Breakfast out with my wife is a rare treat these days. Before I started working nights a few years ago, one of my favorite ways of starting the day was with an eggy breakfast and a newspaper with lots of coffee. Nowadays all I want to do at that hour of the morning is ride home as fast as possible and start snoring. So when my wife had a sleepover in town and suggested breakfast together after I got off work, there was only one place to go:
El Mocho on Stock Islands' main drag, Maloney Avenue, is the magnet for breakfast these days. They open at five in the morning and serve a mixture of American greasy spoon and Cuban delicacies till three in the afternoon.
Lunch at El Mocho is a massive affair, heaping piles of rice and black beans accompany the main course with sweet fried plantains to leave you stuffed and barely able to move... but this is the robust fare workers on Stock island have come to expect, and for well less than ten dollars too from the funky little hut a block away from the Tom Thumb convenience store and across the street from the last remaining independent home supply store on the island. This is a small corner of independent small business on Stock Island amid the mobile homes and dusty light industrial welding shops and carpenters and fishermen who all wait with bated breath hoping massive redevelopment slated for the island is held off by the economic misery generated by the derivatives collapse. We heard recently that the frou-frou Harbor Yacht Club situated in the new marina that replaced Peninsular, has folded, though the developers promise it will reopen in January, so clearly all is not well in the world of gentrification. In El Mocho the Cuban family that has owned it continues to serve up what the people want:
Eggs, bacon, and Cuban toast already buttered, cafe con leche, no soy milk low fat options here, in an atmosphere that would be no atmosphere were Formica and chrome Naugahyde furniture not nostalgic.
The lights are bright and the food is served in a hurry from the kitchen. Each of the half dozen tables wedged into the misshapen room gets a minimum of condiments, the basic oil/vinegar for your salad, ketchup, hot sauce, salt and pepper:
If you are on your way to work and barely awake put in your order and when it arrives piping hot in just a few minutes you put your head down and dig in:
Spanish is the lingua franca here but English is also spoken, perfectly fluently if masked by a smile and thick Cuban accent. El Mocho is a classic old fashioned hub and the espresso machine is the tool that creates coffee but also serves as the spot where information is traded:
My wife and I come here often enough to be greeted warmly and with a hint of recognition, but I am not one of those that is very able at the hail-fellow-well-met routine, in the places I go to eat. If no one knows my name that's fine by me so I cannot give you the family's story that runs this place for our benefit. I'm not alone in my reticence, reading the paper is a favorite way to accompany some breakfasts:
I first used to come to El Mocho years ago when I was hauling out my sailboat for maintenance down at Peninsular. One year we spent almost an entire winter it felt like sitting up on the dusty pea rock of the boatyard with a task list as long as a battleship's and El Mocho was where we came to escape the tedium and filth of the boatyard. It is not atmospheric in the traditional sense, but it isn't fake either:
The walls under the bright fluorescent lights carry a few modest period ads:
And some autographed pictures brought in as a token of appreciation by fliers far from home training at the nearby Boca Chica Naval Air Station. It's not rare to see the military in here looking for a bacon and egg sandwich and a con leche:
With the closure of the Vieques training ground off Puerto Rico, Key West has become one of two major training facilities for fliers in the US (Elgin Air Base in the Florida panhandle is the other) thanks to proximity to open water and mild weather easy to fly in year round. And because the US has its military fingers in pies all round the world our allies come here to get training too from time to time. This picture was signed by fliers from 433 Escadrille of Quebec and there was another similar from 4 Air Wing in Alberta nearby:
But for the most part the dress code at El Mocho is informal, and that's the way I like it too:
El Mocho reminds me of places I've eaten across Latin America, no air conditioning, no glass in the windows as a matter of fact, hot in summer, cool in winter, a cash only economy that keeps prices down and accessible. The porch out front is reserved for the regulars who gather like their counterparts in the Dominican Republic or Puerto Rico (or Cuba I'm sure) and talk as they suck down their Latin espressos, known in Cuban as buchi (mouthfuls). Through the grille that serves as a window I could see one patron repeatedly flipping a small paper cup to his lips:
Cubans order coladas, which are half a dozen buchis in a large paper cup, then they distribute the thimble sized cups among friends and pour the coffee out in rounds and throw them down the hatch. It's powerful stuff with lots of sugar (lots!) so they are well wired for the morning... All too soon it's time to go, my wife on her Vespa (sporting her red Turkey sticker she got on her trip) to the college on the north side of the island and me to bed by Triumph:
But before we left the haven I took one last picture of the Cubans arguing about nothing and watching the world go by:
Say what you like but to me this really is a last piece of Old Key West, unselfconsciously real. Vaya con Dios.
El Mocho on Stock Islands' main drag, Maloney Avenue, is the magnet for breakfast these days. They open at five in the morning and serve a mixture of American greasy spoon and Cuban delicacies till three in the afternoon.Lunch at El Mocho is a massive affair, heaping piles of rice and black beans accompany the main course with sweet fried plantains to leave you stuffed and barely able to move... but this is the robust fare workers on Stock island have come to expect, and for well less than ten dollars too from the funky little hut a block away from the Tom Thumb convenience store and across the street from the last remaining independent home supply store on the island. This is a small corner of independent small business on Stock Island amid the mobile homes and dusty light industrial welding shops and carpenters and fishermen who all wait with bated breath hoping massive redevelopment slated for the island is held off by the economic misery generated by the derivatives collapse. We heard recently that the frou-frou Harbor Yacht Club situated in the new marina that replaced Peninsular, has folded, though the developers promise it will reopen in January, so clearly all is not well in the world of gentrification. In El Mocho the Cuban family that has owned it continues to serve up what the people want:Eggs, bacon, and Cuban toast already buttered, cafe con leche, no soy milk low fat options here, in an atmosphere that would be no atmosphere were Formica and chrome Naugahyde furniture not nostalgic.The lights are bright and the food is served in a hurry from the kitchen. Each of the half dozen tables wedged into the misshapen room gets a minimum of condiments, the basic oil/vinegar for your salad, ketchup, hot sauce, salt and pepper:If you are on your way to work and barely awake put in your order and when it arrives piping hot in just a few minutes you put your head down and dig in:Spanish is the lingua franca here but English is also spoken, perfectly fluently if masked by a smile and thick Cuban accent. El Mocho is a classic old fashioned hub and the espresso machine is the tool that creates coffee but also serves as the spot where information is traded:My wife and I come here often enough to be greeted warmly and with a hint of recognition, but I am not one of those that is very able at the hail-fellow-well-met routine, in the places I go to eat. If no one knows my name that's fine by me so I cannot give you the family's story that runs this place for our benefit. I'm not alone in my reticence, reading the paper is a favorite way to accompany some breakfasts:I first used to come to El Mocho years ago when I was hauling out my sailboat for maintenance down at Peninsular. One year we spent almost an entire winter it felt like sitting up on the dusty pea rock of the boatyard with a task list as long as a battleship's and El Mocho was where we came to escape the tedium and filth of the boatyard. It is not atmospheric in the traditional sense, but it isn't fake either:The walls under the bright fluorescent lights carry a few modest period ads:And some autographed pictures brought in as a token of appreciation by fliers far from home training at the nearby Boca Chica Naval Air Station. It's not rare to see the military in here looking for a bacon and egg sandwich and a con leche:With the closure of the Vieques training ground off Puerto Rico, Key West has become one of two major training facilities for fliers in the US (Elgin Air Base in the Florida panhandle is the other) thanks to proximity to open water and mild weather easy to fly in year round. And because the US has its military fingers in pies all round the world our allies come here to get training too from time to time. This picture was signed by fliers from 433 Escadrille of Quebec and there was another similar from 4 Air Wing in Alberta nearby:But for the most part the dress code at El Mocho is informal, and that's the way I like it too:El Mocho reminds me of places I've eaten across Latin America, no air conditioning, no glass in the windows as a matter of fact, hot in summer, cool in winter, a cash only economy that keeps prices down and accessible. The porch out front is reserved for the regulars who gather like their counterparts in the Dominican Republic or Puerto Rico (or Cuba I'm sure) and talk as they suck down their Latin espressos, known in Cuban as buchi (mouthfuls). Through the grille that serves as a window I could see one patron repeatedly flipping a small paper cup to his lips:Cubans order coladas, which are half a dozen buchis in a large paper cup, then they distribute the thimble sized cups among friends and pour the coffee out in rounds and throw them down the hatch. It's powerful stuff with lots of sugar (lots!) so they are well wired for the morning... All too soon it's time to go, my wife on her Vespa (sporting her red Turkey sticker she got on her trip) to the college on the north side of the island and me to bed by Triumph:But before we left the haven I took one last picture of the Cubans arguing about nothing and watching the world go by:Say what you like but to me this really is a last piece of Old Key West, unselfconsciously real. Vaya con Dios.
She was glad enough to see me and she wagged and wiggled just a little and let me scratch her neck and rub her ears in my attempts to give her relief from her awful plastic torture ring. I spent a half hour sitting and talking to her, in a room that smelled to my inadequate human nostrils, of hospitals, not least because that is where we were:
Lula Mae seemed almost relieved to settle back into her bed, exhausted by the contact. I wanted to say hello to her neighbor but one doesn't want to aggravate some unknown condition or other. She looked like she could have used a visit:
Lula Mae is long since home and mending. One of the lucky dogs in a world where animals get short shrift. A hospital as equipped and modern as this would be quite human, never mind humane in many parts of the world. 
I don't think this house is going to be loaded onto a trailer and moved, I believe it is simply being raised to get a new, and perhaps proper, foundation. Certainly it appears to need one, as it sits looking rather undignified, up in the air above White Street. Key West has an above ground cemetery as noted elsewhere and this is the reason why:
It's not just the dead that need to be kept above the water table on "the Rock."
I may be wrong but I couldn't help but chuckle to myself as I walked the new street. It has the undefinable air of being something of a passive aggressive statement by the city, as it does open a fresh access to the waterfront which is important to the Navy Base whose Commander has demanded twenty-four hour access to his property. However, while obeying the letter of the agreement with Truman Annex, the city has created a route that defies the ability of any large vehicle, military or otherwise to negotiate the corners. Thus it is, Southard Street remains the only viable waterfront access for trucks. Which is not anymore the city's problem as the agreement to end the lawsuit with the Annex has been adhered to. If the Navy wants 24 hour access for trucks, that will be their problem. A solution worthy of the machinations of the former city manager Julio Avael. I am impressed.
And this left over from my cruise ship pictures reminded me that they still want us to keep on shopping to keep the economy afloat:
I was on my home one evening and I stopped on Sugarloaf to photograph a sunset (see the next paragraph) and I got overwhelmed by a patriotic moment. No nation puts out more flags than the US. If any Cubans were to parachute onto the airstrip at Sugarload Key in their quest for freedom they'd be sure which country they'd landed in...
She was 56 and spent much of her adult life in Key West. My buddy Curt taught her the fine art of living on the water and she spent a good few years living on her Chris Craft anchored near Rat Key. I took this picture of our sailboat anchored nearby sometime around 2000 after my wife and I arrived here from our trip from California via the Panama Canal:
For me the half mile row into Garrison Bight was generally a pain and I was extremely glad when I organized an outboard. Cheryl disagreed:
Curt was always a fanatical rower seen here with Cheryl's dog his stalwart passenger. He still lives at anchor but even he these days has an outboard:
I look back at that time and wished I had taken more pictures, which makes me glad I've got it together finally to do just that. Better late, as they say.... 
...than never.
I published an essay a while back which I titled "Bridge to Nowhere" chronicling a short walk I took on the northern side of Summerland Key where I found a bridge at the end of the path which had been shorn of it's on ramp and as I stood there in my shoes and socks I wondered where the bridge went. The picture above looks back at the southern tip of the bridge and the end of the land where I had to stop last visit. I had returned to the spot armed with a pair of rubber clogs and the nerve to wade into the water and grapple with the end of the bridge.
The tide was coming back in pretty fast and I had this moment of wondering how cold the water would be, it reminded me of a cold mountain stream gurgling over the rocks. Naturally it wasn't cold at all, so the next obstacle was to haul myself up onto the wooden bridge. I threw my backpack onto the bridge to keep the camera safe while I dealt with the bridge.
It turned out to be surprisingly easy, there were nice solid bolts sticking out of the vertical post. almost like steps, so up I scrambled, trying not to worry about how i was going to get back down later. It wasn't real high, just six feet maybe, but I felt rather middle aged scrambling about like a child. Rather sooner than I expected I was up on the wooden bridge and walking to the opposite end.
It was a glorious day in the Lower Keys, bright sunshine, sparkling waters and a fresh easterly breeze. Indeed the wind was refreshing though not out of the north, almost like the first cold front of the winter, even though temperatures were in the upper 80's. The bridge itself was surprisingly solid, despite years of being abandoned in the sun and rain and storms. The planks were bolted together and the galvanized bolts were still solid. It was a fine piece of engineering, and now entirely wasted as the other end was also removed:
From on top of the bridge I could see a trail snaking away into the bushes:
It was, even for me, the work of a moment to leap off the end of the bridge and start walking. I was curious to see what this elaborate bridge had been built for and why there were the remains of a road at the northern end. The old road took but one turn past some bushes and immediately it began to deteriorate:
I was wondering if the road might lead to the remains of a home, at least the foundations or something. I have seen abandoned homes in the Bahamas that had collapsed under the weight of time and in the old days they used to build homes in these latitudes with cement foundations and coral rock chimneys (Crab Key near Georgetown comes to mind). The bridge fascinated me because it seemed so elaborate merely to connect a homestead which in the old days would have relied on a boat to get around anyway. I kind of figured there had to be some kind of cottage industry up here to justify a bridge this well built....
The trail snaked around a fair bit and from time to time I could see a peak of water off to the west, or some mysteriously uprooted trees to the east:
But of human construction there was no sign on any side of the trail. Which probably shouldn't be too surprising as the shrubbery was pretty thick:
I wish I could say that it was a pleasant walk but despite the sun, the breeze and the invigorating blue sky and puffy white clouds it was a really clod hopping clump through the muck.
We are in the closing weeks of rainy season and everything that isn't asphalted is wallowing in water, and as result my rubber clogs were squeaking and squelching like crazy through all this water. Plus I was carrying my camera in my hand ready for any exciting thing to appear, so there was that to worry about too, as the camera is not waterproof.
The only interesting thing I spotted were a few faint footprints in the mud so others had come here before me, possibly walking a dog, though as I'm not Natty Bumpo I can't say for sure. I also found a few strategically placed planks to bridge the deepest water puddles. I was covered in gray clay specks at this point and I surrendered. Back I went and I confess I was glad enough to see the bridge reappear through the greenery:
I got back on the bridge easily enough and spent a good bit of time standing on the warm wooden planks letting the clay dry on my legs and feet and other places where wet mud isn't supposed to reach. I played with the camera checking out the manual settings and trying to capture the sparkle of the sun on the water:
Not very well it turned out, looking down Niles Channel towards Highway One. I think I was just dicking around to avoid facing the descent at the end of the bridge. I am well enough convinced I did a good job of poking around in the underbrush to be fairly sure there is nothing too obvious that I missed on the island though you could probably hide an Iraqi army in the spiky shrubbery. I shan't be back I think. The getting off of the bridge was a piece of cake, and I didn't tear my shorts or fall in the water or commit any of my usual pratfalls. Expedition successfully concluded I'd say.