The morning after the night before at Lisa and Josh's was no place to put breakfast on the table. We left the wreckage and crossed the Overseas Highway on Josh's recommendation.
"They make great biscuits and gravy!" he enthused with all the vigor of a man who had mixed whisky and Grappa the night before. I was dubious, as my history with the Lodge at Mile Marker 17 was one of fried food and not very remarkable at that.
The lodge is a remnant of the glorious 1960s or thereabouts, covered in tropical foliage.
The dining room looks out onto salt water, a view interrupted by the outdoor tiki bar set on a promontory of land. Josh and I shared a romantic tiki lighted dinner there one night when our wives were away. I found it odd that we ordered food by cell phone from the restaurant across the water and our waitress hauled the food out to us. It is an odd system but it worked. For breakfast we stayed indoors on a cold gray morning, close to the kitchen.
The dining room has that definite Cold War era old fashioned air of Naugahyde and wagon wheel chandeliers. the coffee was sweet enough not to need milk and plentiful. 
Josh likes his biscuits and gravy enough to make him possessive: 
Following his advice I asked for a half order with corned beef hash instead of potatoes and we shared an order of link sausages. Instead we got this:
"I threw in some potatoes anyway..." our waitress said and they were quite delicious so I'm glad she did. One might be tempted to order more coffee and sit outside, or even take breakfast on the patio outside, but on a cold windy 60 degree (15C) morning we just went for a quick, brisk stroll and hurried back towards the car.
In the right weather this would be delightful:
So would the tiki bar: 
The Sugarloaf Lodge is, as it's name implies, a motel: 
And like motels everywhere it has mysterious members of staff scurrying about on unidentified missions using golf carts to rush back and forth: 
"They make great biscuits and gravy!" he enthused with all the vigor of a man who had mixed whisky and Grappa the night before. I was dubious, as my history with the Lodge at Mile Marker 17 was one of fried food and not very remarkable at that.The lodge is a remnant of the glorious 1960s or thereabouts, covered in tropical foliage.The dining room looks out onto salt water, a view interrupted by the outdoor tiki bar set on a promontory of land. Josh and I shared a romantic tiki lighted dinner there one night when our wives were away. I found it odd that we ordered food by cell phone from the restaurant across the water and our waitress hauled the food out to us. It is an odd system but it worked. For breakfast we stayed indoors on a cold gray morning, close to the kitchen.The dining room has that definite Cold War era old fashioned air of Naugahyde and wagon wheel chandeliers. the coffee was sweet enough not to need milk and plentiful. 
Josh likes his biscuits and gravy enough to make him possessive: 
Following his advice I asked for a half order with corned beef hash instead of potatoes and we shared an order of link sausages. Instead we got this:"I threw in some potatoes anyway..." our waitress said and they were quite delicious so I'm glad she did. One might be tempted to order more coffee and sit outside, or even take breakfast on the patio outside, but on a cold windy 60 degree (15C) morning we just went for a quick, brisk stroll and hurried back towards the car.In the right weather this would be delightful:
So would the tiki bar: 
The Sugarloaf Lodge is, as it's name implies, a motel: 
And like motels everywhere it has mysterious members of staff scurrying about on unidentified missions using golf carts to rush back and forth: 
I rated breakfast a success, thanked Josh for his inspiration and my wife and I rushed home to watch a video and huddle under blankets wishing winter would end soon.
I will have a separate essay later in the week on the sculptures on display. I am not a fan of the split display areas but there are people who operate these spaces that have very loud voices in this small community and I guess they all want a piece of the action. This display reminded my wife of her visit to Easter Island:
In fact it is called "Diaspora" so I wondered if they had forgotten to place pebbles on the headstones, in the Jewish custom. 
There used to be tons of turtles in the pond but people came to steal them and eat them apparently in the bad old days when the gardens were open to all comers.
The pond was a peaceful spot.
Plunging into the brush on the far side of the pond we passed close by the boundary fence separating the garden from the frenzied activity of the golf course.
Progress continues apace:
As peaceful as it appears the sounds of traffic are always present as is the humming from the water pumping station run by the Aqueduct Authority on College Road. 
Perhaps I don't look like an easy mark but I am never bothered by bums downtown. I get the feeling that as time goes by and the economy doesn't bounce back we will see more and more human suffering and those voluntary bums who choose life on the streets will be a minority, and more of us will face the economic breakdown that knocks us out of the middle class. In the meantime I cling to my middle class lifestyle and enjoy every minute of it. Riding with my armpits showing is not my wallflower style: 
This dude looked like he should be in Seattle or someplace rainy and cold. Oh wait, that would be the Keys these days.
A man of taste. 
A man of lesser taste. Actually I'm not sure I'm man enough to actually own and ride a T120 Triumph. I like motorcycles that start, go and stop on command.
My wife is ragging me to get new crocs as mine are worn out. I am not going to switch to orange. I think you need white legs to offset the color properly.
Automated teller machines. One is Bank of America, the other is Keys Federal Credit Union. One is too big to fail the other is a normal business. 
Ashley was rushing home from her shift at a Duval Street restaurant. I hope she was going to spend our tip wisely.
Whoops! I guess the Parking Department was not closed...We parked the kennel on Elizabeth Street and walked. That's because there are no meters out there. Actually I still see lots of available parking in Old Town, which surprises me when I hear so much bitching about parking. The ability to walk a few blocks helps.
You could be coming home to this after a hard afternoon's drinking and talking on Duval Street: 
Or this could be your inordinately expensive Old Town apartment: 
The wife and I got in the kennel, and because I had drink taken, she drove. I applauded this sentiment on first noticing the sentiment. "I wish more people would do that!" I said, thinking about all the times I answer 9-1-1 and wonder what the caller was thinking...
...then I saw the gun and I wondered why anyone would boast about pretending to be a vigilante. Better to call 9-1-1 and get professional help is the only conclusion I would draw.
I think Highway One at night has it's own particular beauty. Everyone should get to see it once.
