It was another of those pre-frontal days when Up North people look to the skies and anticipate snow, while down here at twenty four degrees north latitude we get hazy skies, humidity and a strong feeling that a summer thunderstorm might be in our future. So I took the dog for a walk. 
The wind was blowing steadily from the south and the temperature was just above 80 degrees and I dithered wondering where to take Cheyenne on my way in to Key West to meet my wife. There is a road, closed with a gate, on Stock Island that I have never explored. Today was the day to break new ground.
That the area is littered with trash is just one extra benefit and a crude swastika stenciled on the barricade just adds flavor to the scene. Cheyenne liked the trash and ignored the political statements. Walking down the street I noticed one of those inexplicable head benders that Stock Island specializes in. How do two streets cross? Beats me but the blocked off street is part of 5th.
There is another spot on Stock Island, land of no urban planning, where two avenues meet but we'll discuss that ineptitude another day. In this case Cheyenne and I set off down the empty roadway. 
Between the mangroves to the west I could see, in the distance, the condominiums lining South Roosevelt, just south of Flagler Avenue. The expanse of water is called Cow Key Channel. Stock Island got it's name from the fact that in the 18th century they kept cattle here to feed the urban Key West population. Nowadays they keep the workers here to satisfy the labor needs of the Big City. Many workers choose cheap housing afloat and park their transport in the mangroves:
We also came across a roadside shrine in this unlikely spot. How Armando contrived to get into a fatal road traffic crash here is not explained:
For those of a more temporal nature there was an actual car seat folded neatly and dumped in violation of the "No Littering" sign.
A solitary cyclist passed by with a brief nod in response to my "Buenas." In my defense he looked like a tired Cuban fisherman with his cap pulled down and his forearms as leathery and tanned as parchment.
Then this dog appeared from behind and followed us nervously. It had a bone in its jaws and it eyed Cheyenne and I as though we were likely to steal his prize possession. I was seized by an urge to bundle him up, put him in my pocket and treat him to a first world life, but he had a collar and an obvious destination in mind. he sidled past like a dog used to being stoned by strangers and disappeared. Stock Island is the land of the poor and the downhearted and doesn't have much milk of human kindness left over for animals and others lower down the food chain.
My Cuban fisherman was a middle aged white man, a character from a Steinbeck novel, living in a tent, sitting in a chair resting from his day's labor, spare clothes hanging neatly on a line to dry, his life container in a small cube of nylon. Welcome to the wealthiest, freest country in the world. If you live like this it is your moral failing that got you here, and don't you forget it. I slid by, thanking my lucky stars for my job at the police department. I could not bring myself to photograph him in his exhausted poverty so I snuck a photo of his home.
The mangroves at the end of the paved street branched off and we did the same, finding ourselves in a wilderness of mud and mangroves. And trash. Always the trash. 
It was, in many respects, a delightful spot. 
A short tramp, perhaps five minutes, brought us to the waterfront and a splendid view south across the Straits of Florida. The cooling breeze was absolutely lovely.
I speculated wildly about the raffish leopard print cloth on the end of the dock but could come up with no sensible reason for its presence, and left it to the more vividly endowed to create an improbable story line to explain it's presence. Leopard spots on fabric seem so....decadent. 
Cheyenne got busy but happily the supply of dead fish seems to be evaporating so she just got to look and not eat.
There was a mattress ready to receive me had I been overcome with exhaustion, or accompanied by those eager women that seem to hover around some people like flies around...well, never mind. Cheyenne and I were alone:
We thought we were until a dog started barking and a woman tried to shush it. It was I suspected the little brown fellow who was home and ready to defend his turf. We retreated as I was unwilling to disturb the peace and not keen to get into conversation with a mangrove dweller. It would just be depressing.
The path followed a narrow limestone ridge between water covered mangrove roots:
And then we were back out on the paved road where we met the tent man's other half striding down, a lunch box banging on her hip. She greeted us cheerily and petted Cheyenne who is a whore and will take the kindness of strangers anywhere, anytime. She strode off bellowing for the man, possibly named Jay or Hey I couldn't tell.
The thing about these mangroves is that even people with jobs can find it hard to find a home even supposing they wanted to. Rents are astronomical, and to move into a $1,000 modest one bedroom would set you back three grand with all the deposits and stuff. And this is not fancy housing in "the Avenues" as the streets between 5th and 12th Avenue are known on Stock Island.
As crazy as it may sound decent, newer homes in this crowded neighborhood were selling for more than $400,000 during the boom years. Even now I'll bet a decent home this close to Key West would command a quarter million, be it ever so small. A rent free tent may not be so bad.
Junk piled up is a fact of life even in this little shrine in a front yard.
And sneakers out to dry on a fence could just as easily be drying on a mangrove branch.
For me, I'd rather not live this close to my neighbors, but perhaps I am just a snob. It does one good to take a walk and re-dimension one's expectations sometimes.
The wind was blowing steadily from the south and the temperature was just above 80 degrees and I dithered wondering where to take Cheyenne on my way in to Key West to meet my wife. There is a road, closed with a gate, on Stock Island that I have never explored. Today was the day to break new ground.That the area is littered with trash is just one extra benefit and a crude swastika stenciled on the barricade just adds flavor to the scene. Cheyenne liked the trash and ignored the political statements. Walking down the street I noticed one of those inexplicable head benders that Stock Island specializes in. How do two streets cross? Beats me but the blocked off street is part of 5th.There is another spot on Stock Island, land of no urban planning, where two avenues meet but we'll discuss that ineptitude another day. In this case Cheyenne and I set off down the empty roadway. 
Between the mangroves to the west I could see, in the distance, the condominiums lining South Roosevelt, just south of Flagler Avenue. The expanse of water is called Cow Key Channel. Stock Island got it's name from the fact that in the 18th century they kept cattle here to feed the urban Key West population. Nowadays they keep the workers here to satisfy the labor needs of the Big City. Many workers choose cheap housing afloat and park their transport in the mangroves:We also came across a roadside shrine in this unlikely spot. How Armando contrived to get into a fatal road traffic crash here is not explained:For those of a more temporal nature there was an actual car seat folded neatly and dumped in violation of the "No Littering" sign.
A solitary cyclist passed by with a brief nod in response to my "Buenas." In my defense he looked like a tired Cuban fisherman with his cap pulled down and his forearms as leathery and tanned as parchment.Then this dog appeared from behind and followed us nervously. It had a bone in its jaws and it eyed Cheyenne and I as though we were likely to steal his prize possession. I was seized by an urge to bundle him up, put him in my pocket and treat him to a first world life, but he had a collar and an obvious destination in mind. he sidled past like a dog used to being stoned by strangers and disappeared. Stock Island is the land of the poor and the downhearted and doesn't have much milk of human kindness left over for animals and others lower down the food chain.My Cuban fisherman was a middle aged white man, a character from a Steinbeck novel, living in a tent, sitting in a chair resting from his day's labor, spare clothes hanging neatly on a line to dry, his life container in a small cube of nylon. Welcome to the wealthiest, freest country in the world. If you live like this it is your moral failing that got you here, and don't you forget it. I slid by, thanking my lucky stars for my job at the police department. I could not bring myself to photograph him in his exhausted poverty so I snuck a photo of his home.The mangroves at the end of the paved street branched off and we did the same, finding ourselves in a wilderness of mud and mangroves. And trash. Always the trash. 
It was, in many respects, a delightful spot. A short tramp, perhaps five minutes, brought us to the waterfront and a splendid view south across the Straits of Florida. The cooling breeze was absolutely lovely.I speculated wildly about the raffish leopard print cloth on the end of the dock but could come up with no sensible reason for its presence, and left it to the more vividly endowed to create an improbable story line to explain it's presence. Leopard spots on fabric seem so....decadent. Cheyenne got busy but happily the supply of dead fish seems to be evaporating so she just got to look and not eat.
There was a mattress ready to receive me had I been overcome with exhaustion, or accompanied by those eager women that seem to hover around some people like flies around...well, never mind. Cheyenne and I were alone:We thought we were until a dog started barking and a woman tried to shush it. It was I suspected the little brown fellow who was home and ready to defend his turf. We retreated as I was unwilling to disturb the peace and not keen to get into conversation with a mangrove dweller. It would just be depressing.The path followed a narrow limestone ridge between water covered mangrove roots:
And then we were back out on the paved road where we met the tent man's other half striding down, a lunch box banging on her hip. She greeted us cheerily and petted Cheyenne who is a whore and will take the kindness of strangers anywhere, anytime. She strode off bellowing for the man, possibly named Jay or Hey I couldn't tell.The thing about these mangroves is that even people with jobs can find it hard to find a home even supposing they wanted to. Rents are astronomical, and to move into a $1,000 modest one bedroom would set you back three grand with all the deposits and stuff. And this is not fancy housing in "the Avenues" as the streets between 5th and 12th Avenue are known on Stock Island.
As crazy as it may sound decent, newer homes in this crowded neighborhood were selling for more than $400,000 during the boom years. Even now I'll bet a decent home this close to Key West would command a quarter million, be it ever so small. A rent free tent may not be so bad.Junk piled up is a fact of life even in this little shrine in a front yard.And sneakers out to dry on a fence could just as easily be drying on a mangrove branch.
For me, I'd rather not live this close to my neighbors, but perhaps I am just a snob. It does one good to take a walk and re-dimension one's expectations sometimes.
In a recent post Pefley in Seattle identified a classic car he photographed. I have no idea what this is on William Street. It looks like it would be more at home 90 miles south in Havana.
The red blob in the middle of the fence says "No Trespassing" though how you are supposed to trespass a fence that tall I have no idea, not being a pole vaulter.
I was prompted to take a picture of the interior when I noticed the multiplicity of wires and mounting brackets and general electronic crap. Living life indeed!
Better living through electrons. This next one cracked me up after I double checked what I was seeing through the cemetery fence.
The bronze colored plaque celebrates the dead person's service in the Civil War fighting in the rebellion against the Union and someone has seen fit to mark the spot with a Union Flag. That is really missing the point with delicious irony. In the next picture I saw riepe's over sized dog celebrated in a bumper sticker. Of course I had to take the picture whereupon I spotted the burger joint sticker as well.
For my take on the In-N-Out phenomenon here is a link to an essay I wrote about my last visit to that particular burger chain in California's Central Valley:
No cat is safe that we care for, none, to paraphrase Gilbert and Sullivan's Three Little Maids in Mikado:
An international incident was narrowly averted by pre-emptive use of the extend-a-leash. I looked around when I saw the scribble on the street sign painted on a power pole:
Indeed the city seems to have forgotten to label Carsten's Lane as one way from William to Margaret. The penciled notation might help. It happened that I started noticing tin roofs, like this delightful antique rusting gently under the southern sun and salt:
This church tower on Fleming reminds me of the Missionary church tower they invented for the movie Vertigo, directed by Alfred Hitchcock. He set part of the movie in the mission church at San Juan Bautista in Central California but the church does not actually have a tower so they made one up for the movie. Had Hitchcock lived here instead of in Santa Cruz County he could have used this Congregational Church tower to show Jimmy Stewart losing his mind over another blonde:
This next oddity must have a proper botanical name but it put me in mind of things more biological than botanical.
And then I came across this conveyance, a vestige of a proud 20th century corporation, now said to be headed towards ownership by the Russian mob. Or not because GM is currently owned by the US government who is embarrassed by news that the Dutch buyers of the Saab brand are backed by the Mafiya.
It happens that people call 9-1-1 and we need to get what we call "descriptors" of the people involved in whatever thing is being reported. All too often callers say "white shirt and brown shorts" or "black shirt, tan shorts" or something like that. "The Key West uniform" I think to myself as I dutifully note down the clothing details. they are supposed to help in case the people move away and officers are out looking for them.
Old Skool Orin has made a point of Portland's efforts to keep the city weird. Key West does that with one hand tied behind it's collective back. Keeping the attitude down to a low hum is a lot harder. I like the live and let live philosophy so I try not to support change for change's sake when an issue comes up.
On my way down Eaton Street I started to see motorcycles. This is one of the major arteries into Old Town and new arrivals line up around here to take advantage of the guest houses close to Duval Street. This people appeared to be from Manitoba. One would like to think they rode the whole way.
In Key west the utility of a small motor scooter cannot be overstated:
Putting multiple vehicles in one parking space is legal in Key West, but if the meter runs out all vehicles in the spot get a ticket. There is tons of free motorcycle parking so you'd think people would use it. I had the great joy of encountering Tony at the corner of Duval and Eaton. We discussed the Bible verse about judging not, lest ye be judged which led us down a dark dead end of disagreement. A young woman walked by and shouted "You give Christians a bad name!" to which Tony replied with a venomous comment that involved an asshole. I told him I was shocked and he looked at me with contempt.
Of course the anonymous woman is right, Tony just makes public what Christians don't want to say out loud. They hate fags. Bummer, but what shocks me is how many fags want to belong to a club that views them as sinners. People are just incomprehensible to me; if you need to believe in the unbelievable become a Druid, a group of tree worshippers who I don't think care about sexual orientation. Here's another preposterous sign seen as I walked back to the car from having seen and enjoyed A Single Man, ironically enough a superb story well told about a fag! I suppose that makes me a fag enabler, or something.
A tumble down house still on offer for a price that seems to ignore quite happily the realty of the US real estate market. Perhaps unreality is another fine Key West quality.
I met Steve last October at Badboy Burrito proudly riding his Buell, both of them survivors of the ride across the backroads of the Midwest known as the TAT, the Trans America Trail, and he was justifiably proud of the accomplishment. We talked before the demise of the Buell company was announced and his enthusiasm for the marque was a pleasure to see. It served him well on his epic journey. 
A little further on the trail came to the water's edge, which is pretty much the fate of all trails be they ever so short in the Keys. Land simply runs out and a weed-covered foreshore suddenly appears.
A windy, bright winter's day brings white caps into the channels between the islands and also that wind seems to bring into sight a group of pelicans huddling in the wind on a sand bar.
In the photo above you can see the whitecaps and the buffaloes running on the horizon which indicates an even windier day out in Big Spanish Channel. Overhead turkey vultures were soaring and looking graceful. Waiting for us to expire perhaps, or at least to become too weak to fight back.
Cheyenne and I were laid out in the sun and shade reflecting on....the meaning of life, or the worth of a walk? The vultures swooped overhead as though checking our vital signs. Cheyenne stayed alert to fend them off: 
The sun pounded down on us as we rested from the effort of our brief stroll. It was a peaceful moment, close to Highway One, indicated by engine noises on the embankment above, but far from any other signs of human activity:
Sometimes it's necessary to be a human being and not a human doing.