When I see old Key West filtered in sepia tones by the magic of electrons I am put in mind of old movies The Rose Tattoo is a fine cliché, for example.
I saw no voluble Italians on our stroll, just clumps of quiet tourists, as captivated as I by the architecture of a small corner of America left largely untouched through the years.
The fish shop on Eaton never looked less like the gas station it once used to be. A waif in an apron staggered out under the weight of a large trash can and deposited her load with barely a glance for me or my usually enticing furry companion.
I unleashed Cheyenne to stand around with my camera while my tripod sat at home thirty miles away snug in a saddlebag.
Tennessee Williams lived on Duncan Street but he might as well have set his gothic horrors here.
A travelers palm and an eyebrow home, two Key West icons on Stump Lane.
And back to James Street, under that glowing moon. Two power boat racers were lost on Margaret Street.
"Honey, we're miles from Duval," he whined into the phone. "Hey it's okay, we've found a local," he put the phone away.
"Say, do you know where Finnigan's Wake is?" I pointed them round the the corner onto James Street with the admonition to taste the draught Boddington's which I find delicious. They were from Up North and barely acknowledged me as they trotted away desperate not to be late for whatever important gathering was assembled in the bar.
I doubt they even noticed the moon.
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