I like the meadows neighborhood, as I have mentioned previously, though Georgia Street is a little different, for some reason most of Georgia is a very wide street cutting across the neighborhood to Truman Avenue.
They call it The Meadows because apparently it was a field after World war Two when a developer decided to turn it into housing. Perhaps it was a style choice, or perhaps it was all they knew in Key West but the bulk of the housing here imitates the preferred type of construction characteristic of Old Town. here the strictures of the Historic Architectural Review Commission don't necessarily apply. Just as well: 
It's a mish mash sort of area, a vast collection of garbage cans,
And Halloween still celebrated by a ghoul hanging off the balcony.
Old style louvered windows and a concrete block house:
I find myself surprised to see busy construction work going on. This used to be a common sight around town, but these days it's much more rare to see cement being poured:
And Halloween still celebrated by a ghoul hanging off the balcony.
Old style louvered windows and a concrete block house:
It was a bright sunny afternoon which brought out the colors, especially through the autumnal absence of leaves.
I find myself surprised to see busy construction work going on. This used to be a common sight around town, but these days it's much more rare to see cement being poured:
This is one of the proper wooden Key West homes, with Bahama shutter sand picket fence:
This is at the corner of Petronia Street where Georgia becomes uncharacteristically wide:
I was out on my wife's Vespa ET4 to give it an airing.
Which, when I think about it, this is an unexceptional street in the middle of an exceptionally pretty neighborhood.
And around the corner I saw a sight I expect to see a lot more of, in the future. Actually I'm surprised more city residents don't drive electric cars, these egg cars and the more conventional-looking Zenn ("zero emission, zero noise") cars are still fairly rare on the streets:
And here I've included a few random street views:
I was out on my wife's Vespa ET4 to give it an airing.
Which, when I think about it, this is an unexceptional street in the middle of an exceptionally pretty neighborhood.
I decided to ignore my crotch full of hydraulic fluid and pressed on with the program. I dropped off the disc and took a circuit through the neighborhood behind the post office. I wasn't planning on taking any pictures, but then I passed a couple of abandoned mattresses and I thought: look at this lovely little street... and some ass couldn't be bothered to pay five bucks to drop these off at the dump on Blimp Road? Grrr.
This gravel pit got red tagged. It looked weird. The permit was on the telephone pole and underneath it, a month ago, it got red tagged saying it didn't look right to the inspector. Wow, I thought, nice neighbors! Such a peaceful backwater, so much drama!
So I took another picture. Then I remembered a rather pretty little bench sitting under a tree further back on Sandy Circle. I turned around; my wanderings had a purpose. I passed a man walking his beer can, and we exchanged a cheery remark about the pleasant temperatures. I looked over my shoulder and he, and his beer can, stepped into the bushes and vanished, like Alice in Wonderland's White Rabbit. I photographed what I think is a giant magnolia, instead.
Guarded by an elderly, weather worn, pale pink flamingo.
And, at last the bench.
Further up I found this odd looking house, long past it's sell-by date judging by the dilapidated state of the jungle garden and the real estate sign lying on the ground.
The suburban idyll (picture riepe setting fire to Big Pine Key with a cigar)is not quite so idyllic as the state road prison is just across the street, and no doubt this minimum security prison is enough to worry home buyers. Aside from a very loud, buzzy generator I would imagine the prison to be an ideal neighbor, like a cemetery, only the inmates are still alive:
The sign said nothing about pictures, only that introducing contraband is against some obscure state law. So obscure they felt the need to enumerate it on the sign. Prison, for the haute bourgeoisie like us, is a fearsome place, the repository of tales of bugger and shanks and murder in the showers, but the inmates from this place are serving less literary time and can off be seen by the side of the road paying back their debt to society riding lawn mowers and gently propping up shovels as they dram of a return to a life of Budweiser and fishing.
There but for the grace of God goes any one of us, I suppose, though properly bourgeois readers will tut-tut and imagine they are, like the memorable lady once arrested for disorderly conduct at the Bull, who shouted "We're too middle class to be arrested!" The officer was having none of it and off she went to the Stock Island Hilton.
The state of Florida doesn't seem to be spending much money maintaining this place. It looks ratty and run down, and rather depressing, despite the best efforts:
Across the street a homeowner boxed in by a stout wooden fence left no doubt as to whys/he lives in the deep mysterious woods of Big Pine Key. In case there were any doubt a sign, backed up by a dog house large enough for a mastiff on the proportions of the Hound of the Baskervilles:
The sign demanding a banning of the bomb reminds us of the cultural diversity of Big Pine Key. Personally I think the mizzen on the ketch is a little over sized, but I could be accused of just being picky.
Then I found a dirt road heading off through the wilderness so naturally, like Yogi Berra I took the fork in the road and it led me to a piece of string, more signage and a cat, though unlike the Cheshire cat that disappeared intro it's own grin, this one sat impassively in the grass looking at me making a fool of myself with my photographic apparatus:
It may very well be private property, but it wasn't that interesting anyway, I convinced myself as i pedaled back through the public property to the paved road.
Where Corvettes cannot go, I breezed through on my bicycle, past the cement barricades into a fresh new neighborhood. This house struck me as the residence of an optimist, if s/he builds it just high enough the view across the mangroves will be exhilarating, even if to see it you have to life flat on your stomach under the eaves in the attic:
And the final picture in the series I took from a bridge on the highway headed home, the sun still annoyingly shrouded by clouds, the waters in Newfound Harbor flat, the hovel craft planted firmly in the quicksilver and all color washed out by leaden sky. It still looked good to me.
And they have barbecue and outdoor seating area for those winter gatherings when it's cool enough. At least that's what I do at home, use the outdoors in winter rather than summer. 
Now this is more like it, boring dependable old Key West, porches planks and picket fences:
Simonton Street is by far the best route to cross from north to south and back again, avoiding the cruising on Duval and the sight seeing on Whitehead. And thanks to trees it is scenic enough. Here looking north toward, ultimately, Simonton Beach:
He has made a habit of hiring at risk youngsters to give them a chance to avoid the pitfalls he fell into in his younger life.
I don't suppose the tourists clambering up the hill on Petronia Street noticed just another construction company. 
And one likes to think this is a refreshing cola product in her hand at three thirty of a week day afternoon.
Not for long I hope will there be vacancies around town.
This massive affair struck me as two-in-one proposition, the lumpy square utilitarian construction below and gingerbread porch on top.
Off street parking for bicycles is as necessary as any car parking. A stout lock is a useful thing too as bicycles have been known to have been lifted from gated yards, such is their worth in a cycling town (check the pawnshops...). The police department has computerized bicycle registry these days so registering the bicycle by serial number is a very useful thing.
I mentioned the trees on Simonton Street:
I would be remiss if I closed this essay without a nod to J. Wills Burke and his The Streets of Key West wherein he tells the story of how John Whitehead told his buddy John Simonton of New Jersey of new business possibilities in the Island annexed with the rest of Florida to the United States in 1821. Simonton, who had interests in Alabama added to his business empire by paying Juan Salas (everyone except Pardon Greene among the early owners of Cayo Hueso were called John for some reason) two thousand dollars for the Island in early 1822. He then quartered the island and sold shares to John Whitehead, John Fleeming (sic), John Mountain and Consul John Warner. The last two sold their shares to the Pardon Green aforementioned. Salas meanwhile made a second sale to John Strong who sold his share to John Geddes, but in 1825 the Johns who have streets named after them (and Greene) won out their claims before the US Land Claims Board.