Truman Waterfront

I had a quick look at the developing Truman Waterfront Park, and starting with the panoramic shot above I panned the camera from the Eco Discovery center to the left around to the open space on the right towards the Southard Street entrance.

The park is not in itself ugly or anything but most comments I've heard point out it reflects nothing of Key West.

The city has owned this land for almost twenty years after the Navy gave up ownership of the 34 acres of waterfront. Most of that time the land was pretty much ignored and suddenly in the last year a  very bland plan was drawn up after an ambitious exploitation was abandoned.

The first go at development called for an upscale marina and restaurant to fund the park which would be built by and then managed (for a hefty fee) by the Spottswood company. Unfortunately for them the terms were so obviously disadvantageous for the city and its taxpayers that idea was shot down in flames.

Instead the pace of construction is such that piece by piece a rather bland open space with uniformly dreary trees is appearing piece by piece. The park is so uninspiring none of the benches face inward oddly enough. You can't easily sit there and contemplate the lovely lawn and the carefully spaced coconut palms.

There is the massive highway that cuts across the park to Fort Zachary Taylor and beyond it the stolidly unchanged entrance to the Navy Base.

There is a first rate, I think, child's playground in the park. I am no judge of these things as I have no children or interest in them but the floor is made of rubber matting and the  structures appear to be very involving.

 There is even flowing water which looked inviting to this adult.

 This could be quite the hit for youngsters in Key West whose parents frequently complain there is nothing for them to do.

And the inviting walls are lined  with studs which at first seemed to be there to discourage sitting?. However on closer inspection they seemed rather far apart for that to me. Perhaps to discourage lying down?

 The usual shade awnings competing with natures shade fronds:

And if the park isn't enough the Coast Guard Cutter Ingham is floating nearby for a visit and perhaps a sunset drink.

Moving Around Downtown

Key West, always sunny, headed into summer when some seek tropical adventure on foot:

My friend George on his way home.

Bicycles for all

The train keeps running:

And at least some of the signs downtown get polished from time to time:

Chickens seem to form tight family units, I've noticed. You have to respect that:

More bicycles. They are everywhere:

Not all in use all the time:

Generation Gap

This visit to my family in Italy has seen me spending more time with my brother in law than in years past. He has retired from a lifetime of farming and has handed the land over to his two sons. He cultivates his vegetables and watches them innovate from a distance. 

He is of the school of thought that doesn’t hold with debt or cultivation planned by outsiders. His sons are growing dedicated fields of wheat for pasta makers who offer higher than market prices for wheat grown to their specifications. Something old man Vincenzo would never countenance. 

I sipped grappa and left them to debate the merits. I have never had an interest in, never mind passionate feelings about farming. That’s why I ran away to America 36 years ago, but these points of view rank high on the scale of importance in the valley where I spent my childhood when not in school. 

Young Daniele has embraced renewable energy which his father views with some suspicion. Solar water heaters and electricity from photovoltaic cells and wind generators are part of Europe’s commitment to reducing carbon. For old man Vincenzo it is an innovation and thus clearly not sensible. 

He knows every trail and hidden water source, the names of plants and the uses of old ox drawn farm

implements.

His eldest son Daniele educated at a farming college and now 42 applies for grants and loans from the European Union for what is now his farm. He doesn’t listen to the wisdom of his father’s generation as he seeks a better return from his fields using techniques learned at conferences not at the school of hard knocks.

Since I never had the farming gene I caused quite a ruckus when, after many family arguments I got on my motorcycle one night in 1982 and rode away never to look back. I don’t regret it. My brother in law after decades of anger, these days says I was brave to go away. I think his son is brave to stay and work out how to make a living from mountain land and deal with the second guessing from the peanut gallery. 

The mother and wife, my sister says nothing. She told me who she supports inside her own head but I don’t think I’m meant to tell. We are both passive observers. 

Tradition is supposed to be the way of the Umbrians a people who pre-date the Romans and taught the Etruscans of Tuscany a thing or two, but these days tradition is more of an advertising slogan. I avoid the farm, farming and talk of farming. Even in church I stay to one side since my brother in law found religion.  He does nothing by halves and doesn’t need to know I shed Catholicism with farming on that flight to San Francisco 36 years ago. 

I am glad it’s someone else’s turn to be the family rebel though I can’t tell if that is the role of the father or of the son. I watch and wait for the dust to settle. And I fear very much there’s only one way that will happen in the fullness of time. 

A traditional funeral notice:

Did I mention Umbrians are stubborn?  Look no further than my family. I made the mistake of mentioning out loud I thought a new neighbor from Rome might be gay, wondering how she fit in. Well it turns out that stupidly thoughtless line of conversation landed me in a hell hole of 19th century prejudice which clearly sees me bound for eternal damnation. I trust my gay friends will forgive me if I confess I did not fight the fight, I cursed myself silently for not knowing when to shut up and I listened to the diatribe which ran on familiar and futile ground.

Umbria is beautiful and that’s all we need to know. Keep it superficial and keep on keeping on. Advertising slogans rule: “Umbria, the green heart of Italy.”  

If you would like an outsider’s view of this strange place forget My Villa in Umbria and other such rose tinted tripe and read about a neighboring village in stark detail. The family in Marcus of Umbria is known to my relatives and boy were my nieces surprised when I told them the American with the dog wrote a book. 

Available in digital format. 

The Past

Life in my corner of Italy has changed a lot and not at all. If you are my sisters who have resisted the advance of technology all their lives things have not changed at all. They are twins and ten years older than I and color television was the beginning of the end of civilization for them. The internet has wrecked the picture postcard habit. They like the old ways and adhere to them with gentle stubbornness. 

The married couple on the left, the widow on the right, me taking the obligatory portrait. My sisters this year fade into the background as my brother in law Vincenzo has made 2018 the start of a new more intense relationship with me. 

Thin and wiry he grew up a farmer and married my sister the heiress over fifty years ago. He told me yesterday for the first time he married her because she found beauty and joy in the place she lived. Not because of her land; I had never thought of him as a gold digger. They thought of selling their land but they could think of nothing else to do so they raised their boys there and now the old folks are sidelined, the boys farm and their wives run the bed and breakfast. 

We take long walks in the woods talking about the past and it’s mistakes, the future in a country that can not straighten out its politics and a present that is hedged in by rules and restrictions that deal with issues that have never been problems. 

Every activity Vincenzo used to undertake has now been stymied because of regulations and European restrictions and health and safety rules. He enjoys retirement with his dog Caramella and his vegetable patches and watches his sons work as hard as he once did. 

Italy he says is a country without a purpose. Italians have lost motivation and he too finds petty bureaucracy maddening. He warns me against living in Italy. Taxes are high and services don’t work. In this Byzantine world where every message must be understood on all levels I find myself trying to parse hidden meanings. 

Does he mean I’m not wanted here? Is he expressing his discontent? Who knows. I listen and am glad he confides in me so I can unravel later the hidden meaning. He is doing me a favor and reminding me how complicated life is here. But he is also confiding in me so I have somehow earned his respect. You brave to go to America he says. I was desperate I say and he shakes his head. 

I like being a visitor. Perhaps I am irresponsible perhaps I am lazy but for a week I get time to not care about the big picture. We talk of the past, of people we knew. The night I arrived he had to go to a funeral. So far we are the lucky ones he said. So far.