.
It occurs to me that this blog is called Key West Diary but lately what with one thing and another I seem to have been focused on everything but Key West! So I decided this was the week to engage in a photo essay on My Home Town.
I took my lunch break and rode downtown to see what might present itself in the few square blocks around the infamous Duval Street, Mallory Square, and out to Key West Bight. I think my splendid Bonneville makes a fitting contrast to the much lamented sleazy t-shirt shops that litter downtown Key West.
Another downtown encumbrance that drives locals nuts is the dreaded 5mph Conch Train. The 90-minute tour is actually very informative and can be fun. I recommend it- but generally to visitors with half a brain (and pecs to match).
Other annoyances include cruise ships, that tower over downtown, but bring in millions of dollars to the city; lots of conflicting ideals there! 
And what we in the Police Department call "local subjects." 
This one was picking his scabs on the wall at the Pez Garden, the local name for the Sculpture Garden, which features the sculpted heads of notable dead Conchs. 
Architecturally one wonders why the old Strand Theater, 527 Duval, had to become a mere facade housing a modern, 24-hour, drugstore.
But parts of Key west can be viewed through a camera lens to resemble New Orleans, in all its wrought iron glory. 
Or the federally designed Customs House, now a museum, but sporting a pitched roof designed to slough off the snows generated along the Canadian Border. The Art Museum is currently showing a series of statues offering three dimensional views of well known impressionist pictures. The outside statue is 20 feet tall.
Getting around all this culture can be chaotic, wise visitors and residents use two wheels, pedalled or powered and the city offers lots of dedicated parking. Some people brave downtown with large clunky heffalumps, others with diminutive putt-putts:
Duval Street never looks as alluring in my pictures as it does in real life. The street bustles with pedestrians and cruising cars, including electric rentals,
Narrow lanes like Appelrouth offer shade and a custom leather store to make your cod piece to measure. Leathermaster may just be what you are looking for, but for me it used to be Martin's German Restaurant until it moved to fancy digs on Duval.
Even major thoroughfares like Whitehead Street can get jammed
and it takes Key West's finest, including my buddy Monica, to help keep things flowing.
But the smartest shoppers of all stay on foot and keep close to the action. I have never understood the fascination of plastic mass produced "souvenirs."
These folks are a common sight, poring over a street map, though these Germans attracted my camera 
with their pooch poured into his backpack on an 80 degree December afternoon. Then there is more fancy architecture to sample
followed by a crumbling storefront on Fitzpatrick. Would you buy your souvenir jewelry at this decrepit wreck?
Its a common story in Key West, they showed up for a vacation and stayed for a lifetime. 
Lots of people love the bars like Hogs Breath, which offer al fresco drinking and lots of toasted new best friends. They aren't the sort of friends to build new relationships on, generally.
For some unhappy tourists, motorcycle parking spaces aren't enough and a short attention span can garner a $25 fine.
The city thanks you, as the budget is tenuous these days. A last look down Duval, 
a quick run by Key West Bight Waterfront and the Key Lime Christmas Tree with the square rigger masts in the background. 
Very festive! Then on to my favorite neighborhood, The Meadows, quiet leafy streets, like Albury Street,
that look like Old Town but aren't, and across Truman back to the office and a passing salute from Sgt Blasberg who is in charge of our Motor Division. He wished me Happy Holidays, as one does, but called me his friend and I felt honored. Frank is a cool dude, a devoted father and someone who has served overseas and he is thoroughly nice.
And there ends my quick lunch break around My Town. It was fun. I'll have to do it again some time.
The Tropic Cinema is on the four hundred block of Eaton Street, between Whitehead and Duval, more or less equidistant from St Paul's Cathedral and the main Post Office, symbolic perhaps of the Art house theater's role part way between commercial enterprise and spiritual retreat.
The theater is a not-for-profit organization founded at the end of the last century to bring classic movies to Key West. It started out using borrowed space in art galleries and the splendid San Carlos theater whose Cuban managers seemed to be rather bemused sometimes by the films they showed in their baroque building. I loved going to the movies at the San Carlos, they breathed life into the former Cuban consulate on Duval Street, at least for the Friday, Saturday and Sunday night shows of the nascent Key West Film Society. 
The society got a 35-year lease on the Eaton street property and started building a modern three screen theater for $1.2 million dollars in 2003. Jean Carper an anti-aging nutrition author has apparently made a fortune peddling her diet advice and put up $200,000 of the cash and got to name the main screening room in honor of her late mother:
Natella Carper had a penchant for the flickers apparently and now she has her name in red neon like a marquee. But the Tropic is growing despite the parlous financial times we live in and there are plans to open a fourth, 48 seat screening room as an addition to the current theater:
The Tropic is a membership organization and members get discount rates ($6 versus $9 to see a movie) and various invitations to special events. My wife and I have been members since early on but we decided a while back to upgrade our membership to $600 a year which gives us both free access to the movies year round. I guess the idea that we might watch a movie a week for an entire year seems a lot and it probably is, but the real idea is to support the society.
We've always viewed the Tropic not only as a source of decent quality films but as a downtown refuge, a place to hangout in, and that got difficult over the past year when the Board hired staff members who viewed the Tropic as purely a business. We dropped out. New management, a more focused Board and we are back and happy to be in the theater again. Lori a dear friend has been promoted to manager and she has restored the theater to a convivial place to gather:
The theater boasts lots of movie memorabilia in the lobby, which these days is a bit truncated by the new screening room construction:
The society offers the usual lines of clothing...
...DVDs
They also show DVDs in the lobby to keep up the ambiance:
And the place is ankle deep in posters and the like:
They have left up one sign from the Commissars of the Ancien Regime, but it's not as draconian as it might first appear. The Regal in Searstown used to have a policy of not allowing bags, to avoid bombs going off in the theater, they said, but the tropic is a different kind of theater:
I like to spend money at the concession stand, for two reasons. One is I am supporting my preferred cultural outlet and the other is that they have an astonishing variety of food, with candies priced at a buck and a medium soda for just three dollars, so it's no great hardship to spend a little money here.
Zabar's Coffee is, I am reliably informed, a well know coffee in New York, and i like it well enough. Some times one needs something a little stronger at the movies:
New Yorkers have their coffee at the Tropic, Mid-Westerners get their beef:
The rest of us get dollar Snickers and Key Lime Pie on a stick for a few dollars more:
Not forgetting popcorn for all:
And now dogs are allowed back into the Tropic. The problem of dog ownership and going to the movies can get onerous in South Florida. It's hard to find a cool spot to park the car, cool enough to leave a dog inside in the summer if you live out of town. Plus it tends to rain without warning and leaving the windows open in summer guarantees a soaked interior. Much better to be able to bring the dog with you to the movies:
From the early days of the film society with Michael Shields, the future has always been one of making enough money to keep going and building on what he started the Tropic seems to be doing well. There are dozens of creative ways to raise money and named plaques are everywhere in the theater. I'd have happily paid $250 to get my name here had I thought of it and had my wife not thought me mad to want to stick my name above a urinal:
there are theater seats still available for plaques I believe. Management is also getting to show more mainstream films, movies that draw in patrons not devoted to movies with subtitles. The new Star Trek movie showed at the Tropic and the Tom Hanks/Ron Howard religious thriller Angels and Demons is also getting an airing at the Tropic.
Unlike the Regal this is an adult theater where using cell phones and talking in the movies really is frowned on. All that and a glass of wine too.
A great place to hang out. I'm glad the Tropic is back and going from strength to strength. Their website is in my Web Links list.
I got a few grazes on my elbow through the jacket and on my fingers, through the leather gloves I was also wearing, but my back was saved by the armor in the jacket which showed a few scuff marks there:
My boots saved my feet though i got a nice bruise and an ache on one ankle, though no broken skin there happily. It was my legs that took the worst blows and I have a few scabs and gouges on my knees, which had I been wearing these pants would probably have been avoided:
Tourmaster's Flex pants ($170) had been on my mind for a while but the Fort Lauderdale shop didn't have them in stock so I hit the ground without them...Tough I guess but there it is. I am quite fond of Tourmaster products, reasonably priced and apparently effective. These are the first dedicated motorcycle pants I have ever owned (in 39 years of riding!) and though they are hardly fashionable they look like they will do a nice job. For the climate prevalent in the Keys they are mesh with armor but have leg covers that simply zip on for added wind protection:
Just like the Intake jacket...
...the Flex pants come with a set of padded liners that keep you warm, warmer than I will likely ever need if I only ride in South Florida in winter:
But they also come with what is for me, much more useful: waterproof liners:
And both layers can be added together or separately inside the mesh pants and jacket. But, not content, I have added an extra layer to the pants, and this one came out of an aerosol can:
As an experiment I added a whole bunch of silicon spray to the outer pant legs, the ones that come unzipped from the mesh base.
My thinking is that if I get caught in some rain waterproofing the outer shell will help keep me dry enough to get home on my commute, but if I face heavy rain I can retrieve the waterproof liners from my saddlebags to keep me dry. To that end i also carry expensive Aerostich boot and gloves covers, at $50 each they keep my extremities warm and dry, and because I've had them a while they got some silicon spray too:
Add to this my spare summer riding gloves to replace my torn ones, a new face shield for my flip up full face helmet (I was wearing my half face at the time of the accident though my head never touched anything) and then an added coat of silicon spray for my Triumph boots and I am ready to ride, should I ever get the Triumph back! It's a lot of stuff to be dealing with which is why from time to time I just jump on the bike and ride. For people who make the motorcycle a weekend activity, an occasional thing, it must be hard to understand how someone like me just gets on and goes to the store, or visits a friend as casually as though I were driving the car. That is the profound pleasure of the motorcycle as my daily machine, it is atrue car substitute for me. People wouldn't drive if they felt they had to wear all this paraphenalia every single time. And that goes for motorcycles too I guess.
There are a few fast food restaurants in Key West, Burger King, MacDonald's, Wendy's, Checkers all come to mind. The absence of certain fondly remembered fast food chains in Key West is the source of constant lamentation in certain quarters. My wife and I enjoy PF Chang's Chinese food when we got to Miami, or genuine California-style Mexican food in the farming town of Homestead, but I am not one to lie awake at night dreaming of Arby's or Hardee's (known as Carl's Junior in California). However I cannot tell a lie because there is one chain I miss:
Not every day you understand but once in every while I wouldn't mind a burger in a bun with fries cut from real potatoes:
In Key West there is much gnashing to teeth at the shortage of national chains, in defiance of the rest of the world which is fighting the good fight for good nutrition and Slow Food. Locals want to see Olive Garden and the like in Key West, TGIF and Outback apparently aren't enough. But there is one fast food outlet that sits on a side street and looks after the sweet teeth of key west away from the glare of the hospitality industry:
Ah yes, where would Key West be without Dairy Queen? Perish the thought! Visitors frequently say they want to experience Key west as though they were locals, and this is the place to do it, on the 1200 block of United Street, just a stone's throw from White Street and Glynn Archer Elementary school.
This is where you come to get hot dogs and soft serve ice cream. You get your sprinkles on top and say Hi! to your neighbors. My wife says soft serve is an abomination and if she is going to splurge on calories it had better be with top grade premium ice cream that speaks to her yuppie heart. Ben and Jerry's for her, not DQ.
Well,she may be right, but there was a time when I worked with people who did not share her opinion and despite my resistance ( I am a Flamingo Crossing fan), my co-workers persuaded me to take a fifteen minute break and ride down to DQ, five minutes from the police station (as is almost anywhere in the city) and load up my top case with Blizzard milk shakes. Off I went, obedient to the desires of my colleagues and always happy to hit the road be it ever so briefly with my Vespa GTS. In the meantime my wife called up and Noel announced brightly: "Oh he's gone to Dairy Queen to get some milk shakes!" That is not what I call covering for a friend who is busy on a caloric subterfuge, and I never heard the end of it. As a result, since then I have left Dairy Queen to the Conchs and their children:
It may not be In-N-Out but DQ has it's place in the cosmos, with a red sign promising calories and comfort by the side of the road:
Find it if you can and suck up a Blizzard all the while pretending to be a local. Don't expect to find my Bonneville in the parking lot though.
Seen from the ferry the low brick structure surrounding the fort is barely visible. But seen close up it is clearly an engineering feat on it's own terms:
Seen at sunset, above and the moat seen from the bridge at the entrance to the fort, below: 
In the picture above the moat is at it's widest, separating the walls of the fort from what the Park Service is pleased to call the "Day Use Area" and, closer to the trees, the "Overflow Camp Sites" if the main camp sites are all full. 
The moat was originally designed to keep attacking boats away from the walls themselves because those tricky enemies might load them up with explosives and drive them into the fort walls to blow them up. The moat would prevent that sort of dastardly attack. 
As seen from the top of the fort the moat wall has, on certain sides of the building, collected dunes of sand that have washed up against the outer wall. Thus the moat also keeps the motion of the ocean itself away from the fragile base of the brick fort.
The same spot seen from below shows how substantial the land accumulation has become on this, the eastern side of Fort Jefferson. Further to the north the moat itself has become filled with sand creating a rather pleasant, protected beach, not that swimming is allowed here or in the moat itself, but I don't see how one could be prevented from enjoying the sandy expanse...
Of course walking the moat is one of the pleasures of visiting Fort Jefferson, which at 70 miles (110kms) east of key west is the most isolated National park in the United States. All visitors should walk the moat, and those lucky enough to be camping or visiting on their own boats can take the time to circumnavigate the fort after the crowds who came by ferry have departed. They leave at 2:45pm so there is plenty of time to enjoy the moat. 
I took the time to swim out along the moat wall on the outside but I have to say I didn't find it that interesting, certainly not as interesting as the coral heads further to the west. I guess it depends on your expectations. 
But I think, in the final analysis, moats themselves are objects of a certain fascination in a country too new to ever have been involved in medieval European siege warfare, so the moat at Fort Jefferson, still fully functional has the merit of being unique in most visitor's experience:
Taken like that it could be a crusader castle in the Levant. Not a National Park in Florida.
I imagine there are a fair number of people on Big Pine Key who aren't too fond of J.C. Watson, a man credited with reviving the expiring breed of deer known as Key Deer, which currently thrive on Big Pine and the Torch Keys. Key Deer are known to their critics as "small white deer," where biologists tell us the little deer are actually a sub species of the white deer genus. In any event Key Deer are one of those species that take precedence over development, and that includes construction on individual lots, which creates friction when people feel their needs are taking second place to an animal they'd rather eat than preserve.
And let me tell you they are not the dainty creatures you might imagine- I heard this little doe clumping around in the silver palms long before she appeared in the open, where she paused long enough for me to shoot her... with my pocket Nikon. J.C. Watson must have had his work cut out for him.
His legacy lives on in a splendidly well organized Nature Trail almost a mile long. I did as I was told though this might not have been the trunk the sign writers envisioned:
My clumping size eleven dinner plates sounded for all the world like a regiment of infantry on maneuvers, or a large child chowing down on an even larger bowl of cereal. I went crunch-crunch-crunch as I strolled through the silence of the pine forest.
It was a quite glorious evening and I was revelling in the silence (aside from my feet) and the incredible skies. I love the big sky of the Florida Keys and even though it isn't quite yet summer the heavens are starting to show signs of heavy dark clouds so typical of the rainy season here:
The trail wound its way through a variety of trees and shrubs that grow in the higher, drier ground of a tropical hammock. The buttonwood, very similar to a black mangrove, tortured and twisted as though in agony:
And on the drier ground the long straight trunks of the slash pines that are growing at the southern limit of their range:
There are other plants worth knowing, including the rather nasty poison wood tree, known across the Caribbean as the manchineel (man-chin-eel) which has some profoundly irritating sap. It's easily identified by the black splotches on the trunk: 
and the leaves:
There are stories of travelers in the tropics of taking refuge from sudden downpours under manchineel trees, and coming out from under the tree with their skin in a pitiably reddened state, such is the strength of the poison in the sap- it will react with the skin even when watered down by rain. I try to avoid it. Then of course there are other less noxious plants properly labelled:
This I think is Cat's Claw:
And this should be Blackbead: 
but I continue to insist I am no botanist, so I offer these up in hopes that I have it more or less right . Besides which I am not that terribly keen on labeling things all the time and birdwatchers and plant aficionados always seem to feel the need to stick a label on things and then record the sighting. I am more of a wanderer. Here's another one:
Much to my astonishment I peered into the "muddy area" in the low spot, and damned if there weren't tracks of some mysterious, and likely deadly predator:
On reflection I suspect they may have been the most un-ferocious Key Deer.
However I did actually find the edges of the trail, and irritatingly said trail showed signs of continuing on into the mysterious West, however managers of this natural resource have decided that the rest of us aren't fit to see the delights beyond the sign:
But I do have to give credit to the sanctuary managers; they provided a very nice map of their resources on Big Pine Key, which was a somewhat eccentric location as I was already where the map was guiding me to:
And all that remained was for me to get on the Bonneville and take off down Key Deer Boulevard, while keeping it down to a sedate 30-ish miles per hour. Sheriff's deputies are positively ferocious when it comes to enforcing the speed limit on this long (5 miles) straight road.
A cool southeasterly breeze, no mosquitoes and a sun that doesn't set till almost 8pm. A perfect time to explore beyond the boundaries of the city of Key West.
When I wrote about Leon Street recently I noted that someone like me who likes to commute enjoys trying to find different routes to work. As my ride to work has to be down Highway One the variations on the daily theme come into play in Key West. The fast and obvious route to the police station from the triangle is down North Roosevelt, but approaching from South Roosevelt along the scenic route along Smathers Beach puts me on White Street. One of my preferred turns is onto Duncan Street, no least because I like the green wall pictured above.
A walk along Duncan Street looking east of a summer's afternoon lengthens the shadows most delightfully:
And as I arrive at work around ten minutes before six post meridian, this is the view I generally get to see, long shadows and chiaroscuro contrasts:
I like noticing that in Key West mundane bike racks get well used:
One would like to think the volume of bicycles in a residential neighborhood might reduce dependence on off-street parking. Fat chance:
Duncan is narrow and short and it packs lots to see in the blocks just off White Street. Well, lots to see if you have modest ambitions like me. A tall dude walking a small dog:
A vine covered cottage:
A mansion (Key West sized mansion) for sale:
And of course, another example of outdoor living:
I found this sign somewhat amusing in light of the vehicles crowding it out:
I found no signs of Art at work but before I turned the camera off I found some wild decorations on a car port:
And Nature adds it's own artistic effect to the little street:
Call it neighborhood pride but someone added a flower bed to the base. 
It is a whole bunch of developments imaginatively called:
And happily decay and decadence is already penetrating the manicured perfection of the place:
They drove out Houseboat Row so this place could get built and overlook Cow Key Channel without being bothered by little people living on boats.In that, they were only partly successful:
The complex has bunches of high rise buildings grouped around a central traffic circle (roundabout):
There's the Grand Key Hotel equipped they say with a nice pool and bar open to locals at no hassle:
Las Salinas consists of more-or-less affordable apartments: 
And the newer Seaside Court apartments lining the entrance off South Roosevelt Boulevard:
These are not designated affordable, not in the least. They were charging something like 1.4 million dollars when land speculation was at it's height a few years ago and these units are not terribly spacious. Imagine paying that much for an apartment you use but a few weeks of the year...
But they are within spitting distance of saltwater:
I had planned to do a little exploring especially as I like to know the lay of the land when I'm at work sending officers out to these places in the middle of the night. But peeking through the gates gave me the idea that short of a few Stepford Wives there wouldn't be much to see:
I should have liked to have seen whatever it was that caused these spectacular skid marks...
I was quite cheered up to see an actual person walking an actual dog in this place:
If anyone has a notion to buy into this community there is a real estate office ready to serve on the premises:
There is also a deli in the little business complex next to the traffic circle:
In looking at the building and then the sign advertising it's presence I find it to be a perfect irony that the symbol they use, a houseboat, had to be destroyed to make way for this clump of buildings:
Houseboat Row is gone: long live the memory of houseboat row!
Fifteen miles per hour was too slow to escape this manicured place.
It's hard to imagine I know but I will be thinking of this place from time to time as I immerse myself in my vacation in Italy. 
The black phone on the wall offers a direct link to dispatch:
The lobby is where people wait if they need to meet an officer and at night that's the only reason to come by here. The Records office where you can pick up a report is only open during the day:
As is the property office on the opposite side of the lobby for people to pick up lost property handed in to police officers:
Sometimes people think it's quicker to come to the police station to make a report but we don't usually keep a stash of officers in the building, they are busy out patrolling the streets. Much better to call and have an officer sent to a place where you can wait comfortably, if it's a matter of simply making a report. The upshot is that frequently at night we dispatchers have the building to ourselves, and the corridors of power are sealed to the outside and empty on the inside:
Police work involves a humongous amount of paperwork and during the day these business offices are humming with people making reports, filing reports, sending reports and signing off on reports. At night there's me padding around the building on my lunch break:
The building is relatively new, about seven years old I think, and it was designed to be a police station, so it has a rather spare look to it, functional and simple in it's layout.
It's frankly pretty uninteresting stuff. Prisoners generally get taken directly to the jail run by the Sheriff's Office on Stock Island, and the business of police work goes on in the streets before the paperwork gets dealt with in here. More and more paperwork can be completed on officer's laptop computers, such is the pace of modern technology. 
Plus he gets his photo on the wall, backed by a line of his predecessors:
We don't dispatch the chief but he has been known to pull people over, and he made the newspaper once for spotting a robbery suspect on the street and making an arrest. When I joined the department he was a sergeant in detectives so effectively he has moved just a few doors down the corridor from where he was working back then:
The middle of the building is the Emergency Operations Center which i have only ever seen in use during hurricanes, and that has been quite frequently over the past few summers:
And we have a freezer on stand-by, I'm always reassured to know they can plug this sucker in and pop out hot food during a lock down.
The station has a generator to power the police station and the fire station next door and it's been a reliable back-up every time it's been needed when I've been in the station. It's reassuring to hear the beep as the city goes dark outside and the generator takes over powering the whole building. These are the halls that some of my colleagues believe are haunted by a female figure seen but never heard, floating past the offices. Not that I've ever seen her.
I'm going to enjoy my vacation, but strangely enough I will miss this place. It's hard to travel and not see a cop, and when i do I wonder what's happening at home, at my home away from home. 
In my quiet corner of the building the summer nights go by, and sure we get emergency calls and we send officers to deal with difficult situations, but we try to keep our little space as serene as possible as the night wears on:
And this is what I will be coming back to, more of the same. Not at all bad with half a million Americans losing their jobs every month.
Over the past three years I have come to enjoy returning to my roots, a place where I wasn't at all happy growing up and whence I never returned in 25 years of emigration. Our family home, all 50 rooms of it, has stood brooding for eight hundred years in the village where I grew up, more history than I really wanted to deal with then, or now. My 700 square foot stilt home on Ramrod Key is old because it was built in 1987:
Morruzze has seen very little excitement over the centuries, just seasons of growing and harvesting. Our home was taken over by the German army in World War Two as the allies advanced up the Italian peninsula. My grandfather went into hiding and helped allied airmen and resistance fighters to escape the round-ups, so they posted a plaque on the wall of his house in gratitude to celebrate his bravery. Since then the village has been as quiet a spot as you could wish. It always seemed to me to be a good place to run away from.
I spent my summers in my hat playing in the dirt with my buddy Diego and riding mopeds with Giovanni, which is what I still do when get together, here avoiding a downpour on the road to Spoleto. Giovanni is a good deal grayer and the mopeds have become a good deal bigger since then:
I'm ready for a vacation, be it ever so short, and I'm ready to ride some twisty roads with whatever BMW Giovanni has managed to line up for me. My family history? I'll try not to let it interfere with my riding pleasure.
It is not, I grant you, very imaginative, but the shopping center where Truman Avenue meets Duval Street has been named Truval Village:
And at one o'clock in the morning it can be surprisingly active:
People wandering Duval Street, or stumbling home along Truman Avenue which is the main strip into town... 
...essentially a continuation of North Roosevelt Boulevard. Some people stagger home with more style than others:
The lack of light gave the pedi-cab an ethereal touch, but a bunch of impatient scooter renters didn't provoke the camera to create an artistic flourish.The low light just gave them a fuzzy look:
The landmark at this intersection is the Duval Street Denny's restaurant, serving insomniacs twenty four hours a day: 
Kitty corner to Denny's there is a Pizza Place on Duval which used to be a rather decent Indian restaurant with uncertain opening hours. I prefer Indian to one more pizza joint, but I am it seems in a minority:
Truval Village offers electric car rentals: 
Dessert:
And office space for rent, a common commodity on Duval these days according to the Citizen:
I wandered around a bit and came across a few things to photograph:
And over it all, this:
Properly illuminated at night of course, though we lacked sufficient breeze to unfurl it.
That being the case I would turn north off Flagler at the white wall shown above which marks Leon Street. The white compound was built at this location after Hurricane Wilma flooded the area in 2005. This house is located across Flagler from this landmark:
It's actually a shrine, not a kennel for a bad dog. And this would be as good a spot as any for the obligatory Key West cyclist photo, in this case one who appears to have mislaid his diminutive passenger:
Leon Street is a bit of a pain to negotiate between Flagler and Catherine as every single cross street has a stop sign...
...forcing me to proceed in a herky jerky fashion.
I have tried out alternative streets but they none of them seem any more direct than this the most direct street. Besides Leon has lots of greenery to make it pretty:
This house has always appeared mysterious and desirable to me, hidden behind it's trees and its high fence:
This house is much more straight forward and more traditionally Florida in style:
And here we have what appears to be a home closed for the summer:
And the usual crop of brightly colored flowers, some I recognize, others I can't name:
Those last are oleanders, poisonous to eat but used frequently in Italy in median strips on the freeways. I know it's necessary as everything has a finite lifespan but I hate seeing trees get cut down:
I'd rather see trees trying to provide inadequate cover for a McMansion like these spindly palms:
The community garden is visible from Leon Street at May Sands School:
This is a place where urban gardeners come to make things grow:
Stuff grows everywhere in the Keys given a little bit of soil:
There are some squat apartment buildings as well on this picturesque thoroughfare:
Before Leon dead ends into the parking lot at Horace O'Bryant Middle school, which forces me to go around three sides of a square to get to the police station on the other side.
Because the House of Brats is a formidable obstacle, even when the youngsters aren't in residence:
North Roosevelt Boulevard is a far quicker, far more direct route, though not so interesting. 
I have been realising how much I miss riding,especially on Highway One which has been plagued with people doing very little to get out of my way on my commute. It's getting warmer too so I have been thinking about my last trip up to the Everglades with Bruce on his BMW: 
So naturally I look around and feel envious of people who are riding. Like this overloaded BMW looking like an Andean llama in the parking lot at the end of Front Street:
The machine was covered in dirt and stickers which gave the barest hint what the rider might have been doing:
Here today, gone tomorrow: seen Key West, cross that off the list...
Nearby I saw one my preferred scooters, an Aprilia Mojito, known as a Habana in the rest of the world that doesn't embargo Cuba. I like the Vespa-like looks with the low comfortable seat:
They don't import these scooters anymore which is a shame. I guess Piaggio which owns Vespa and Aprilia doesn't see any point in competing with it's own products, but there are a few of these machines left in Key West. This orange one was in Casa Marina:
This one was near the High School:
The Mojitos were offered with 50 or 150cc engines and with classic handlebars like these or with extravagant chrome motorcycle bars in the "Custom" version. I prefer the restrained good looks of a classic Italian scooter:
The one good thing about being stuck in the car is that one gets added opportunities to take pictures at random. This one I snapped in the mirror as I was driving down Eaton Street:
Of course I never wore a helmet when I was a child. Heads were harder perhaps or we hadn't been trained to be so fearful? And talking about the past I got a blast of history when I crossed paths with this shopping cart lurking on Thomas Street:
So, how long ago was it that Eckerd Drugs sold out to the national chain that goes by the rather bland initials of CVS? This cart reminded me why I keep this blog, because change is endemic to Key West. But somethings don't change much, including the wildlife, seen here on a sidewalk.
I stopped to let them clean their plates and immediately some other pedestrian stepped right into them. People need more vacation. that includes Giovanni, seen here in the mountains abaove Amalfi, south of Naples. 
We had a good time riding there last year. A couple of years before that I took my vacation in Corsica where we rode his BMW R1150 all over the island for two weeks. I even forgot to wear my helmet in the lonely fastness of Corsica's rebellious mountains:
On that subject we were at the doctor's recently where my wife was setting up an appointment for surgery on her shoulder which she injured at work. The secretary peered at my raw knee and asked what happened.
And working in that office she knows exactly which bones go where. They call this demonstrator skeleton Mr Bones which I think is rather cool so I snuck a couple of pictures when they weren't looking, I also took a peek inside the skull cavity which was, unhapppily, empty. Mr Bones' bones are all numbered and he grins all the time.
It must be exhausting being a skeleton. Just hanging there grinning madly.
And when I say "handkerchief" that's exactly what I mean:
The sand is quite decent, and the palm trees make for a shady spot to hang out in, so, despite the size or lack of it, Dog Beach isn't an awful spot to hang on a hot afternoon. Especially if you are a dog:
Some dogs have the misfortune to be owned by dorks, like this guy who brings his dog to the dog beach but won't let the poor thing play:
So the energetic young thing gets to hang out with a listless bunch of humans:
It can be a busy spot, Dog Beach, with vehicles on the street...
...and of course, this being Key West, wepresent the the obligatory cyclist:
And a well patronised bicycle rack as well:
Not forgetting the eccentrically decorated van:
Out at sea the tourists were getting their rides aloft:
And up the street at Vernon and South I spotted a tableau featuring a collection of touring vehicles to be seen on many Key West streets:
Waddell Street by contrast was empty:
Well, not quite:
Waddell Street dead ends into a rather attractive little alley which is made of sand and reminds me of places typical to mainland Florida which unlike the Keys, is made of sand:
But back to the point of the essay,this is a dog beach though it's not the only one these days. There is a fenced in run for dogs at Higgs Beach and across from that, between the White Street Pier and the West Martello tower (home of the Garden Club) dogs are allowed to run on the beach. Water access is a bit awkward as there is a seawall there but the beach area is open to dogs, on that county operated beach.
And once the dog is walked my wife says the tapas at Louie's Backyard right next door are excellent.
Prices at Louie's make my nose bleed but she says sunsets there are excellent.I doubt the dogs would care much one way or the other. 
There are those who like to tell anyone who 
The cool thing about the village is that it is a community with families, predominantly African American, who have been here for generations. Bahama Village used to be called Black Town in the bad old days, but the tight knit families who survived those days have also managed to fend off the crazy redevelopment drive of the recent boom years.
The streets are narrow and the city recently made a whole bunch of two way streets one way, to and from 
Key West is a town where youngsters get to run out by themselves and it's not unusual to see them unaccompanied. It's another of those things I like about living here:
That and outdoor living, including those ubiquitous soda machines, seen here on the street in case a passer by might need refreshment.
The ability to live without a car around town is also nice and I suppose a photo of a working moped is obligatory too. 
The superintendent's wife, the former head of Adult Education ($80,000 a year) stands accused of stealing as much as three hundred thousand dollars from the schools. Her husband ($146,000 a year) was recently arrested for possible complicity and the prosecutor's office has been spilling the beans of the ongoing investigation to the newspaper. The paper reports all the musings, rumors and innuendo that the prosecutor spills to them and it has made some hair raising reading in the paper. The value of silence is something our new state attorney has yet to figure out.
The Key West Citizen also has a daily feature of page three, with a photograph of a "Citizen of the Day," some poor sap who gets a mugshot in the paper and room to make one brief comment, usually about why they like to live here. Outdoor living and the weather are staples:
And just because these apartments are "picturesque" doesn't mean they aren't horrendously expensive. My colleagues who rent tell me $1200 a month for a one bedroom isn't unusual. It's one thing to walk by and take a picture, it's quite another to live on these crowded streets.
I saw a poster on a telegraph pole and I noticed a line that I liked about "ethnic roles" which seemed a tad bit blunt:
It seemed kind of weird but maybe that sort of wording is normal in the world of grease paint. I was also impressed that they were looking for people on a volunteer basis, which I think is a way of saying the glory is the payment.
There is a great deal of talk going on about living sustainably, which in effect means living in close quarters and dumping cars as much as 
This 
Cats, roosters and cyclists, I think we've covered all bases for a street stroll in Key West. One can't leave out the church for sale. That sign woke me up until I realised it was a converted church now apparently used as a residence. Not to worry, there are lots more churches to go round, more per 
And what's a church without an undertaker? This lot, the Evergreen Mortuary has a boat parked out front for some reason. Perhaps for the Neptune Society, or perhaps because they don't seem to do many funerals here and its as good a place as any to park the boat in between:
In closing here is a photograph you could try and win money with. There is only one place in key West this could be:
So where is it?
It has happened again, and I got invited out to dinner by a dude who reads the blog.
Marybeth and her husband Keith cornered the wife and I at El Siboney and forced us to accept their hospitality, so under their protective wing I was able to order the breaded and fried palomilla steak and boiled yucca.
It's hard to starve at El Siboney so my wife and I usually share an order but for some reason she was feeling expansive so she ordered a Siboney steak which comes with shredded parsley, Keith got stuck into a plate of fried pork chunks, hard core Cuban fare and Marybeth took the restrained route following my wife's lead. El Siboney does not overflow with decorative warmth as it were:
Keith and Marybeth live in the mountains of Colorado but vacation frequently in Key West where Keith was stationed in the 1970s. It's the rare visitor to Key West that takes an interest in the past but Keith is one of those and he enjoys organizing himself around the book Streets of Key West, that I quote from. Marybeth got stuck in with my wife and I was happy to let those two do their thing.
Keith watched me whip out my little canon SX100 and said: "You take your pictures with that?" as I swiveled in my chair to catch a patron involved in enjoying her food:
If we ever get a revolution around here text messaging will be the first thing I vote to ban. However the crass younger generation did not set the tone for the whole place. Some people were visiting this Key West institution to enjoy what El Siboney is famous for, low prices and excellent Cuban cooking: 
I also took a sneak shot, in the style of A Scooter in Turkey, with rather sneak-shot results, so I will need to perfect the technique apparently:
We nattered on for hours it seemed like, time enough to have a Cuban custard, natilla, and coffee, but as I was going to work Keith sank the Presidente beer by himself. El Siboney has moved into the 20th century and now takes credit cards. I rather seem to think it has been doing that for a while but I have got into the groove of paying cash when I eat there: 
I hope when they return next year they will take up the offer to stop by our house and see how the rubes live in the country outside the metropolis. Rather to my surprise they took me upon my offer of the nickel tour of the police station so I have high hopes we shall meet again. Perhaps with pictures of Key West as was.
I like eating out at El Siboney, despite the restaurant's sale a few years ago the place hasn't changed one bit. It's still slightly funky, particular and very neighborhood oriented.
We weren't the only people hanging out happily at 900 Catherine Street.
You know it's summer around here because the air gets thicker, the clouds get thicker and the saltwater gets warmer, above 80 degrees (27C). That water temperature is the indicator that tells me when we are in hurricane season. Hurricanes use the energy in warm water to power up and until water temperatures reach 80 degrees there isn't enough energy usually, to get the storms going.
So early and late season hurricanes (normally the season runs June 1 to November 30th in the Atlantic basin) tend to form in the Western Caribbean where the waters warm up ahead of the main Atlantic Ocean and stay warm later into winter. Meanwhile we learn to live with and enjoy the bright white heat intensity of summer sunshine:
I like the colors of summer, defined for me by the green of the vegetation in various shades, the blue of the sky and the puffy white clouds that grow dark as they bring the promise of rain. That's another great virtue of living in South Florida, the rainy season comes when it is warm.
I spent too many winters dreading the onset of California's viciously cold winter rainy season which turn dust into mud and sidewalks into streams. Of course it'snothing compared to the cold dark winters of the Far North but I hated winters in cold damp coastal California. Winters in the Keys are a time of occasional cold but the low tempoeratures rarely last more than a few days at a time and rain is light in the winter, a few drops fall as the cold front arrives. I can enjoy the drama of summer wtorms when the temperatures are hovering above 80 degrees.
The heat of summer is, I find, less oppressive in the islands than it is on the mainland, due no doubt to the water surrounding the Keys. Supposedly that also helps keep winter temperatures a little warmer than the rest of South Florida. Which of course suits me. Besides if there are sugar apples growing there's not much wrong with where you live. At least I'm pretty sure this is a soursop nestled in a halo of sunlight:
I mentioned in another recent essay that there is a realty company soliciting bids on homes and I found another such sign on Thomas Street:
I'm not sure about this "make an offer" stuff but it all comes down to two of my favorite colors for the time of year, blue and white.
We piled into Josh's modern comfortable Nissan Altima, a fine automobile but not as splendid as my aging Maxima, loyalty to inanimate machines seems misplaced yet obligatory to me, and we drove north with Josh at the wheel:
I was delighted to be the passenger in the rear seat, an unusual place for me to be and I took full advantage of the opportunity to look out the windows and fully enjoy the views that can only be snatched when operating the vehicle. First stop: Arby's in Key Largo for roast beast sandwiches for brunch. Josh is from Texas you see, and he lives a deprived life with Lisa so he was salivating at the thought of a mountain of beef and bacon wedged between buns. "No lettuce, no tomatoes," he groaned in anticipation, a sentiment I shared as my wife keeps me on a culinary short leash too. They also had something called curly fries which bore the faintest relation to potatoes but appeared to have been cooked in lard which gave them extra calories with the extra taste. I was even more happy to take a back seat and burp quietly to myself for the final leg of the trip to the mainland.
The range is a family affair with Papi burning cordite while los ninos play nearby in the jungle gym.
We the novices, made it back from the casino in time for the safety lecture and were awarded our range cards for unimpeded future visits. It costs $9 to shoot your weapon here which is a bargain in the world of entertainment and it was great fun. Lisa, eat your Seattle-raised heart out.
The shotgun wasn't the weapon of choice for my comrades in arms but they promised to retrieve hand guns currently in storage along with a "proper" rifle for future use. Being as how I'm not a physicist I was quite happy to pop off a few slugs (no buckshot at the fixed target range) and hope they travelled more or less in the direction of the paper target. The scientists in the party spent some time lamenting the absence of rifling in a shotgun and they spent some happy time arguing lobbed trajectories and stuff I didn't quite get.
It was a gray drizzly sort of day at the range, and it happens quite frequently that a bright sunny day in the Keys turns into a rainy summer day on the mainland. This was a good spot to be on a rainy day though, as the shooting portion of the range is under cover:
The rules at the range are strict but simple enough to follow- no naked weapons behind the red line, 
no concealed weapons on your person, and get help if you have a misfire or if you need assistance to clear a jammed gun. For the rest the loudspeaker told us when it was time to shoot and when it was safe to walk out and check our targets. It was mighty civilized:
They even had a dude out there with a dustpan and brush to keep their place tidy what will all that spent ammunition flying around:
And there were tons of empty casings lying around as we weren't a.lone at the range:
This guy was shooting with an intensity and calm purpose that we all noticed and talked about later. We were speculating that perhaps he still hadn't got over the surrender in 1975, but who knows really. He was obviously very experienced and I hope I got some good tips from watching him at work:
Now the smell of cigarettes was overlaid with the smell of gun smoke in my seersucker shirt and that wasn't the end of the boy's day out. Scott is planning a cross country trip on his Kawasaki KLR 650 so we had camping gear to seek out and buy, Josh had cigars to pick up so I beat them at dominos while they puffed on the poisonous weed. We ate more fried food and drank beer and eventually pointed the wheels towards home.
I was half passed out in the back of the car as the two front seat riders spent a happy few hours bickering their way home. They discussed their personalities, the value of science in every day life, memories of childhood and they stropped a couple of times for more food as our dinner of Peruvian food hadn't quite filled them up. 
It was for me quite the unusual day, not at all like going shopping in Miami with my wife.
Much to my astonishment we are almost half way into the month of June already, and half of the year 2009 is on the back side of the calendar. So it came upon me slowly that this is the month that poinciana trees choose to bloom. You would have to be oblivious to life itself not to spot these bright orange flowers glowing all over town: 
In the Keys they are known as Royal Poinciana, Delonix regia to give them their latin name, but who gave them the regal appellation I don't know I'm sure. The size and quantity of the blooms varies from tree to tree though the clusters of flowers always make an impression:
Even though I live in a corner of the United States which overflows with fantastic flora, I am no botanist, so you can take my word that you can't miss the poincianas anywhere around town, Old Town:
Or in New Town:
The poincianas, known in the Caribbean islands as "flamboyants" create a backdrop all their own:
In parts of Asia and Africa they are known as Flame Trees (Australian flame trees are I think something a little different):
The picture above is Eaton Street at Elizabeth, this is William Street from Eaton looking towards the Schooner Wharf area at the waterfront:
Look up and there are flame trees burning overhead: 
Look down and the petals become so much debris, littering driveways, sidewalks and parked cars:
There are trees at the post office on Whitehead Street:
And the green and orange of the tree contrast nicely with the classic white wood of Key West homes:
The flowers themselves look like orchids to me, seen close up:
In New Town the Poinciana Public Housing complex is converted Navy Housing which is now affordable rental apartments for city residents, in the the sort of spacious tree lined tract that one doesn't generally associate with public housing. Personally I think public housing could use fewer high rises and more poincianas:
And across the street is a Key West version of a strip mall:
And just up the street Smurf Village has its own flaming poincianas to brighten up the street:
Call it what you will, royal poinciana, flamboyant or flame tree, its a bloom worth celebrating.
What did astonish me and caused me to take the picture, was the price not listed alongside the Realtor's sign:
I cannot imagine that they would take any offer, especially as many sellers seem to be maintaining unrealistically high hopes even in this falling economy...I saw another such sign from the same Realtor in Bahama Village.
Next month this space should become the Peggy Dow 48 seat theater, and already the outside of the Tropic has got spaces to advertise coming attractions:
Lest anyone doubt it there are people with lots of money in Key West and come what may they like their Arts to be available to them. In this case it works for me. The Tropic has new friendly management in place of the dour Welshman who used to glower at patrons. So my wife and I returned to our former status of Producers which we dropped when we no longer felt welcome. At $600 a year we each get to the movies for free and feel like we are contributing something to our favorite not-for-profit gathering place. I can't afford to build a theater for them but I hope it helps.
On the theme of useful Art I spotted a Captain Outrageous bicycle on 
And on 
I have no idea who this character is but I suspect he is young and hopeful and living on the edge and I wonder if perhaps in middle age he will look back at his Key West period fondly, when he has rejoined the suburban rat race and become his father (horrors!) and is araising young wanderers of his own. 
I was never much in favor of bumper stickers though they used to be very popular. I can hardly imagine how annoyed an elderly Che would be if he knew his image had been co opted for advertising campaigns of the most disparate sort in the Decadent West:
It must be weird to end up as a fashion icon. Which for someone like me is absolutely a fate undoubtedly worse than death. I am happy El Che didn't adopt the pork pie hat as his revolutionary motif because I think they look daft:
If I wore checkered shorts and a pork pie hat set at a jaunty angle perhaps no one would notice my pink 
I quite liked this group of bored husbands waiting for their wives to complete their window shopping at Fast Buck Freddie's:
Or this one. Hands up anyone who remembers the agony of waiting for Dad to make up his mind which profoundly boring tourist attraction to see next?
I thought this next guy was wheeling a stretcher until I realised he was moving construction materials across 
I have to confess I haven't been downtown in a while else I would have known the scene of the fire had been torn down, next to the San Carlos Theater:
It would be nice if the space were turned into a pocket park, say with gumbo limbos and benches and a public restroom. But the demands of capitalism being what they are no doubt we will get yet another t-shirt shop complete with fart jokes for us to enjoy. Oh well.
This one was waiting for an endless conversation to end outside Voltaire Books on 
Talking about missing stuff puts me in mind of the Bonneville. And it's hard not to miss your motorcycle in a town filled with them in all shapes and sizes.
Not that I lust after a cruiser or a tricycle though I am forced to admit there are certain advantages to three wheels over two. Especially when it comes to falling off...This one is much more to my taste, a Honda 919, which would be the cubic capacity, with well in excess of one hundred horsepower and a sensible riding position. So of course they no longer import it, or the 600cc model formerly known as the Hornet, both designed and built in Italy.
No, I want my Bonneville back thanks. Certainly I don't think this one below would suit me at all. And in case the kitchen sink doesn't fit in the trailer you can strap it securely to the luggage rack on top provided for all those extra bits and bobs you can't possibly leave at home when traveling light on a motorcycle:
While I'm feeling grumpy I want to point out a "For Sale" sign on this yellow Taiwan Golden Bee scooter. Luckily it says yellow and 
You can just imagine how the conversation would go if this bright spark ever has to call 9-1-1. Though he can't be that stupid- he apparently hasn't fallen off his two wheeler. And just to cheer myself up, one more attempt at photographing 
Love you. Mean it.
Bye.
I must have cycled past it on my way to work on the waterfront in my previous life but why would I have noticed it? The entrance is marked by the two most common styles of homes seen nowdays in Old Town Key West. The old:
And the old refurbished in grand style:
The lane is half a block long, though unlike others it has somehow resisted the blandishments of tarmacadam:
Personally I'd rather throw my money at central air conditioning than at televised advertising, but there we are. While I am in a bitchy mood (and I can't think why, if it isn't a lack of motorbikes in my life) I should point out that I am a great fan of asphalt. I have lived on dirt and gravelled roads and they suck. They create mud when it's wet, dust when it's dry and they are impossible to ride with any sense of security, though these days even asphalt roads seem to be giving me trouble.
I don't feel particularly indebted to the Scots for golf, haggis or Scotch eggs, but asphalt must rate high on the list of human achievements. I know it is fashionable to denigrate roads and cars but had their critics lived and traveled in communities where it is absent they might possibly change their minds. On the other hand Caraballo Lane's slightly dishevelled air is very picturesque:
And this is the place where those preposterous safety measures called insecurity lights have been allowed to disintegrate:
In a delightful backwater like this a stern finger wagging should be sufficient:
Caraballo Lane is picturesque:
The lane also provides two major food groups for hard economic times, papayas and coconuts and judging by the bountiful fruit on my own trees we may be having a bumper coconut crop this year. I need to plant papayas judging by this bounty:
Looking back at Eaton Street:
And across the street is the landmark Island City Hotel, circa 1889, with its splendid carriage entrance and gingerbread decorations:
I should point out that it would be a very good idea not to mix this place up with the Island House for Men on nearby Fleming Street. One encourages a certain level of intimacy, the other doesn't. Up to you to find out which is which. Neither of which has much to do with lovely Caraballo Lane.
Driving towards Key West on Highway One, there is a place just past the Sugarloaf Lodge where someone parked a plane:
This unmarked street on Google maps is labeled "Perky" after the mythical town that was supposed to have been built around the developer's bat tower that can be found at the northern end of this road. 
The fact that "Perky" never came into being hasn't deterred mapmakers, locals call this place generally "Lower Sugarloaf" and this is where the airstrip lives, shown by that billboard advertising airplane rides.
They say the landing strip is 2700 feet long, about half a mile to you and me, and just over three quarters of a kilometer in Canadian miles. It looks long enough to me, though I know nothing about flying at all. As airports go, Sugarloaf's is a very home brewed affair:
This is where the flying lessons are apparently given:
With planes parked alongside possibly ready to go:
Continuing the home grown theme there is a simple mechanic's shop in a trailer:
There is an ultra light also, similar in many respects to the one currently floating at the dock at Sugarloaf Marina next to the lodge. Doubtless for rent is you have a yen to fly ultra-lightly: 
It wouldn't the Florida Keys is precious land area weren't given up to the hopeless wrecks which sit gently decomposing at am epochal rate in the sun:
Beauty and usefulness are strictly in the eye of the owner. Not to mention the cost of removal and disposal. You might think this would be an excellent spot to try some speed trials or just to bugger about on with a motorcycle, however to guard against a collision with an aircraft such foolishness is forbidden:
Though one can stand for a while and contemplate the surroundings which inevitably include water around here:
And so, after standing in the sun for a while one has nothing left to do but turn around and head out. At which point one comes across the little green shed one saw peripherally on the way in. More rides!
I am told by people that have done it that throwing oneself out of a perfectly good plane here yields tremendous views. The day I decide to do something so foolish I promise I shall post pictures. Looking back at the airport one can glimpse the houses I call the "Ho Ho Ho Homes". They light up the seasonal sentiments at Christmas time, clearly visible across the water for northbound traffic on Highway One.
I hope I shall be back on the Bonneville soon because seeing these pictures and remembering riding does me no good at all.
The not so magnificent:
The revolutionary:
The military:
The middle class (in a class-less society):
The artistic:
I like the modern art gallery above with the sign outside- peligro, "danger" - though I have no doubt it refers to roadworks, not art. Cuba for an American is the back door equivalent of North Korea, though unlike North Korea, every sign I have seen is that Cuba is just another Latin American country, partially dysfunctional, and yet in many ways more functional than one might imagine, considering the US's hostility of the past 60 years.
The American love affair with the automobile is one starting point for a rapprochement, a way to close the gap between two nations ninety miles (150 kilometers) apart:
It used to be that the automotive world in Revolutionary Cuba was stuck in drive circa 1959, but these old cars nowadays are more often powered by modern Japanese or Korean engines and parts cobbled together in ways that Americans have never had to learn. 
These old cars and Soviet era Ladas (Fiat 1500) are replaced by modern shiny go karts from the Far East where trade embargoes and ritual resentment are anathema as far as Cuba's import market is concerned.
Tourists with hard currency (what an Iron Curtain term!) get special treatment, consisting of whores restaurants and buggy rides. In a land of egalitarian poverty, the dollar rules:
There is so much propaganda about Cuba in the US it's hard to discern truth from fiction. My sole visit was a close sail-by taking cover from a storm in the Straits of Florida and all I saw were revolutionary slogans, mountains, fields and endless mangrove islands along the north coast. I listen to Radio Reloj (950am) and Radio Nacional (590 am) in the car, now that I am forced to drive, and while I sit up at work in the quiet times I wonder what they are doing across the way. Probably much the same we are, with less. They tell us Cuba is allowing Havana to crumble, which owing to their lack of money wouldn't be surprising. Perhaps it's true in some parts of the city:
To compare Cuba to the United States as so many critics do seems irrational to me. Comparisons with similar countries might be more in line. I'd rather be Cuban in Cuba, than Haitian in Haiti or Honduran in Honduras. If I were Cuban in Miami I would count my blessings in my dollar denominated bank account, or if I wanted my finca back I'd do what Castro did and take to the Sierra Maestra and fight for it. Otherwise I would shut the fuck up, grow fat and contented in the land of the free and let commerce do it's work to break down barriers. The embargo benefits the dictatorship across the way and the would-be dictators in Miami and why President Obama, who wants change in the rest of the world, won't do anything about this stupidity is just another of those mysteries that puzzle me about our leadership. Banks yes, autos no. Palestinians yes (at last) Cubans no. If not now, when?
We telecommunicators were in a meeting with the brass this week and the Chief said to me, "Michael, how long have you been on nights?" "Three years, " I said. I like to point out that I got sent to nights, everyone has to get rotated there, and ended up enjoying working that shift very much. "So," he went on,"one reason you like nights is because you don't get to be around us," he pointed to himself and the Captain sitting next to him. True enough, Chief Lee has held every job in the building and he knows the dictatorial powers his position gives him! 
There are other compensations, not least the sympathy one gets from people who tend to feel sorry for workers like me who "have to" work nights. I've worked days enough to know that I don't much like getting up to an alarm clock every morning before dawn, and I don't like coming home as the sun goes down. It seems like a waste of sunlight to spend all day inside. Thus it is that when I get up around lunch time after a long night's work, I frequently get to enjoy a sunny afternoon at home even on "days when I'm working" as it were. I like that. And I' m indifferent to most holidays, so if I'm working the Fourth of July (I'm not this year as it happens) I still get to have the celebratory lunch with my wife before riding off to work.
My wife is quite content with the schedule as she says we get to make more quality time together this way, meeting in town before I go to work, and taking the time to enjoy the 16 nights a month I'm not working. Aside from my home life considerations, (all that time alone to write my blog and take pictures is a bonus),working nights has its own compensations. The police station at 6pm is empty and quiet. The administrative offices are all empty, there's no one in the corridors rushing around with reams of paper and there is a strangely serene air in a building that one doesn't associate with peace and quiet. More police work than you could possibly believe involves pushing paper, not pulling guns. I never imagined myself working for a police department, much less I never figured it would be fun when they hired me. My only experience of police work was watching TV and Key West PD is nothing like what you see on TV. And I mean that in a good way.
There is no desk sergeant here, and all the drama that spills into the fictional police stations from the streets can't happen in a building that is locked and impenetrable. Key West police officers spend their nights in their "rolling offices" patrolling the streets of the city, which contain drama enough for any television show. Police officers in a city awash with alcohol end up separating idiots fighting, tending to more idiots drinking, ministering to idiotic couples arguing, and the number of people who drink themselves into a stupor and fall asleep on city sidewalks would absolutely astonish you. While officers are out and about sorting out intractable problems, the only people left in the big pink building off North Roosevelt Boulevard are the three night dispatchers. We take the calls from the distraught spouses who call telling us in all sincerity that their better halves never go out and disappear like this. "Something must have happened," they say imagining the worst. Alcohol can break up the happiest of marriages to hear them tell it. I find dispatching in this town has pushed me closer to believing in teetotalism than ever before in my life. One day I might even take the pledge, I'm so tired of hearing how the demon drink ruins people and causes so much unhappiness. To deal with all this pain we, unlike the officers who are out in the middle of it, we dispatchers work in a cool serene environment removed from the noise outside:
And that is how I like it. Dispatching is a peculiar job I have discovered, and it seems quite recession proof in an uncertain world right now. We are required to take information and send help and no one knows what we do. Members of the public expect us to have information and give out information, ("When is the hurricane going to hit?" "Why is this car parked in front of my house?" "I want to press charges" "Who do I call about an injured bird?" "That car nearly ran me off the road!" ) but dispensing information isn't our role in the community, and we no more know when a city event is scheduled to take place than you do. We don't write press releases and a dispatcher has no more knowledge of "what happened" than anyone else, until we read the newspaper. We take the calls and we send help by radio, all night long. What happens then we have no idea. "One in custody" the officer might say if he cannot avoid the mountain of paperwork an arrest engenders. Who is arrested? I haven't a clue, I've got more calls needing attention. Or: "Clear no report. Parties separated." is the frequent laconic resolution to a Gordian knot we sent them to untangle. How do the officers do it? They are the counselors, the psychologists, the people who want to help you find a resolution short of the awful, terminal arrest. If it was up to us dispatchers we'd have 'em all in handcuffs. That would solve everything. Officers have the patience of Job. 
We answer to the sergeant on duty, on this particular night Sergeant Currul was uncertain whether or not he wanted his picture taken:
If an officer needs an address, s/he calls dispatch. Need a phone number? A history of incidents? Call dispatch. We have addresses, histories, records, and phone numbers for every agency and service imaginable. And that's what we do all night, take calls and talk on the radio in an empty building overlooking Garrison Bight Marina. Some people think dispatching is exciting, but in my book it's anything but. And that's the way I like it, no blood no muss no fuss no personal contact. Police officers are a strange breed, always out in the middle of whatever chaos is happening, they seek it out; it's their job to find trouble and deal with it head on. Jose Fernandez came to nights recently and has been struggling to adjust. He says sleeping is getting easier but he still can't figure out which meal is which during his "day."
Only a few of us really enjoy being awake and active in the middle of the night. I find there are too many people awake across the city during day shift and they are too needy. They need to make reports and complain about some issue or person that is bugging them. They turn in lost property and want to pick up paperwork. The outside lobby can be knee deep with people seeking police assistance. At night it's another world, a world where the mundane needs can wait, where the calls for service involve immediacy and urgency. Some officers are indifferent to their shift. Ferro, Officer Anglin's partner made an arrest a few nights ago. 
Working police dogs, known as K-9s, are a fearsome sight when working, but when they are off duty they are just...dogs. Ferro followed the suspect's scent and chased him to earth literally under a building forcing him to surrender. Apparently the man smelled Ferro's breath and was anxious to avoid his teeth, for which one can hardly blame him, Ferro doesn't use handcuffs to detain people. Back at the police station his partner was getting busy writing a "K-9 usage" report; Ferro was busy working on his reward. K9s like dispatchers don't get saddled with the endless report writing:
They say there is a ghost haunting the top floor of the police department, a 19th century woman in a bonnet who wanders around looking mournful. Apparently the story is that her body was buried in the mangrove swamp under the police station, which was built at this location shortly before I joined the department. When I protest to my credulous colleagues that I've never seen her in all the nights I've been in the station; they tell me that I won't if I don't believe in her. Nice! I guess we'd all better start believing that drunk people will behave properly given a chance. That way we none of us will see them throwing up into flowerbeds at 3 in the morning! Oh wait a minute, ghosts are folklore, thugs and drunks are real...and they are job security I'm sorry to say. I will let you know if I ever do see her by the way (that will be the week we have frost in Key West) but until then I am the proverbial Doubting Thomas on the subject of the supernatural. 
I'm coming up on my five year anniversary and it's been an excellent five years of living and learning and trying to do some good in a world that resolutely wants to believe that being thoughtless shouldn't have consequences. Chief Donie Lee joined the force 15 years ago which poses the question for me, where will I be in ten years? I shouldn't be at all surprised to find myself still working nights trying to separate the chaff from the wheat among all those calls for help that arrive at 1604 North Roosevelt Boulevard between 6pm and 6am. Every night of the year someone needs help and no matter what, we send help. How rewarding is that?
The Southard Street Gate never did materialise at the entrance to Truman Annex, after the Navy threatened the Truman Annex master Property Owner's Association with a lawsuit if they put up a gate. Work stopped and the holes were promptly filled in. The guardhouse is staffed at night (visible in the distance in the picture above) but it remains unoccupied during the day when traffic can travel freely to and from the waterfront. So freely indeed, not many cars would notice Thomas street off to the north, towards the new courthouse:
And why would a passer by turn onto Thomas in this direction?
The sign on top is a terminological inexactitude as the street is now open at both ends. For a while the road was closed at Fleming thanks to the construction of the new courthouse, The Freeman Justice Center, but that's done and Thomas Street is a handy way to avoid the interminable light at Southard and Whitehead (in front of the Green Parrot). This section of Thomas Street is all county business or government of one sort apparently:
Nasty fences, no signs and buildings painted battle ship gray, all terribly ominous:
Thomas Street in the opposite direction, heading south from Southard Street is a little more slack, perhaps more human:
Behind the county buildings, wedged into a small space next to the boundary of Truman Annex there is parking for all those beavering county employees:
Which if it weren't so out-of-the-way might make this a useful place to park after hours now that the Post Office has got so hard core about their lot next door. This place is a desert on a Friday evening:
It's not totally deserted:
The parking lot is divided by a leaf filled dusty median strip which is traversed by a cute little wooden footbridge. I have no idea who put it there nor why:
There's another such bridge at the pedestrian entrance to Thomas Street, with more fences and the county clock tower in the background:
The impenetrable fences are everywhere down here keeping people out of the county property:
The Freeman Justice center mercifully isn't so girded and stands imposing at the end of the street:
It bears the symbols of the Conch Republic, ready to assume the mantle of the headquarters of any future breakaway republic:
I spotted a couple of lost tourists, consulting their oracles marching past the endless building as though not sure where they might end up, reading the map, discussing and walking.
I think they were Europeans and I felt once again that perhaps I should have stepped in to offer unsolicited directions. Instead I took a picture of Truman Annex at Fleming:
Or looking towards Whitehead on Fleming:
As you can see: wide open to traffic in all directions after months of construction.
Cascading foliage faintly resembles the blacks and whites of the movie made from the work of Tennessee Williams. The Rose Tattoo was set in an Italian-American community of the coast of the Gulf Of Mexico, though the film was shot a block away on Duncan Street, in the house next door to the playwright's. Which was convenient for Tennessee Williams as he got to hang out with Anna Magnani, though being a poof he had no idea what to do with that strapping example of Italian womanhood, except talk to her. The house her character lived in could have been any one of these 21st century residences:
And though the film was shot decades ago when Burt Lancaster was young and strapping, these houses are still here sheltering families in that part of town Realtors are pleased to call "Mid Town" which lies between White and First Streets.
At three o'clock in the morning this street is actually quite quiet, and in passing all I could hear were two people muttering on a porch at the end of Eliza Street. Catherine Street was silent, until one of the inmates started hacking up a lung with a persistent cough. Then the street fell silent again, no cats, no lonely dogs, no cars, just me crunching my way past the periphery of people's lives:
Then I heard someone talking LOUDLY on a cell phone. I was busy focusing a shot and by the time I was alerted to his arrival I understood it to be a young black man on a bicycle. He was entirely picturesque as he pedaled, hands free and talking on his phone he wore a baseball cap thrown back and sideways on his abundant curls and he pedaled slowly but firmly, in no great hurry to get where he was going. But for all that, I could barely frame him in the camera:
I got an artistic shot instead, all faded and shimmering. Oh well, I do prefer them like this crisp and concise:
I think the dark and light effect of the street lamps gives these narrows roads a rather sinister effect when photographed but it really isn't like that in real life. Walking Key West at night gives you the opportunity to stare, rudely at other people's lives:
And ponder the pride of place the convinces a Key West resident that bumper sticker defacing a gas cap expresses a valid emotion:
Large pick up trucks and Sport useless vehicles dwarf the little houses they park alongside:
Though the matter of price keeps things in perspective. This little red house on Catherine Street, well appointed and equipped with a swimming pool has been given a name by it's current owner, la casa roja, "the red house"and if you want it you'll have to fork over one point three million recessionary dollars for it.
The Citizen ran a story last Sunday telling of the high rate of availability on Duval Street with many marginal businesses failing to make after the snowbirds head north and winter tourism is replaced by the fits-and-starts of summer festivals. Apparently commercial real estate that isn't immediately profitable isn't so interesting at the moment.
Looking west, towards downtown and White Street:
And lacking a picture of my Triumph which, at the time was securely parked at the police station, I found this Harley on Eliza Street. This was three hours before I threw the Triumph down the road on my way home:
And so back to the station, to the frigid air conditioning of the radio room and out of the muggy silent night of Catherine street.
And some of them have little balconies overlooking the western sunset, which is, I might add, a spectacular view:
I believe the fort's commandant's house now houses the superintendent inside the parade ground:
And they have all manner of mod-cons (modern conveniences) thanks to satellite technology:
Though electrons need their own passageways even in old buildings: 
And let's not forget the value of old-fangled infernal combustion. There are huge generators rumbling day and night,keeping the lights on whether you want them or not, and as their exhausts grind away near the campground I could see lots of advantages to going with renewable energy:
But I am told there is a certain difference of opinion amongst the old time hardliners who like their hydrocarbons burned the old fashioned way. So at night, when the fort is officially closed:
The generators hum and the lights keep burning:
Including the old lighthouse, now reduced to the second-rate status of a modest "harbor light," atop the fort:
And also, rather spectrally, one can see dim lights shining from within the fort when all good souls are tucked up in bed, except for star gazers and drinkers in the campground, and apparently insomniacs inside the fort:
As I understand it there are eight national park personnel on duty at the fort including law enforcement rangers. We saw three of them rounding up a group of young people on the moat wall. I was up to my eyes in salt water at the time but later someone found out they had been spotted picking up pieces of glass bottles from a beach and they got themselves a $300 fine and a trip back to their boat on the ranger's launch.
The little museum next to the (air conditioned! Thank you generators...) gift shop shows the fort's own collection of these things and they don't want people walking off with them. For the most part life at the fort is very free and unencumbered for visitors, you seem to have the place pretty much to yourself, especially if you are camping or staying on a boat which is how you get pets to the fort as pets aren't allowed on the ferry. Unless your Dad is the captain and your name is Salty, then you get to ride out on the Yankee Freedom and play with your teddy bear:
Like they do at any other park, personnel at the fort guard their privacy:
Aside from the residential areas there are very few parts of the fort that are off limits and those that are, should be observed for safety reasons.This place is pretty much wide open and to keep it that way the elementary common sense safety rules need to be followed:
Then there are signs that have been carefully stenciled to keep order, day use here, campers there:
And there are things like Bird Key and adjoining Long Key where the sooty terns and brown noddies nest in the summer.
Bird Key was joined to Garden Key, the island where the fort is located, but storms blew out the sandy land bridge. Nevertheless people like to get close to the birds.
The rule is look but don't land. And on the subject of landing. Cubans show up here from time to time in their "chugs," which are home built boats used to escape from Cuba. Loggerhead Key with the main lighthouse on it is three miles west of the fort and that is the last US soil until you reach Brownsville or New Orleans or points in between and it does happen that migrants land in these islands. They leave their boats behind to prove it.
The rule is if the Cubans set foot on dry land they get to stay in the US so they work hard at making the crossing in anything that floats. Untold numbers die because the Gulf Stream is a hazardous body of water. Speaking as someone who has sailed across it a dozen times in well found boats it can get extremely difficult in any kind of contrary wind. How they cope riding crap like this is hard to know:
The supply boat which runs between Key West and the fort takes the migrants back to the city for processing. It's all done with boats at Fort Jefferson, including the work of the contractors who are currently restoring portions of the fort with all their construction supplies and orange netting and hard hats and tinker toy tractors and trailers:
In some respects it's like a space station, relying for life support on what they bring and keep with them. And the systems designed to support eight have to support these extra bodies as well as they get their work done. But aside from work there is recreation after a fashion:
And there are a few less driven occupants of the 16 acre island who just hang out and watch the rush pass them by:
But for those of us here for a few precious hours or days there is a need to visit the inevitable concession stand there to pick up a few baubles:
A monogrammed cap for me, turtle earrings for the wife and postcards with a special park service stamp to mail around the world later. Then there is some cool air available while watching the brief,rather commercial movie about the park...
...and check out some of the found treasures, the unconsidered trifles found lying around the fort:
And then. as we strolled back to the ferry on our last afternoon crossing the moat:
I watched the hordes moving purposefully across the day use area, that patch of scrub grass that falls silent after the ferries leave sat 2:45pm, and I wonder how they keep order and peace at the fort, without a presence, without barking orders, and by dint simply of the desire of the people to be there and enjoy their space. One wishes we could carry that sentiment home with us in a bottle, or on an ear ring.
Sugarloaf Boulevard cuts dead due south from the Sugarloaf Lodge on Highway One. The road slices through a nice suburban subdivision of expansive homes and flourishing lawn covered tropical grdens, all worthy of an essay of their own. At the end of the Boulevard the paved road takes a turn to the right (west) and heads off down a seris of invirgorating turns to dead end into a pathway that follows the old road, now overgrown, to the first trestle bridge, now collapsed, a road that used to parallel the beach out to Boca Chica. A left turn at the southern end of the boulevard brings one to a gate:
I walked the Loop Road itself just recently, but this essay follows the old state road all the way up to the broken bridge that used to connect with the road that comes down from Highway One near Mangrove Mama's restaurant which I wrote about a while back (November 9th, 2007, "Paved Road Ends"). I was going to cycle the old state road but it was a lovely afternoon and I chose to ride the Bonneville instead, leaving me on foot for my explorations.
Sugarloaf Key is low and watery and in these parts water is everywhere, as is mud which turns to water in the rainy season.
Unfortunately while the mud is wet and transitioning into water it gives off a particular smell that I can best describe as "rich barnyard." I grew up around farm animals and this particular type of methane gas smells to me nothing quite like anything so much as a pig's byre. A pig that has been eating table scraps and plant material in addition to it's commercial feed. Just like the ones I grew up around in Italy. It is a fact of life around the salt ponds of the Keys, just another romantic image of the Keys I have now shattered, for which I apologise.
There is evidence at the beginning of the old state road where it branches out beyond the Loop Road, that it was once paved, and lumps of asphalt appear from time to time along the gravel roadway. Judging by the squared off edges of this body of water I imagine this was once a gravel pit or quarry of some sort for the innumerable new roads built around the islands:
I hadn't tramped very far before the road turned into a track and pretty soon became a narrow pathway through the encroaching shrubbery:
And then to my delight I found myself walking through amature mangrove forest. It was surprisingly cool in the shade, with a light southeast breeze blowing through the trees and across the salt water they were growing out of, it felt like outdoor air conditioning:
And I saw a bird, though being the pathetic ornithologist I am, I have no idea what it was:
After the mangroves the ground seemed to get a little higher and drier, which doesn't mean much in these islands, but enough to change the composition of the bushes:
And it was along here that the silence got to em a bit. I kept hearing this rustling sound alongside the trail as I strode along. There were no sounds at all aside from the "crunch-swish" of my sneakers as I walked. But then I would hear rustling in the bushes, but as soon as I stopped the rustling stopped and I started to think that either I was a character in a cartoon strip being pursued by Wiley Coyote, or I was imagining things. I'd walk a bit and stop and the rustling would follow and stop. This went on for longer than I care to remember until one time I stopped suddenly and heard a loud clang from the bushes nearby. Then I figured it out- land crabs. One klutz must have fallen off his perch on an old discarded can and the mystery was solved.
It took me about half an hour but finally I reached my destination: the cut in the road that I had only previously seen from the north side of the creek:
The road on the other side was the one I rode on my Bonneville in my essay "Paved Road Ends" November 9th 2007. The creek looked as lovely as Miranda has described it to me, memories of a youthful conch. And from this shore I had a better view of it than I had from the north shore, looking off to the east...
...and to the west:
Without getting my feet, and a good deal more of myself, wet in the fast running salt water "creek" I had to turn back and return the way I had come.
So I did, but not before resting for a moment on a heavy wooden bench that was sitting in the roadway. It was long and heavy and made of wood and I have no idea how anyone got it there, nor why. But it did occur to me, since I was seen wearing pink crocs at Fort Jefferson, that my wardrobe has made me a bit self conscious. Here are my usual walking shoes:
Whcih are I think normal enough, though no doubt Allen Madding will have lots to say about riding a motorcyle wearing shorts and sneakers. The path home was of course the same as the one out but it looked a little different with the sun in my eyes:
The sun shining through the trees gave me cause to meditate on the meaning of the word "dappled" as I walked. My brother in law Bob McGahey, lives near Asheville in North Carolina and the fire department in Burnsville wanted to give all rural roads a name to make it easier to find them in the event of an emergency, a sentiment I can sympathise with, right enough. He grumped about it for a while but then he and my wife's sister Geeta, came up with a name for their lane and he wanted to call it "Dappled Dharma Way" which I thought was charming. In the end they had to settle on "Dharma Way" and every time I see something that looks dappled by the sun I think of this road in Celo Community:
Even though I am on this path in Sugarloaf Key, a place where people like to walk, enough that they clear a way from time to time apparently as witnessed by the limb removed:
And so back to the Loop Road all paved and empty in the middle of this wilderness.
Though I should add it wasn't always so. A reader Keith Krensberger sent me these pictures from an automobile rally on Loop Road from 1974, and delightful period pieces they are too:
I look forward to hearing more about it at dinner next week.
I was riding home as usual, enjoying another warm summer morning, just as the sun was starting to clear the eastern sky, when I took a spill. One minute I was cruising along at 45 miles per hour, the next the handlebars took an almighty waggle and I was in an attitude of prayer with the Bonneville on its side underneath me in the middle of the Overseas Highway.
The phone call to my wife was a bit fraught as these kinds of calls tend to be, but I managed to reassure her I was fine (adrenaline is a wonderful thing!) and we made plans for her to come and pick me up so I could trailer the Bonneville home later.
I'll have to see what Pure Triumph thinks but barring a few scuffs, and if the forks are okay I could get out of this with a war damaged motorcycle without having to go out and look for another Bonneville. The front mudguard got a little torn:
The right saddle bag died in the line of duty ($250):
And I'll need a new jacket and gloves. It's funny because I had been looking into getting a pair of Tourmaster Flex pants and they would have saved me scraping my knees (again! after my right knee healed from my walking acccident!) and my jacket did a nice job of protecting me...
...as did my leather gloves and my boots. No doubt I will be sore for a while though...I bruise more easily now than in my youth.
My poor old Bonneville will bear a few more scars from doing battle on the highway but I have no doubt we will be riding again together soon. 
I was incidentally, wearing an open face helmet which apparently never touched the ground. All in all an expensive start to the day. And I hope Toppino's fuckwits figure out how to label the roadworks in Big Coppitt a little more clearly in the future because we will be back before too long I hope. Now, where are the keys to the Nissan?
On the Windsor Lane end the spelling is GalvAston Lane, so geeks can spend many happy hours wandering back and forth enjoying the confusion. Which is a very pleasant thing to do as it turns out, as there some interesting old houses and lots of greenery:
It always surprises me when I come across vast spacious empty lots in this town. You'd think every square inch (centimeter) of this very expensive island would be built up, but that's not the case. According to J Wills Burke's book Streets of Key West, the Lane is named for the coastal city in Texas which was served by Stephen Mallory's steamship line. So I am going to stick with calling it GalvEston Lane. 
I would have to be Cirque du Soleil agile, or equipped with a ladder, or eight feet tall to violate this well protected space:
This one is protected by a row of conch shells:
This yard is protected by screening shrubbery:
I read with interest a recent entry in the Swiss daily photo blog by the person known only as Z, in my blog list, where he pushed the camera over a wall and photographed an elephant statue in a neighbor's yard. 
It seemed a risque move for a place as staid as Switzerland, though the result was decidedly worth it; check out his blog it's full of surprises. Would that were so in Key West. All I got was a picture of a deteriorating window frame from a similar exploration:
Though looking up I saw a rather nice pair of blue shutters thrown wide open, which surprised me as the weather has been rather humid and close lately, with overcast skies adding to the sense of oppressive heat. I would rather have my loft closed tight and well air conditioned:
Across the lane next to the park there was a trailer, quite picturesque with its attendant greenery in the faint rays of a setting sun:
Underfoot I spotted some wildlife:
Overhead some large brown fruit. I never tire of pointing out that I am neither ornithologist nor botanist so in this case I can safely admit I have only the faintest clue what it might be. It was hanging twenty feet in the air and it looked for all the world like breadfruit, but I have never been offered local breadfruit in Key West. Which is a shame because I am quite fond of starchy vegetables and breadfruit with curried goat is a delicious dish on the menu in the British West Indies (as were). Or perhaps it is a giant guava? Who knows...but there it was:
This I happen to know is a poinciana, frequently given the prefix of "royal," why I know not. In the West Indies it's known as a "flamboyant," while elsewhere in the tropics they call it "flame tree" for obvious reasons. It is a flamboyant flowering specimen and these bright orange flowers brighten up Key West during the early summer. I also found out the origin of the musical term maracas, which are apparently the dried seed pods of the flamboyant used as percussion instruments:
This large spreading flame tree oversees Bill Butler Park, offering plenty of shadefor dog walkers who find a supply of plastic bags next to the trash cans. I hope they use them:
Further along Galveston Lane breaks out into good old bougainvillea, which in case you read badly researched books, doesn't actually give off any scent at all ("bougainvillea scented tropical nights" is literary crap) but I think it looks good:
And there, past the corner Galveston makes a bee line towards Windsor Lane in the distance:
"Sublime, chust sublime," to quote the seafaring Scotsman Para Handy.
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