, don't pick up after them. I swore after my last dog died I wasn't picking up after anybody's dog ever again, I had bagged tons of the stuff over the years. Twelve years of that is enough and I don't envy people like this lady shown below walking a large, doubtless productive, animal, though I'm sure she was amply armed with plastic bags:
There are better maintained homes on Carstens Lane too,
And there are the castles in the air, with all their different living levels,
And there are projects jealously guarded:
Margaret Street leads away past the ravaged Harris school block which is wide open on that side too:
But taken at a slightly different angle things really don't look so bad, especially if there is a Bonneville in the foreground:
It was a gray afternoon, overcast and promising rain, which never materialized, so I looked up from where I was standing contemplating change and how annoying it is:
Very apocalyptic I'm sure but it's just a photographic illusion. 
There used to a Harley Davidson dealer on Truman Avenue called Hornes, but the old man got tired and decided it was time to retire. MamaJoe's, an old fashioned H-D repair shop in Marathon closed last year as well. Aside from the myriad scooter shops around Key West there are two motorcycle dealers, the Honda shop on Southard Street run by a Conch known for his extremely eccentric business style, and the more professional Yamaha shop on North Roosevelt which is strictly a Yamaha only shop. Boots Scoots, an independent repair shop gave it a try on Fourth Street but the owner got ill apparently and had to close. Bones cycles is now a scooter rental shop on North Roosevelt. Jiri at Stock Island Cycles on Laurel Avenue keeps on keeping on:
He's a busy man, now that he runs the shop by himself after his former partner dropped by the wayside and Jiri the entrepreneur takes care of everything. He hired his own assistant, a shadowy figure working on a scooter on one of the lifts:
Jiri chats with customers, takes appointments...and wrenches on bikes as well:
Like any self respecting old fashioned motorcycle shop Jiri's place is partly a social gathering spot, partly a repair place and partly also a showroom to look at different motorcycles on this variety starved island, even if they aren't for sale:
Jiri (pronounced: hee-ree) grew up in communist run Czechoslovakia before emigrating to the US in 1996 and ending up on Stock island doing what he knows best: fixing motorcycles. His hobby is racing and he has his own bike that he trailers up to Homestead for track days. He also gets to test ride customer bikes of course and he has a variety:
Jiri remembers going to watch motorcycle races at the Grand Prix circuit at Brno, before the Berlin wall came down, and he, along with his buddies, would check out the huge touring motorcycles ridden east from West Germany, and they would gawp, all envious as only small boys can be, and never imagined that he could ever ride, never mind own a machine like those sophisticated BMW's. "Now I fix them!" he grinned, surrounded by Western motorcycling decadence and enjoying every minute of it.
Jiri likes Japanese motorcycles for their reliability, but he works on anything he can order parts for and he has dealers in South Florida happy to ship him parts, including Pure Triumph in Fort Lauderdale. 
Pick up service is possible though I coordinate with my wife when I drop off the Trumpet, as she works half a mile away and she lets me borrow her Vespa if the bonneville is getting a tune up... Wandering the rows of tired and needy old motorbikes is always an experience at Island Cycles. I saw another of those typically Cuban rolling memorials: 
And typically southernmost-proud bumper stickers:
Locating Island Cycles (305 292 5444) is a bit of a trick, but the best way is to take the Highway out of Key West and at the flashing yellow lights turn south, past the Coral Hammock development, then take the first left towards Murray Marine. Jiri is next to the defunct propeller shop on Laurel Avenue . In the distance one can see Highway One running alongside the trees that line the Key West Golf Course:
Having Jiri's shop makes Key West feel somehow less remote when it comes to riding a motorcycle every day. Technical back up is no bad thing at all for a daily rider.
Here's something completely different, a lane that isn't in the historic old town part of Key West. Seidenberg Lane is a kind of alleyway that runs parallel to Seidenberg Avenue, which in turn parallels the main cross town street called Flagler, and while all these streets are paralleling themselves across New Town, little Seidenberg Lane goes almost unnoticed, not surprising when it starts off this busy street, imaginatively called First:
From the hustle and bustle of homeward bound commuters to the little lane was a complete transformation, old world Key West in full force:
Imagine that,kids just hanging out in the street (the lane actually) playing like we used to when I was small decades ago. There were adults keeping an eye on them from open doors (this is winter and thus considered not steaming hot) and I rolled very slowly through their midst. But such is the all pervasive influence of the pernicious television that I am sure I'd be taken for a pervert were I to stop and talk so I took a couple of surreptitious pictures and left them to it. I mean do they do this in your neighborhood streets, even in summer? 
Well, maybe they do this sort of outdoor playing Up North but all I hear is the lamentation that streets aren't safe for children anymore which seems a shame to me. Being outside was the best part of my unhappy youth. Be that as it may Seidenberg Lane gets very interesting (to a nerd like me) after it crosses Second Street:
It becomes a grassy alley, and considering the shortage of lawns in the Keys I'm surprised some enterprising Conch hasn't set up a goat to graze on a chain down here. As it was the grass was mown and I had the alley to myself, me and tall fences of various sorts:
Looking back the lane was bathed in a sort of light that brings to mind the long summer evenings of northern latitudes, especially with those kids playing in the alley. I couldn't believe it when one of them started twirling a hula hoop, like she thought it was 1950!
Not all of the lane was fenced in and I got to peak a little bit and even though this isn't the fashionable old town neighborhood beloved of the trolley tours I enjoy the views:
And then we have the eternal side yard projects:
Eventually the lane dead ends unceremoniously into Fourth Street, no signs, not even any clear markings of any kind. If you didn't know it was there you wouldn't find out by looking:
And after I had walked in a small circle to see if indeed the lane continued through someone's yard to a more natural conclusion on Fifth Street, which is a main artery, I turned around and strolled back. The kids were still playing in the light of the setting sun:
And all was right with the world. As long as you don't read the financial pages...
To say Park Key is a wide spot in the Overseas Highway would be exaggerating. Park Key consists of two signs, one at Park Channel and the other at North Harris Channel which pretty much defines this tiny uninhabited Key. And there's another exaggeration, it's not totally uninhabited:
At the spot along the highway where I stopped to take a quick stroll I found numerous spiders building cobwebs. I have no idea, as usual, what they are called but they are little square buggers, very industrious, who look like they are built of armoured plating. Their webs shone in the sunlight which made them easy to duck and avoid, but they and a few birds are the only residents of the half mile long Park Key. The island is basically a causeway connecting the two arms of Sugarloaf Key but it does have one small sort-of-turn out, which county public works has done it's best to make totally unfriendly:
The thing is, every time I ride by here in the dark my peripheral vision flashes a reflection or two back at me and I get this anxious feeling like something white with the word "Sheriff" could be parked here; an anxiety inducing feeling as the speed limit on this section of highway is a soporific 45 miles per hour...so I figured perhaps I would stop thinking about it if I took a short walk and explored the mysterious little area:
Of which there isn't too much to explore, just a gravel path through the shrubbery to the water's edge...
...which on a bright sunny winter afternoon at 80 degrees (27C) looked quite lovely:
They are quite obsessed about not parking here for some reason, and it verges on mania in my opinion because about the only thing that could get out here to get parked would be a skinny bicycle and I can't think why they would be worrying about that. Perhaps they have surplus quantities of "No Parking" signs to distribute around the county. Or perhaps they are worried about some half wit actually trying to use the old and very distressed boat ramp here:
So I stood there feeling all illegal and everything, neither using the boat ramp nor dumping trash but simply admiring the views off towards the west and Sugarloaf Lodge:
Or the not entirely dissimilar view to the east which is where Sugarloaf Middle school sits invisible somewhere among these mangroves:
And off to the north, barely visible sat a houseboat. I've seen it there for months and on a day like this the lifestyle looked enviable:
The boat was so far away my telephoto lense was hard pressed to pick up the boat, and it's Jolly Roger snapping in the breeze:
Back on land busy people were busy torturing themselves alongside the traffic:
And I had a motorcycle to ride:
Yes I know the road is all straight but it is still a great ride and now when I flash by after work in the dark early morning hours, I will have a better idea of what that white reflection is in my peripheral vision. Unless it's a Deputy Sheriff, lurking. 
All these pictures were taken between 2:30 am and three am yesterday, in the early stages of a vicious winter cold front, at great personal risk. Temperatures were hovering around 59 degrees Fahrenheit (14C) and the wind was howling out of the north causing the skin to tingle and the eyes to water. I started out on the more or less northwest side of the island Trumbo Point known in the bad old days as the Toxic Triangle. It got that nickname thanks to the power plant outflow from the Steam plant which is now struggling to become luxury three million dollar condos. The fresh clean waters of the toxic triangle were fairly calm in the 35 mile per hour gusts of wind out of the north:
Heading towards Duval on streets swept clear of humans by the freezing winds I spotted one of Paula's preferred lunch spots, B.O.'s. She agrees with me its an expensive place to get a sandwich but she is not deterred from her occasional treat. I used to work across the street and the smell of grilling and frying fish from Buddy Owen's open air restaurant used to give me pangs. Not so in the dead of night when all is cold and quiet:
Simonton Beach is a favorite hang out in the middle of the night, when I want a quick fix of fresh salt air. The beach closes at 11 pm but a quick stop in the early morning hours allows one to enjoy the sand and the pier without the incessant horde of residentially challenged that cluster on the beach in daylight hours. With north winds blowing through the harbor there was some modest wave action:
The wind was howling round the corner of the Pier House causing my motorcycle to shiver,which was inconvenient as I was using it to prop up my gorilla pod and camera. It took six different exposures to get one that was somewhat focused:
The cold front whistled across the Keys Friday morning, bringing a mass of rolling black clouds with it. When I got up at noon Friday it was a warm day, sunny and humid with the promise of the front to come. West winds gave way to northwest winds and a sudden surge of raindrops splattered my house and the temperature dropped from 79 degrees (27C) to less than 70 (21C) in the space of twenty minutes. Then the rain stopped, but only after I rode into Key West all bundled up in waterproofs and grinning madly at the wind blown adventure. For those without shelter the cold is a fact of life that has to be endured:
At the Conch Train Depot on Front Street I found a party tray left out by an absent minded entertainer.It was cold enough the cheese and carrots did not appear to be decomposing:
A while back, January 14th, Doug C in Ohio (see my Web list) ran a picture of a car in a blizzard with a Mile Marker Zero bumper sticker showing through the snow: 
It was nearing the end of my lunch break so I took Fleming Street east out of downtown. The bars were closing early many of them, as Key West drinkers tend to be wussies when it comes to cold weather, and the sidewalks tend to get rolled up early. So I put the gorilla pod in the middle of Fleming Street, as one does, and avoiding cars turning off Duval took a quick exposure:
Then a quick turn onto Simonton Street with another turn outbound on Olivia and I passed a couple of proper Conch cottages before I realised I had to stop and photograph at least one. This one was all buttoned up against the cold:
And so, back to work.
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