Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Seahorse Trailer Park

I find it rather sad to see a telephone number promoting inquiries about the availability of lot spaces at Seahorse Trailer Park in Big Pine Key.
On the first day of this year the Key West Citizen reported  that last Christmas the residents of this park were given two month eviction notices.
And here it is, more affordable housing, as cruddy as it is, cleared out to make way for more costly developments. The estimated  50 people who used to live here were made homeless so the living units could be used to build hotel units on Stock Island at the harbor yacht club. 
Under the Rate of Growth ordinance, enacted to protect the fragile ecosystem of the Florida Keys development is supposed to be kept in check by a system of permits, which system ends up being used to maneuver end runs that replace living space with vacation space. 
So one family trailer here equals in the developers' minds one hotel room elsewhere in the county, in a place that will be more lucrative, close to the water or close to attractions. Out here working people lived and retired and spent their money, enjoying the same weather the rest of us enjoy..
And now it's done. Ironically county officials sanctimoniously told the newspaper these were lots zoned for recreational vehicle use, not as permanent residences. The reality in a county this expensive is that people live where they can, in boats, RVs, sheds, lofts and sometimes the mangroves.
Families lived here, Spanish speaking ones too and they never bothered me or my dog. We walked through, said hello, and they left me and Cheyenne and my pink Crocs alone.  When we lived on Ramrod Key, closer than Cudjoe Key where we live now, I used to come here quite often and walk the early hours. 
Cheyenne liked it because there were lots of smells here, food particles, trash, outdoor living, quiet streets that suited her gentle pace.
I don't suppose there was anything anyone could do, it's a trend in the Keys where outsiders will pay huge sums to buy houses they rarely even occupy. Trailer parks are getting torn up everywhere. The Spottswoods evicted 85  families a few years ago from  a  Key Largo trailer park. The Catholic diocese shut  down the Simonton Court Trailer Park in Key West last year.
Some people wonder who will do the carrying and lifting and cleaning for the idle classes in Key West and I suppose dormitory housing and imported labor will meet requirements. As it is the Middle and Upper Keys (all the islands north of the Seven Mile Bridge) get some of their labor from Homestead and Florida City where the laborers board buses at ungodly hours of the morning and ride hours to work. 
 You can see it in Key West too, the outflow of workers, when at eight o'clock in the morning Stock Island gets crammed with lines of cars struggling to get to work in Key West.  These days its a privilege to live in the city if you earn your living there.
Affordable housing has been on everyone's verbal agenda for years, decades perhaps, but in a world where government intervention is abhorred there's not much you can do when the one percent evince no interest in the topic at all.
Modular homes on stilts are going up across the street, nice clean and sterile, heavy white gravel killing any chance at individuality. You'd be lucky to buy 1200 square feet on stilts for $350,000 even this far from the water. Affordable housing in Key West for qualified workers starts at $250,000 in an effort to offer housing hope to public workers.
 Meanwhile across the street the mailboxes are emptying out and the residents are going elsewhere.
Up North is the retreat of last resort.

Monday, March 9, 2015

Tennessee Williams In Key West

My biggest disappointment about the new display about the playwright's life in Key West was that I didn't allow nearly enough time to explore it properly. My phone pinged announcing my lunch appointment was on the way and I had to beat a retreat. This exhibition is free (they take donations of course) and it's at the Key West Business Guild at 513 Truman, so unless you are riding a Vespa, ahem, parking is non existent.
The displays are well presented, full of information with pictures and include a video that I wanted to sit down and watch. Gore Vidal is interviewed, I saw him and wanted to listen but I was on my way out the door. Grr!
The location may come as a surprise considering the numbers of arenas that hold these kinds of events around Key West but it's not the first time they have shown something worth seeing. I've heard the Guild described as Key West's "Gay Chamber of Commerce" which as far as I know fits the bill, but they are also a resource center for visitors looking for gay Key West. I'm not gay and I don't run a business here so my encounters with the Guild are limited to this sort of visit.
Thomas Lanier Williams III was born in Mississippi March 26th 1911, which explains why this month was chosen for this exhibition. He was gay which explains the location and he loved Key West which over the course of time has become a mutual attraction. Tennessee Williams' life in Key West epitomizes what we all tend to seek here at the end of the road, freedom from judgement, time to be yourself, and purpose expressed through art. He had a little house, he had a swimming pool and he had love and friendship. Pretty cool, huh?
The thing is, Tennessee Williams just wasn't as cool as Ernest Hemingway and I wonder about that. Hemingway was an alcoholic essentially, a womanizer, he killed large animals for fun and he wrote in a style I find difficult to digest. I've heard it suggested that Key West loves Hemingway because he was a manly man. Tennessee Williams not to put too fine a point on it was a poof.
His plays, which only received acclaim after a decade of obscurity and struggle, deal with profound issues, deeply adult stories about the sort of family he grew up in, messed up and unbearable. Considering Mississippi today, one has to wonder what a young gay man would have suffered there 80 years ago. Key West was paradise indeed.
This man suffered for his art and put his suffering down on stage for all to see. I find his story compelling for he wrote as an outsider, without bluster. He also fell deeply in love, a man he lost to cancer, a loss that seemed to derail him.
Through all those years the honors piled up and they are listed and displayed here. There is a ton of stuff to read, to absorb. Key West was of course too small a cockpit for his over sized drama to play out on, so as it happens of course his connection to Key West waxed and waned.
But its clear from these pictures he was happy here, he smiles a lot. A while back I went to Oxford Mississippi to see Rowan Oak and I made the mistake of contrasting and comparing William Faulkner to Ernest Hemingway, the two big names of the two small towns. I should have compared the two men from Mississippi, it would have been more interesting. Faulkner ended a nascent friendship with Hemingway by suggesting he did not put much of himself into his writings and therefore he lacked bravery. Which could never be said of Williams who wrote repeatedly about all the worst aspects of his family. Williams was brave all right.
Faulkner, seen from the outside was a dour man, and there is only one picture of him half smiling, check the link above, while here Tennessee Williams was always smiling. Maybe just for the camera maybe just because he wanted to. Reading the clippings he got into small town life, making contributions with money and time, posing for pictures and so forth. Faulkner hid in his forest with his horses. I'd be more like that, but I'd like to have the nerve to be more like the Tennessee Williams of his Key West years.
Williams painted, and I'm no art critic but I am kind of glad he kept his day job, far be it from me to criticize anything about the man. Others did that for me, especially in his later years. He dealt with depression with amphetamines and took sleeping draughts to sleep, and things gradually got worse. His death is shrouded in mystery generally attributed to choking but some say it was some kind of accidental drug overdose. Either way it wasn't a death most of us would seek out, alone in a New York apartment.
Unfortunately for Tennessee Williams the love of his life Frank Merlo, a strapping Italian American ( his last name means "blackbird") died of cancer in 1963 and apparently the playwright lost the man who had been his anchor for the best years if his life. I didn't get to see what they might have about the end of his life and I plan to go back and fill in the missing parts that I did not have time to read. I have read about those last years elsewhere and they weren't good, his talent in decline, recognition evaporating and his health held hostage to his medications..

He died in New York in 1983 and personally I think he'd have done a lot better to live out his years on Duncan Street in Key West. That he was happy here says a lot. This exhibit does that justice.
Folks: one week ago I mentioned the podcasts I have been recording for a producer in New York. The launch was awkward, with Apple delaying their appearance on iTunes for a few days. They have been available for the past week and we have five interviews up now at www.travelandsafety.com/iTunes which page should get you here:
Click the "reviews" box in the middle of the page which will get you here:
And then give it a fine star rating and earn my great thanks. Much appreciated and sorry for the confusion. The engineer has been flogged and deprived of sleep.

Sunday, March 8, 2015

Neil Peart's Commute

Following some random motorcycle links on the Web I found this extraordinary story of a 72 year old drummer for the band Rush who likes to ride a motorcycle to work, Neil Peart. I suppose one could forgive him on the grounds he is Canadian, but there again those people are supposed to be calm, sensible and normal. Here's one who isn't and if this doesn't explain why I ride whenever I can (even if goat tracks aren't easily found around here) nothing will. This story with a long explanatory introduction describes perfectly the joy of exploring by motorcycle. 

The link to his website wherein this story lies: Neil Peart Website

[This story was written during our Clockwork Angels European tour in May, 2013, for a British motorcycling weekly. They asked for about 700 words and a photo or two, and I gave them 1,700 words, and eight photos. They said they would run it like that, but took a few liberties—not so much with the text, but perhaps because the story was part of an “adventure touring” issue, they replaced Brutus’s and my iconic U.K. photos with more exotic images from a previous tour in South America.
That’s fine, for their purposes, but not for mine—trying to share an experience as deeply as I can. So I decided to present it here in its original form, which would also fill a gap in the tour’s documentation, before the “Shunpikers in the Shadowlands” story about Continental Europe.
I will retract the British spellings, for consistency (and personal taste), but keep the “cultural references,” for fun.
As recounted elsewhere, while writing this story I consulted an experienced British motorcyclist about whether riders and readers over there would know the word “shunpiking.” He said they wouldn’t, so I redefined it here.
Our previously-informed readers may feel free to skim over that part  . . . ]
Drummer With a Singletrack Mind
On the night of May 29, 2013, Rush drummer Neil Peart will perform with his bandmates, Alex Lifeson and Geddy Lee, in front of  6,300 people in Glasgow. That afternoon, Neil commutes to work on his BMW 1200 GS motorcycle, via a muddy singletrack in the Cairngorm Mountains. He tells us why.
Photo by Brutus
Since 1996 I have been traveling on Rush tours by motorcycle, riding to virtually every concert in the United States, Canada, South America, and Europe. Hundreds of shows, tens of thousands of miles, and a million memories — almost all good, and many spectacular, like the American West, the Brazilian rainforest, the Stelvio Pass, and the Yorkshire Dales.
A more-or-less typical example of my touring life would be the U.K. part of our Clockwork Angels tour in May, 2013. Here’s how it works . . .
On a show night, after I have pounded and sweated for about three-and-a-half hours, we reach the last song in the encore — a version of our “Grand Finale” from the 2112 album.
Photo by John Arrowsmith
While the final echo of our burnout ending rings in the arena, and Geddy is still saying a grateful good night to the audience, I bow and wave and run offstage. Through the dark backstage labyrinth, I follow the bobbing blue flashlight beam waved in my direction by the running shadow ahead — Michael, my American riding partner and road manager. He leads me to the bus, and I run onboard. While I change out of my sweaty drumming clothes in the back, driver Malcolm gets underway. My riding partner in Europe (and anywhere outside the U.S. — long story), Brutus, pours me a refreshing measure of The Macallan, and I sit down in T-shirt and towel at the front lounge table, usually browsing through the photos Brutus and I have taken, editing, cropping, and refining my “three star” selection. After a long day of motorcycling and drumming (some days it’s difficult to say which activity was harder), it is an unspectacular, but rewarding time.
After an hour or so, Brutus and I wander off to our berths, while Malcolm pilots the bus through the night, then parks at an agreed-upon dropoff point. After sleeping in a non-moving bus for another few hours, Brutus and I rise painfully early. Ahead of us is always what Brutus calls “a full day.”
On a show day, my mental and physical energies necessarily have to peak at about 11:00 at night, so coming down takes a while. I won’t get to sleep before about 1:00 a.m., and that means the alarm at 7:00 is not always a welcome sound. Still, I raise my tired and aching body (drumming is a serious athletic workout for me, especially as I begin my seventh decade, so it causes some pain), and — here’s an important distinction — I don’t get up against my will, butbecause of it. Stumbling up to the front lounge, I greet Brutus and Malcolm, cut and squeeze some oranges, fix a little cereal with bananas and blueberries, and draw a cup of good strong coffee from the bus’s excellent grinding-and-pouring machine.
That will, that resignation, is only possible because I am powerfully enough motivated for the “full day” ahead.
I define my approach to each day I am given as, “What is the most excellent thing I can do today?” Sometimes, like nearly everyone, the most excellent thing I can do today is go to work, and that is fine. I do love most everything about my job, but it requires being away from home a great deal, and that is not the fantasy it sometimes seems to others. However, the silver lining is that I am free to choose an excellent way to get to work.
That’s where motorcycling comes in. Our bus tows a small trailer holding two BMW 1200 GS motorcycles, and after breakfast, Brutus and I suit up (ATGATT — “all the gear all the time”), layering according to the weather. (We follow the ancient Canadian wisdom, “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothes.”) Malcolm helps us unload the bikes, and we arrange our luggage (dress-up suits for fancier destinations carefully folded in a suitbag and packed alone in one side-case, so we can look good after arrival — helpful “Roadcraft” technique for upscale bikers).
All Cleaned Up After a Dirty Day
Photo by Brutus
Mounted up, I lead Brutus away into the morning, following his route, carefully researched and designed, on the GPS screen in front of me. Its motorcycle-shaped cursor traces the purple line that squiggles along the smallest roads Brutus can find, through the most scenic parts of Britain.
To our sportier natures, the lightly-traveled B roads of Wales and Scotland are endlessly entertaining, inspiring us to rail through a series of sweeping bends with controlled aggression and technique. That is certainly exciting and fun, but our favorite roads are the little singletracks.
Devon Lane
Photo by Brutus
“Slow Touring,” I call it, like the Slow Food or Slow Blogging movements, emphasizing quality over quantity. Creeping along between the dense hedges and stone walls of Devon or the Cotswolds in first or second gear, dodging sheep and tractors (I call us “hedge-huggers” in country like that), or on a narrow, winding ribbon of pavement laid across the barren Welsh and Scottish mountains (with more sheep), or threading the fells and narrow valleys of the Lake District (dotted ditto), the riding is relaxing, even serene, yet technically demanding. There is definitely an art to riding slowly over dynamic terrain.
On a previous tour, Brutus and I tackled the Wrynose and Hardknott Passes in the Lake District (“Britain’s steepest road”), in teeming rain, and when we had successfully climbed the narrow zigzags of the tightest switchbacks imaginable, I said to Brutus, “That took everything I know.”
Brutus replied, “That took some stuff I didn’t even know yet!”
“The Struggle”
Photo by Brutus
The delightful term “shunpiker” goes back about 500 years, to a time when British roads were lawless, especially at night, prowled by highwaymen and footpads. Villages blockaded their entry roads with a long pole — a pike — stretched across them. Around the same time, toll roads were invented, and a similar pike blocked the way until travelers paid their fee, when the pike would be turned — hence “turnpike.”
In those days, travelers who deliberately avoided toll roads called themselves “shunpikers.” Lately, the term has been adopted by drivers and riders who deliberately avoid all major roads. By nature, Brutus and I are both radical shunpikers, and stay well away from motorways (literally one per cent of our riding, at most), and even A roads — the crowded and potentially deadly hunting grounds of White Van Man, Mondeo Woman, Yellow Vest Man, and marauding gangs of the dreaded Kneepuck Man. (Knee sliders on the public roads? Seriously?)
On the singletracks, other than the sheep, we may encounter an occasional rare specimen of Welly Man, or Landy Man.
In four tours of the U.K. by motorcycle over the past decade or so, Brutus and I have explored hundreds of miles of singletracks, stopping often for photographs. A “full day” does not mean a great distance, because rambling around like that we might average twenty miles per hour — then fetch up at some splendid country hotel Brutus has booked.
Post-ride refreshments mark that most pleasurable time (inspiring one of my stories in Far and Away, “The Hour of Arriving”), then a fine meal (Lord Byron was right: “Much depends upon dinner”) with good wine. We retire early — to catch up on the previous night’s missed sleep, and ready to rise as soon as breakfast is served and get back on the road. 
Early one rainy morning in the tiny Yorkshire village of Ramsgill-in-Nidderdale, I looked out the window of our hotel (“a restaurant with rooms”) at the soggy gray sky, the deep green trees and grass, our dripping-wet motorcycles in the forecourt, and, leading away between the ancient stone buildings, a narrow strip of shiny wet pavement. I smiled to realize that despite the unpromising weather, and the need to get to Sheffield and perform a show, I was actually looking forward to the day’s ride across Yorkshire’s lanes. (And did I mention the sheep?) 
After all these years, all those miles, all those rainy days, and all those sheep — obviously I still love to ride those sweet little singletracks.
Yorkshire Dales
Photo by Brutus
Back in the mid-’90s, Brutus and I took up serious motorcycling at the same time, and soon discovered we shared a preference for a style of travel that didn’t have a name then, but soon became fetishized as “adventure touring.” (See ADV Man.) After thrashing our way to Arctic Canada and around Mexico in our first, more sport-touring BMW models, we each bought the first “oilhead” GSs, the R1100 GS, and promptly shipped them to Europe and made our way down through Austria, Italy, and Sicily to the Sahara in Tunisia, then back through Sardinia and Switzerland.
“Oh yes,” we thought, “this is the way we roll.”
Around that time I began to consider the notion of using my motorcycle not just for adventures, but for “business travel” — riding it between shows on the band’s tours. My bandmates were happy to fly, and I had my own bus with a trailer and a riding partner (in case a mechanical or tire problem interrupted my commute to work, I could commandeer the other bike and get there — but in tribute to the GS’s reliability, careful maintenance, and good fortune, that has never happened).
[Fateful words — see “It’s Not Over When It’s Over.”]
Since then, with Brutus or Michael, and sometimes both, I have ridden tens of thousands of miles of backroads, adopting the motto, “The best roads are the ones no one travels unless they live on them.”
Better yet, and infinitely more rare, are the roads no one even lives on (except millions of sheep) — like around Britain’s fantastic national parks.
The Trossachs, Scotland
Photo by Brutus
However, one thing that puzzles Brutus and me while we’re riding these wiggly singletracks and serene country lanes is that we never — but never — encounter other motorcyclists.
We agree that, all things considered, that is for the best. Those little lanes are messy and unpleasant, often rainy, and quite possibly dangerous. Terrible, really. Not scenic or anything. And there are all those sheep.
We strongly advise other riders to keep far, far away from those nasty little British singletracks. Trust us, they are not at all fun, and we’re sure you wouldn’t like them.
Photo by Brutus

Saturday, March 7, 2015

Conchscooter Having Fun

I got a night off and I got an invitation to lunch so I combined the two and to make the afternoon perfect I took my old Vespa for the longest ride in a while. I left home before noon and it was a sunny windy morning, hot enough that Cheyenne evinced no interest in leaving with me, so I left her snoring on the tiles in the kitchen. I chose to take the old Vespa 25 miles to Key West to see how we did on the Highway. I am trying to keep the top speed at 50 mph and in bursts so I don't burn any more pistons or rings. Which makes makes riding the highway in winter a bit of a challenge sometimes what with all the tourist traffic. But fun, as there is something very elemental about riding  a 35 year old scooter, full of noise and vibration armed with no instruments except a speedometer, with the possibility of seizing the motor at any time...as I'm not sure I've got the carburetor settings quite right just yet. The Vespa looks pretty and the engine is strong but I have yet to feel confident the air/fuel mixture is dialed in quite right for sustained highway travel. One day I should be able to ride between 55 and 62 miles per hour without worrying about seizing. One day...
 I first  made a  moment to meet the only other southernmost old Vespa rider. Jason has a collection of old Vespas in various stages of restoration and we have exchanged texts from time to time and I thought it was silly that we had not met. It was a brief moment because I had my lunch meeting to get to but I was glad to shake his hand and talk old scooters for the time we had. Two P200s on the street together would be a sight. Maybe one day, when he gets his Chinese POS carburetor sorted. The Chinese know how to built quality products but our demand for things made as cheap as possible they understand too and give us what we ask for.
Lunch was delightful, veggie burgers and gossip, and a little bit of business at The Cafe on Southard. I like that place though my iced tea was rather flavorless the food was good. I had previously invited a friend for lunch there and she described it as "too crunchy." Firstly I don't think not eating meat is bad, and secondly I don't have lunch to make a  statement, I just like to eat what I think tastes good and the cafe, for all that it is vegetarian (gasp!) tastes great. And then I had the prospect of riding home. Yum, what a dessert!
 One pleasure I have running in the old Vespa is that I should pull over from time to time to make sure I'm not over stressing the piston. I think I burned a piston by running too long too fast before I had properly seated the internals so now I take it slower, try not to be impatient, and pause from time to time. To allow the engine to cool for a few minutes, and take a picture! These I took just past Big Coppitt at the public boat ramp. The one below I took when I stopped along the highway when I heard my phone ring (!). It wasn't my wife, it was my boss, the woman I used to call my work wife when we worked nights together. She was calling to let me know I am getting a new trainee in a couple of weeks. Remedial training to try to help her learn some basic skills. I have been coasting with my current Trainee who is doing great and  runs the police channel with hardly any input from me so my life will change, and so will the Trainee's who will also have to enjoy staying awake all night with me nagging at her, poor thing.  
Phone calls like those remind me how lucky I am to have this schedule, this job I know and like, good people to work with, a serene home life, the best landlord, perfect weather and an old Vespa to play with. I feel like a kid.

Friday, March 6, 2015

Key West Architecture

We wrap up this busy week with a bunch of random pictures I took of Key West buildings. There is no theme or hidden meaning here. It's just a way to imagine yourself stepping out shortly after dawn (clocks move forward by an hour Sunday, by the way) onto a Key West street and glance back at your home, your palms, your white picket fence. Like this classic eyebrow home with an overhanging roof:





The Eden House hotel on Fleming Street, featured in the Goldie Hawn movie Criss Cross:

And this Mediterranean-looking entrance to one of my favorite restaurants, Azur, which is behind the Eden House:




Enjoy your weekend. My weekend will be spent huddling and writing for podcasts. For tomorrow I've put together an essay of a local ride on my old Vespa while Sunday I have reproduced an essay by a musician called Neil Peart of a band called Rush who loves commuting by motorcycle and makes every trip an adventure. It's a great read lovingly illustrated with pictures not of the Keys but beautiful nonetheless. I may have to learn to listen to his music, because his writing is inspirational. I hope he inspires you to find a way to enjoy your commute as he and I manage to!


Thursday, March 5, 2015

Cheyenne At Large

Look at her, caught thinking deep thoughts no doubt, like when's my next walk, or I wonder what uninspired rubbish they are going to palm off on me as my dinner tonight. Sometimes Cheyenne actually uses her bed though usually she likes to stretch out on the floor where the tile is cooler. She looks pretty inoffensive to me.

I was walking her on Horace Street (I love that name) near The Wharf restaurant and while she was exploring a dusty empty lot occupied by noisy chickens the old dude pictured below started ragging on me for trespassing. I guess it's just not been my week as far as pissing off strangers goes. And though I apologized I looked around and wondered why this patch of malodorous dirt was so dear to his heart. He said he didn't want her to shit there, fair enough I said popping out plastic bags at the ready. Unmollified he glared at me and retreated to his display of fishing floats "For Sale" the hand painted sign said, next to the No Trespassing sign which I had thought was supposed to protect his native art from intruders. How you make a sale protected by a No Trespassing sign baffled me and I was about to enquire but I thought better of it. I applied Trobaritz Logic to the situation and hoped his outburst made him feel happier than he looked. He probably needed to vent on someone; might as well be me.

So I decided to take the cause of my trouble into Key West on an early morning shopping expedition where we met lots of people out walking their dogs. "Met" is not the right word really. We carved a path through other dog walkers is a more accurate description. I don't mind letting Cheyenne sniff other dogs. I am alone it seems in my openness. It's people that sorry me, not their dogs.

If it weren't for Cheyenne I wouldn't see stuff like this, sunrise over the islands. Sometimes I feel like I devote too much energy to my dog, that if it weren't for her I'd be free to ... do I'm not sure exactly what. But something. Instead I'm home with my dog. Or out walking my dog.

The reality is that for all that Cheyenne upsets people just by existing, by being a 107 pound threat to public order, that shits in the open air, sheds copious amounts of indestructible white hairs, and spills good when she eats, she makes the colors of the day brighter and more cheerful. After the old fisherman yelled at me about trespassing on his wasteland a couple of guys round the corner were busy fixing their boat by the side of the street and we fell into conversation about dogs and how great they are even as they age and get stubborn and comfortable in their lives with you. It was such a pleasant moment I completely forgot to take a picture of them. Silly me.

In town the usual view I get of the old hound is of her bottom as she trolls along. I get to see the weird crap she doesn't think about. Like this mural at the Sunbeam Grocery on White Street. Ostensibly it's a delightful painting of folks having fun in the sun, on the sand with delicious frosty fizzy caramelized water for refreshment. As you do... Except not at the Southernmost Point where there is no semblance of a beach as represented. I suppose even commercial Art gets some leeway: only I expect a Truth in Advertising. No wonder my dog thinks I'm an idiot.

Then there was the mailbox on the banyan tree. I wanted to think someone might have decided to seek independence above us mortals, like Italo Calvino's hero I studied in school. I suspect it's just the mail drop for the house hidden by the huge tree. Cheyenne ignored the whole thing and waited patiently, leash at full stretch while I got the picture.

And then there are the mysterious abandoned shoes that litter the Key West landscape. I'm sure each shoe tells a story, and if I had catalogued them I'd bet I'd have a photo essay just on found shoes.

And talking of found stuff Cheyenne had four nice slices of what appeared to be spinach and tomato pizza. It never stood a chance.

What a great dog. She even cleans up other peoples' crap. Good dog.




Everything works finally. What a stress! Go to this page, choose your podcast and hit the relevant button underneath the program notes. Enjoy, give a five star rating and bob's your uncle.

Thank you.