The Key to My Heart

Scott and I land in Key West and I am surprised to learn that it is sunny. My weather app on my phone had been far less encouraging. It is 11 am and we are in Paradise.

 We walk across the tarmac. Only little planes land here, so there is no such thing as taxiing to the gate. We pile out like clowns from a Funny Car and stagger blinking in the sunshine toward an entrance welcoming us to The Conch Republic. I turn to say something to Scott to find him walking along the runway effortlessly removing layers of clothes without breaking stride. He could not be more handsome. And I, by contrast, am still in my Mr. Rogers cardigan and stinging from my suspicion that I've morphed into a hausfrau. I am acutely aware of the pimple above my eyebrow. It is like a twin growing from the corner of my face. Pretty.

Just inside the door we encounter people in sandals and shorts and Hawaiian shirts who are grimly waiting to trade places with us. I know they are bummed about leaving but they look constipated. Also just inside the door we encounter our first bar.

Only in Key West.

Our courtesy van is waiting and there is nary a minute between boarding the vehicle and it's departure. We get our car immediately and drive to our quirky little hotel 400 yards away. There is a giant metal cow on the porch and jet skis parked all along the side of the waterfront restaraunt. Ibises walk about like they own the place. We can't check in but we can change.

Scott and I are on the beach by noon. Perfection. Well except that I drop my famous green baseball hat in a puddle. But at least it wasn't my phone. We have parked our cheap little rental with the manual locks and windows in the same lot that my college friends and I used on our visits on Spring Breaks of the past. (Also in a cheap little rental with manual locks and windows) We are seated on the same beach we stretched out on as co-eds. I can 't help but think that this was the beach where my Dad would have come when he was a Navy enlisted man stationed here (lucky duck!)

After a while, since we are without the benefit of sun screen (we've not sought out the CVS just yet, so strong was the gravitational pull of Smathers Beach) we depart the beach and go for a drive to get acclimated. It's an 8 square mile island with a lot packed into tiny spaces, to say nothing of the astonishing number of bars right on Duvall Street. We have a lot of ground to cover.

First stop, Willie T's, where the Margaritas are strong and the music is fabulous for a lunch time crowd. The tradition here (because every Key West bar is known for something) is to take one of the one dollar bills you get with your change, write on it with a Sharpee, and staple it to some part of the bar itself. Well not the bar you belly up to, necessarily, but somewhere on the building --- a pillar, a rafter, a wall, a table, the ceiling. There must be millions in genuine U.S. currency tacked, glued or stapled to this place. It rivals the U.S. Mint.

But after just one drink we are on our way. We have shoes to shop for, jewelry to ogle, a sunset to enjoy and a decent tattoo parlor to find.

Yes, a tattoo parlor.