Bye, bye beach.
And, just like that, Islamorada is in the rear-view mirror and we're cruising up Card Sound Road en route to the Miami airport, photos on devices and memories firmly in place, all conveying some ridiculously relaxing vacation time spent.
Books read: I finally finished the Playboy Lennon/Yoko interviews, read "Kafka Was All the Rage" and got a quarter into "The Tender Bar," so let's say I managed just over two and not dwell on my lack of reading time.
Favorite restaurant tagline: "Peace, love and hogfish" at Chef Micheal's. But what the chef really wants you to eat is the invasive lionfish because their only predator in the Atlantic is us humans. The restaurant's claim is that they're eradicating lionfish one plate at a time. Pshaw, I eat skate and puffer fish, so I've got no problem eating these invaders, too.
Typical billboard: "TIKI HUTS New or re-thatch." I bet the children of entire families have been put through college on those profits because tiki huts are ubiquitous around here.
Handwritten farmer's market sign, "Cold coconuts sold here!!" Just don't put coconuts in the trash bins because we've learned that's strictly forbidden in these parts.
Swankiest car seen: a red convertible Bentley, driving into a members-only fishing club. Who knew that Venn diagram overlapped?
Points for keeping to a theme: Because Islamorada's claim to fame is being the sport-fishing capital of the world, everyone riffs on it. When you head north to Key Largo, the sign reads, "Catch you later!" For a book on swashbuckling Jewish pirates, there's the local bookstore, Hooked on Books. Hungry? Check out the Reel Burger restaurant.
Most unexpected testament to Key West life: IVs in the Keys, a business that will fill your veins with just the right concoction to make the night before stop hurting.
Tie for most colorful Key West spots: a dessert cafe called Better than Sex and a clothing-optional rooftop bar called Garden of Eden. We hear tell of a brothel, but see no evidence.
Unexpected sighting: two gray squirrels chasing up a palm tree although we only saw them one time, so it could have been a mirage. Iguanas, on the other hand, are as omnipresent as, well, squirrels in Richmond. When you have all the windows open all the time, you just get used to occasionally seeing an iguana on the curtain.
Because the reentry to the real world begins at the airport and I'm hoping to delay that moment as long as possible, we make the requisite dive bar stop, just like we did on the way down, except this time arriving just as a handful of Harley riders do. Only problem is it's 10:15 and they're not open yet except for beers, so we cruise a bit, which is when we spot the rare Bentley.
Along the way, I notice a pattern of signs on the bridges. It's either a "No jumping, No diving" sign or a "No fishing" sign, meaning you never have to go very far to find a bridge you can jump off of or a place to catch your dinner.
Somehow, this sums up Florida for me.
Back at Alabama Jack's, I'm exiting the rental car as an SUV pulls up next to us and the guy immediately initiates a conversation with me. Seems he and his posse are just off a cruise boat but instead of heading home, they've set their sites on a wild night in Key West. "Sort of a post-vacation vacation," he insists, smiling broadly.
Hey, I get it. Surely that's the smartest way to lessen end-of-vacation blues.
When AJ's finally lets us in, we see the bar is already full of people willing to drink beer until they opened officially. And because Cliches "R" Us at Alabama Jack's, "Don't Stop Believing" is blasting overhead as we slide into a waterfront table lower than the last time, but with a better view of the bar and its colorful patrons: serious cyclists with accents and day-glow hot pink socks, a table of self-important weekend-type Harley riders and a quartet of grizzly locals eating lunch and sipping Coronas.
Hard to tell who's coming and who's going from vacation.
Next to us is an older couple who not only know their server, but have brought their own Koozies - two each, mind you, one of which has no bottom - to encircle their bottles of beer in the sunshine. They also know to save bits of their lunch to feed to the fish under the deck.
The most I can manage from my double crabcake sandwich (not that I'm complaining, but who ever heard of two crabcakes on one sandwich?) is tossing the fish bits from the over-sized bun and not a bite more before we hit the road to catch a plane.
Le sigh. If vacation is having nothing to do and all day to do it, ours was a major success. As for the adjustment to cold weather and the responsibilities of real life upon return, well, that's a work in progress.
For now, tanned legs and Mr. Wright's insistence on having "something to look forward to" will carry me forward. Or I could take Journey's advice and hold on to that feeling.
And I'm trying...with every relaxed bone in my body. Catch you later, warmth and indolence. Man, oh man, are you seductive.
Showing posts with label Islamorada. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Islamorada. Show all posts
Sunday, January 20, 2019
Friday, January 18, 2019
In the Mood for Sommersby
The mood necklace knows all.
If you weren't around in the '70s, you might not know about mood rings, which hit the scene with the same major cultural impact as puka shell necklaces. I never got into puka shells, but the allure of a ring that could display my emotions was right up my alley.
So when Pru gifted me with not only a mood ring but a mood necklace for Christmas, you can be sure both were packed for my stay in Islamorada. Getting ready to head south for dinner last night, I put my mood necklace on to complement my tropical flowered sundress.
Lazy Days, here we come.
Eschewing the balcony dining room for oceanfront and sand, we stopped at the hostess stand long enough for the three women there to react to Mr. Wright. I should be used to this by now, but it still fascinates me. The first woman blatantly stares at him, eventually saying, "Has anyone ever told you that you look like..." mentioning a certain actor whom he definitely resembles.
We're far enough into our relationship that I can jump into the fray at this point, armed with anecdotes he's reluctantly shared about being stopped at airports, outside public bathrooms and once, even forced to provide an autograph despite his protestations to the contrary for the fascinated party. The three women listen to me but never take their eyes off him.
Must be tough to be admired for someone you aren't.
Only once he mentions our beach reservation are we led to a table only a couple feet from the rock-lined water's edge, with an enormous, rusty anchor half-submerged in the water just in front of us and pelicans swooping and diving for their dinner. Off to the side is a small, covered pavilion where a singer/guitarist is setting up.
For all the seafood and fish we've eaten since our arrival, not a single oyster had crossed my lips. Mid-week, Mr. Wright had suggested that it would be a travesty for me not to try the local bivalves and compare them to my beloved Virginia Old Saltes. Alas, Hurricane Irma had decimated the Florida oyster beds last fall and they've been impossible to find. The two local raw bars had closed since last season because of the situation.
But here at Lazy Days, not only were local Apalachicola oysters on the menu, but they were priced as low as my Old Saltes are at Merroir. They were practically begging me to order them, which I did, enthusiastically, when our server came by with our Charles de Fere Blanc de Blanc Brut to kick off the festivities.
Apparently just ordering was enough to get me worked up because Mr. Wright right away noticed my mood necklace changing. Formerly mostly a subdued brown color, he said it had suddenly shifted to a sliver of blue at the bottom, while the rest of the stone was now part gray, part silver, as he put it, "exactly the color of oysters."
For the record, the color change had happened in a matter of moments. "Just ordering them got you worked up enough for it to change," he observed. Needless to say, once the half dozen arrived - incidentally, easily the largest oysters I've ever slurped - the trace of blue disappeared completely, leaving only the pearlescent silver-gray.
My mood necklace was one for one as I devoured the oysters in record time.
Next came spicy conch fritters, followed by the best conch chowder we've had here yet. We used the last of the fritters to sop up the last of the chowder while the staff went around lighting the oceanfront tiki torches. Overhead, the moon, working its way toward full on Monday night, was heading high in the sky for a picture postcard view.
The visuals were accompanied by the guitarist doing songs by Buffalo Springfield, Neil Young and Van Morrison songs and doing them well enough to enhance the vibe without resorting to Buffet.
Interestingly, at the table next to us was the owner of the restaurant, down from New York with his blond and Botoxed companion and a couple of "business associates," all of them eating, drinking and talking loudly to the nebbish accountant-looking guy with them.
The blond commented about how in New York, it could be 30 degrees, but if the sun's out, people want to eat outside. Here, she complained, if it was in the 60s, people insisted on eating inside. She just didn't get it.
Tell me about it, honey. And what's with your lips?
Their focus was on the food with a little business talk mixed in, but we had to laugh when the accountant stood up, found himself entangled in his phone cord and had to wrangle himself loose from his chair while the others walked away while he fought with his cord.
Once a nebbish, always a nebbish, I guess.
It took an overly generous bowl of seafood scampi for two chock full of Florida lobster, mussels, clams, shrimp, scallops and mahi mahi in a mushroom, garlic butter and white wine sauce over linguine to turn my mood necklace an unabashed blue with accents of yellow, signaling my pleasure with so much bounty of the sea.
When the manager came over to ask if I wanted him to move a heater near me, I demurred, perfectly happy with the warm night air. He stayed to chat, which is how we learned about the cycle of visitors on Islamorada. Seems it's mostly families in December during the holidays, followed by Europeans come January and Americans come late Spring. That explained all the accents we'd be hearing since we got here.
We closed out the meal with chocolate mousse cake because a person can only have Key lime pie so many nights before reverting to form and sending my mood necklace into brilliant turquoise blue territory.
Mock 70s technology all you want, but that necklace was reading me like a roadmap. My pleasure at an oceanfront meal on a warm night with bivalves, bubbly and every kind of seafood imaginable seemed to be oozing out of every pore.
Autograph seekers, aside, the movie star lookalike company didn't hurt, either.
If you weren't around in the '70s, you might not know about mood rings, which hit the scene with the same major cultural impact as puka shell necklaces. I never got into puka shells, but the allure of a ring that could display my emotions was right up my alley.
So when Pru gifted me with not only a mood ring but a mood necklace for Christmas, you can be sure both were packed for my stay in Islamorada. Getting ready to head south for dinner last night, I put my mood necklace on to complement my tropical flowered sundress.
Lazy Days, here we come.
Eschewing the balcony dining room for oceanfront and sand, we stopped at the hostess stand long enough for the three women there to react to Mr. Wright. I should be used to this by now, but it still fascinates me. The first woman blatantly stares at him, eventually saying, "Has anyone ever told you that you look like..." mentioning a certain actor whom he definitely resembles.
We're far enough into our relationship that I can jump into the fray at this point, armed with anecdotes he's reluctantly shared about being stopped at airports, outside public bathrooms and once, even forced to provide an autograph despite his protestations to the contrary for the fascinated party. The three women listen to me but never take their eyes off him.
Must be tough to be admired for someone you aren't.
Only once he mentions our beach reservation are we led to a table only a couple feet from the rock-lined water's edge, with an enormous, rusty anchor half-submerged in the water just in front of us and pelicans swooping and diving for their dinner. Off to the side is a small, covered pavilion where a singer/guitarist is setting up.
For all the seafood and fish we've eaten since our arrival, not a single oyster had crossed my lips. Mid-week, Mr. Wright had suggested that it would be a travesty for me not to try the local bivalves and compare them to my beloved Virginia Old Saltes. Alas, Hurricane Irma had decimated the Florida oyster beds last fall and they've been impossible to find. The two local raw bars had closed since last season because of the situation.
But here at Lazy Days, not only were local Apalachicola oysters on the menu, but they were priced as low as my Old Saltes are at Merroir. They were practically begging me to order them, which I did, enthusiastically, when our server came by with our Charles de Fere Blanc de Blanc Brut to kick off the festivities.
Apparently just ordering was enough to get me worked up because Mr. Wright right away noticed my mood necklace changing. Formerly mostly a subdued brown color, he said it had suddenly shifted to a sliver of blue at the bottom, while the rest of the stone was now part gray, part silver, as he put it, "exactly the color of oysters."
For the record, the color change had happened in a matter of moments. "Just ordering them got you worked up enough for it to change," he observed. Needless to say, once the half dozen arrived - incidentally, easily the largest oysters I've ever slurped - the trace of blue disappeared completely, leaving only the pearlescent silver-gray.
My mood necklace was one for one as I devoured the oysters in record time.
Next came spicy conch fritters, followed by the best conch chowder we've had here yet. We used the last of the fritters to sop up the last of the chowder while the staff went around lighting the oceanfront tiki torches. Overhead, the moon, working its way toward full on Monday night, was heading high in the sky for a picture postcard view.
The visuals were accompanied by the guitarist doing songs by Buffalo Springfield, Neil Young and Van Morrison songs and doing them well enough to enhance the vibe without resorting to Buffet.
Interestingly, at the table next to us was the owner of the restaurant, down from New York with his blond and Botoxed companion and a couple of "business associates," all of them eating, drinking and talking loudly to the nebbish accountant-looking guy with them.
The blond commented about how in New York, it could be 30 degrees, but if the sun's out, people want to eat outside. Here, she complained, if it was in the 60s, people insisted on eating inside. She just didn't get it.
Tell me about it, honey. And what's with your lips?
Their focus was on the food with a little business talk mixed in, but we had to laugh when the accountant stood up, found himself entangled in his phone cord and had to wrangle himself loose from his chair while the others walked away while he fought with his cord.
Once a nebbish, always a nebbish, I guess.
It took an overly generous bowl of seafood scampi for two chock full of Florida lobster, mussels, clams, shrimp, scallops and mahi mahi in a mushroom, garlic butter and white wine sauce over linguine to turn my mood necklace an unabashed blue with accents of yellow, signaling my pleasure with so much bounty of the sea.
When the manager came over to ask if I wanted him to move a heater near me, I demurred, perfectly happy with the warm night air. He stayed to chat, which is how we learned about the cycle of visitors on Islamorada. Seems it's mostly families in December during the holidays, followed by Europeans come January and Americans come late Spring. That explained all the accents we'd be hearing since we got here.
We closed out the meal with chocolate mousse cake because a person can only have Key lime pie so many nights before reverting to form and sending my mood necklace into brilliant turquoise blue territory.
Mock 70s technology all you want, but that necklace was reading me like a roadmap. My pleasure at an oceanfront meal on a warm night with bivalves, bubbly and every kind of seafood imaginable seemed to be oozing out of every pore.
Autograph seekers, aside, the movie star lookalike company didn't hurt, either.
Thursday, January 17, 2019
Palm Paradise
A getaway to the beach in January is like buttered rye toast with your Popeye's omelet. Indulgent in all the best possible ways.
As many times as I've been to the beach for a stretch, Islamorada is a different kind of salt life. Yes, we're right on the ocean and sure, all the windows are open night and day, just like they'd be if we were in Kitty Hawk.
There's even an outdoor shower, albeit not an enclosed shower, mere feet from the ocean. I can work with that and I have.
But plenty lately is a revelation to this long-time beachgoer.
New to me is the heated pool, tended to by a guy who shows up every Thursday to skim leaves and do whatever else pool guys do. The house sits at the end of Seashell Drive, with an under-construction house on one side (sawhorses present, but no actual construction workers) and on the other, a house that's been unobtrusively occupied for a day or two once a week.
And get this: once a week, four guys show up to shovel any seaweed debris off their beach and into the ocean. Make no mistake, the seaweed returns with the next high tide, but our mostly absent neighbors must think it's worth paying to have their beach cleaned even for temporary results.
This is a whole new kind of beach life I've never seen.
So basically, we have no neighbors and the privacy of that is very new and hugely appealing to us. One of the first things I do when I wake up every morning is push aside the screened sliding door from the bedroom to the deck and walk out there for a weather check.
Is it 68 or 72 degrees first thing in the morning? How much is the breeze blowing? Is the ocean gently lapping or mirror-like today? Is anybody out there yet paddle-boarding, parasailing or kayaking?
When we don't go out for breakfast, we eat it on that deck. When we do let someone else cook for us, it's at a place like Mangrove Mike's, where we're seated near an empty table that begins to fill up with a group we dub the Wednesday morning breakfast club.
One or two at a time, they dribble in, this collection of men in marina t-shirts, some with newspapers tucked under their arms. No one orders until all six of them have arrived, then it's a free-for-all of ribbing each other, fish stories and teasing the servers, who tolerate them like the regulars they clearly are.
It's easy to spot the owner of Mangrove Mike's and when he stops by our table to check on how we liked our waffle and omelet, I use the opportunity to get his story. Turns out he grew up in Tidewater, so we discuss the area's overgrowth and he laments how Portsmouth never caught on. After 21 years in the Keys, he's lost all interest in places with winters.
After 13 days and counting here, I can't disagree with him. Since our arrival, my wardrobe has alternated between sundresses and shorts. My jean jacket was only useful on the flight and on a particularly windy day at a bayside bar.
The funny part is, locals think it's cold once the thermometer hits 64 and that's where I keep my thermostat in my apartment during the winter. Here, they don jackets and hats when it hits 65. One server called 65 degrees "sweatshirt and gloves weather."
Don't make me laugh, kids.
Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for my daily sunbath on the deck. I's a little ritual I picked up last week once I realized that with absolutely nothing on the agenda beyond eating, drinking and sleeping - and, yes, Mac, most days I do walk and generally we walk to breakfast and dinner - why not toast my buns before beginning happy hour?
That's a rhetorical question, by the way.
As many times as I've been to the beach for a stretch, Islamorada is a different kind of salt life. Yes, we're right on the ocean and sure, all the windows are open night and day, just like they'd be if we were in Kitty Hawk.
There's even an outdoor shower, albeit not an enclosed shower, mere feet from the ocean. I can work with that and I have.
But plenty lately is a revelation to this long-time beachgoer.
New to me is the heated pool, tended to by a guy who shows up every Thursday to skim leaves and do whatever else pool guys do. The house sits at the end of Seashell Drive, with an under-construction house on one side (sawhorses present, but no actual construction workers) and on the other, a house that's been unobtrusively occupied for a day or two once a week.
And get this: once a week, four guys show up to shovel any seaweed debris off their beach and into the ocean. Make no mistake, the seaweed returns with the next high tide, but our mostly absent neighbors must think it's worth paying to have their beach cleaned even for temporary results.
This is a whole new kind of beach life I've never seen.
So basically, we have no neighbors and the privacy of that is very new and hugely appealing to us. One of the first things I do when I wake up every morning is push aside the screened sliding door from the bedroom to the deck and walk out there for a weather check.
Is it 68 or 72 degrees first thing in the morning? How much is the breeze blowing? Is the ocean gently lapping or mirror-like today? Is anybody out there yet paddle-boarding, parasailing or kayaking?
When we don't go out for breakfast, we eat it on that deck. When we do let someone else cook for us, it's at a place like Mangrove Mike's, where we're seated near an empty table that begins to fill up with a group we dub the Wednesday morning breakfast club.
One or two at a time, they dribble in, this collection of men in marina t-shirts, some with newspapers tucked under their arms. No one orders until all six of them have arrived, then it's a free-for-all of ribbing each other, fish stories and teasing the servers, who tolerate them like the regulars they clearly are.
It's easy to spot the owner of Mangrove Mike's and when he stops by our table to check on how we liked our waffle and omelet, I use the opportunity to get his story. Turns out he grew up in Tidewater, so we discuss the area's overgrowth and he laments how Portsmouth never caught on. After 21 years in the Keys, he's lost all interest in places with winters.
After 13 days and counting here, I can't disagree with him. Since our arrival, my wardrobe has alternated between sundresses and shorts. My jean jacket was only useful on the flight and on a particularly windy day at a bayside bar.
The funny part is, locals think it's cold once the thermometer hits 64 and that's where I keep my thermostat in my apartment during the winter. Here, they don jackets and hats when it hits 65. One server called 65 degrees "sweatshirt and gloves weather."
Don't make me laugh, kids.
Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for my daily sunbath on the deck. I's a little ritual I picked up last week once I realized that with absolutely nothing on the agenda beyond eating, drinking and sleeping - and, yes, Mac, most days I do walk and generally we walk to breakfast and dinner - why not toast my buns before beginning happy hour?
That's a rhetorical question, by the way.
Tuesday, January 8, 2019
Come Tuesday
Day four of vacation and endless lazing aside, two valuable lessons learned already.
Seashell collecting in Islamorada is not like seashell collecting on the Outer Banks, a lesson learned the hard way. After yesterday's lunch on the downstairs patio, mere feet from the ocean, we decided to check out the ocean temperature.
It was warm, which wasn't surprising given how low the water is along this stretch, which is referred to as "ocean flats," which seems to be code for "ridiculously shallow water that laps at the shore with no whitecaps." The beauty of that depth is the variety of colors that result from the slightest change in depth, so at any given moment, there can be bands of four different shades of green and just as many variations of blue.
As we're wading through the crystal clear water, we make our way around seaweed, sea sponges and the like when I spot a 3-inch whelk shell and scoop it up, then another and a couple more. All are striking in their markings so they're scooped up, brought back to the house and put in a bowl.
Mid-afternoon, we hear clinking in the bowl and by evening, we realize the biggest one still has an animal in it. He's returned to the sea with best wishes, but the others remain bowl-bound because there's no sign of animals in them.
Except that when we wake up today, only two of the three remain. Oops. We start looking for the escapee, but it's a big house, two levels with an open center staircase and he's a little guy with a shell the color of the floor. So not easy to spot.
Finally, Mr. Wright spots him lurking near the refrigerator.
Before breakfast, we're wishing bon voyage to all three, tossing them back to the mother land ocean and wishing them godspeed.
Okay, so no more shell collecting.
Then there's the music challenge. Sure, we could resort to music off of Mr. Wright's iPad, but where's the fun in that when Leila's house comes equipped with such 20th century accouterments as a CD player and a cache of CDS?
No, we're going to see what the house has to offer in terms of music, besides classical, which it seems to have plenty of.
After requisite Buffet (no doubt a mainstay in every Keys home), we hit pay dirt with a 2007 Paul McCartney album I've never even heard of: "Kisses on the Bottom." Like one of my favorite Paul Weller albums ("Studio 150"), it's Sir Paul doing classic songs from his youth, with arrangements using upright bass, vibes, children's choirs and even the London Symphony Orchestra. Diana Krall plays piano on most songs, if that tells you anything.
Then there are the songs, such as "It's Only a Paper Moon" and "Get Yourself Another Fool," Granted, anything would sound wonderful when listened to in big, cushioned chairs on the deck overlooking the ocean, but he also did a masterful job with the material.
Ditto Miles Davis' "Cookin' at the Plugged Nickel," which felt like we were in some smoky basement dive listening to Miles blow. Yves Montand's two disc "Montand" - the cover photo shows only his head, a match inexplicably clenched between his teeth - put us in a smoky Parisian club after hours.
Both, we have decided, are music for evenings, not sunny afternoon tunes.
The John Scofield Quartet gave us "Meant to Be," while Little Feat's "Waiting for Columbus" took me back to 1978 and Yes' "Fragile" to 1972. I picked "Sommer Smash Hots '92" expecting grunge or alternative and instead we heard a succession of bass-heavy club mixes of songs like K.C. and the Sunshine Band's "Please Don't Go" and Bread's "Make It With You."
And while I'm no fan of the milquetoast Bread, hearing that song with a thumping bass certainly improved it considerably.
After seeing a VW van with a Led Zeppelin bumper sticker on my walk earlier, it was only appropriate to get home and have Mr. Wright put on Robert Plant's "Now and Zen." And, frankly, Hendrix's "Axis: Bold as Love" was meant to be played loudly to ocean breezes.
And if it's not, too bad because we've learned that we're choosing the soundtrack to this vacation, with a little help from an Islamorada music lover and endless blue skies.
Bold as love, indeed.
Seashell collecting in Islamorada is not like seashell collecting on the Outer Banks, a lesson learned the hard way. After yesterday's lunch on the downstairs patio, mere feet from the ocean, we decided to check out the ocean temperature.
It was warm, which wasn't surprising given how low the water is along this stretch, which is referred to as "ocean flats," which seems to be code for "ridiculously shallow water that laps at the shore with no whitecaps." The beauty of that depth is the variety of colors that result from the slightest change in depth, so at any given moment, there can be bands of four different shades of green and just as many variations of blue.
As we're wading through the crystal clear water, we make our way around seaweed, sea sponges and the like when I spot a 3-inch whelk shell and scoop it up, then another and a couple more. All are striking in their markings so they're scooped up, brought back to the house and put in a bowl.
Mid-afternoon, we hear clinking in the bowl and by evening, we realize the biggest one still has an animal in it. He's returned to the sea with best wishes, but the others remain bowl-bound because there's no sign of animals in them.
Except that when we wake up today, only two of the three remain. Oops. We start looking for the escapee, but it's a big house, two levels with an open center staircase and he's a little guy with a shell the color of the floor. So not easy to spot.
Finally, Mr. Wright spots him lurking near the refrigerator.
Before breakfast, we're wishing bon voyage to all three, tossing them back to the mother
Okay, so no more shell collecting.
Then there's the music challenge. Sure, we could resort to music off of Mr. Wright's iPad, but where's the fun in that when Leila's house comes equipped with such 20th century accouterments as a CD player and a cache of CDS?
No, we're going to see what the house has to offer in terms of music, besides classical, which it seems to have plenty of.
After requisite Buffet (no doubt a mainstay in every Keys home), we hit pay dirt with a 2007 Paul McCartney album I've never even heard of: "Kisses on the Bottom." Like one of my favorite Paul Weller albums ("Studio 150"), it's Sir Paul doing classic songs from his youth, with arrangements using upright bass, vibes, children's choirs and even the London Symphony Orchestra. Diana Krall plays piano on most songs, if that tells you anything.
Then there are the songs, such as "It's Only a Paper Moon" and "Get Yourself Another Fool," Granted, anything would sound wonderful when listened to in big, cushioned chairs on the deck overlooking the ocean, but he also did a masterful job with the material.
Ditto Miles Davis' "Cookin' at the Plugged Nickel," which felt like we were in some smoky basement dive listening to Miles blow. Yves Montand's two disc "Montand" - the cover photo shows only his head, a match inexplicably clenched between his teeth - put us in a smoky Parisian club after hours.
Both, we have decided, are music for evenings, not sunny afternoon tunes.
The John Scofield Quartet gave us "Meant to Be," while Little Feat's "Waiting for Columbus" took me back to 1978 and Yes' "Fragile" to 1972. I picked "Sommer Smash Hots '92" expecting grunge or alternative and instead we heard a succession of bass-heavy club mixes of songs like K.C. and the Sunshine Band's "Please Don't Go" and Bread's "Make It With You."
And while I'm no fan of the milquetoast Bread, hearing that song with a thumping bass certainly improved it considerably.
After seeing a VW van with a Led Zeppelin bumper sticker on my walk earlier, it was only appropriate to get home and have Mr. Wright put on Robert Plant's "Now and Zen." And, frankly, Hendrix's "Axis: Bold as Love" was meant to be played loudly to ocean breezes.
And if it's not, too bad because we've learned that we're choosing the soundtrack to this vacation, with a little help from an Islamorada music lover and endless blue skies.
Bold as love, indeed.
Monday, January 7, 2019
A Time to Every Purpose
You could say we came 1,016 miles to hear a Rickenbacker guitar, but that might be overstating things just a bit.
As it happens, we did hear the distinctive sounds of a Rickenbacker last night, not because we set out to, but because we went to Lorelei's Restaurant and Cabana Bar, ostensibly to drink and watch the sun set over Florida Bay.
It seems to be a Keys rite of passage to settle in at a tiki bar to ogle the setting sun - to a person, everyone we've asked for eating recommendations has instructed us to catch a sunset, especially since we're staying on the ocean side - but Lorelei's had the added advantage of having tables directly on the sand.
That's immersion and we're all about the immersion.
Add in that the sunset doesn't happen until almost 6:00, nearly an hour later than in the Capital of the Confederacy, plus it was an easy walk and I was more than happy to give over three plus hours to lounging with tourists and locals.
The latter were especially easy to spot because, like the couple at the table next to us, they asked their server questions like, "Do you still have smoked fish dip today?' a surefire clue that the dip must be good to run out of it regularly.
Not so sound smug, but fortunately for us, we'd already ordered ours. That it arrived with Captain's Wafers rather than basic Saltines would be my only critique, but then I'm partial to the old school ways.
Another way to spot locals was when one or the other of the two guys who made up Webb and Davidson, the duo performing at Lorelei's last night, spotted a local in the crowd and called out, "Hey, Pam and Saul! Nice to see that the snowbirds are coming back!"
Mr. Wright identified the duo's sound as pure Florida Keys and we found out how right he was when one said he'd been performing at Lorelei's for 29 years and for the other guy, it had been 20 years.
Later, pointing to the pink glow on the water just after the sunset, he gestured and announced, "This is why we live here, folks. It never gets boring!"
Tiki bar pontoon boats floated by, music blaring, as we sat there sipping rum punches and taking it all in. On a trip to the loo, I spotted a pink Cadillac which had been converted to a sea-going vessel (and, naturally, was available for rental) floating at the dock. Hanging from palm trees along the way were bird sculptures made of palm leaves, almost invisible in the greenery unless you were paying attention.
Webb and Davidson, with their years of playing experience, were just the right accompaniment to the late afternoon vibe. From the Beatles and the Marshall Tucker Band to songs like "Wooden Ships," they made their allegiance to the '60s and '70s clear with guitars and the occasional fiddle.
"This next song is the reason I bought this $2,000 Rickenbacker guitar," one of the guys said. "When I first heard that guitar, it sounded like god to me. It's the guitar Roger McGuinn of the Byrds and Tom Petty played."
Even a non-musician like me knew what he meant as they launched into "Turn, Turn, Turn." One of the first albums I ever asked my parents for at Christmas was "The Byrds Greatest Hits" and it was because when I heard that guitar, it sounded like, well, not god because I'm a heathen, but certainly it resonated on an emotional level I responded to.
And hearing a Rickenbacker live? Yes, please.
After the mass selfie and photo-taking explosion that happened with the sunset was over, many people around us headed for the doors. Not us. Sensing the potential for a fish fiesta, we stayed on to sup and sip more rum drinks, as befits the best kind of post-sunset tiki evening.
While you can bring your catch to Lorelei's for cooking, we'd been too busy exploring the island to fish (ha! as if), so we went with menu offerings instead. The piece of fish on my grilled mahi mahi sandwich was almost twice the size of the bun, while Mr. Wright's mahi tacos were obscenely fat because of all the local fish stuffed in them. It's looking like we're both good candidates for island cuisine.
Not to mention that hearing that gorgeous Rickenbacker tone on a beach with my main squeeze while watching the sun slide behind mangroves made it plain why the locals had insisted we do the requisite sunset visit.
And if that's the rum punches talking, we'll take another round.
As it happens, we did hear the distinctive sounds of a Rickenbacker last night, not because we set out to, but because we went to Lorelei's Restaurant and Cabana Bar, ostensibly to drink and watch the sun set over Florida Bay.
It seems to be a Keys rite of passage to settle in at a tiki bar to ogle the setting sun - to a person, everyone we've asked for eating recommendations has instructed us to catch a sunset, especially since we're staying on the ocean side - but Lorelei's had the added advantage of having tables directly on the sand.
That's immersion and we're all about the immersion.
Add in that the sunset doesn't happen until almost 6:00, nearly an hour later than in the Capital of the Confederacy, plus it was an easy walk and I was more than happy to give over three plus hours to lounging with tourists and locals.
The latter were especially easy to spot because, like the couple at the table next to us, they asked their server questions like, "Do you still have smoked fish dip today?' a surefire clue that the dip must be good to run out of it regularly.
Not so sound smug, but fortunately for us, we'd already ordered ours. That it arrived with Captain's Wafers rather than basic Saltines would be my only critique, but then I'm partial to the old school ways.
Another way to spot locals was when one or the other of the two guys who made up Webb and Davidson, the duo performing at Lorelei's last night, spotted a local in the crowd and called out, "Hey, Pam and Saul! Nice to see that the snowbirds are coming back!"
Mr. Wright identified the duo's sound as pure Florida Keys and we found out how right he was when one said he'd been performing at Lorelei's for 29 years and for the other guy, it had been 20 years.
Later, pointing to the pink glow on the water just after the sunset, he gestured and announced, "This is why we live here, folks. It never gets boring!"
Tiki bar pontoon boats floated by, music blaring, as we sat there sipping rum punches and taking it all in. On a trip to the loo, I spotted a pink Cadillac which had been converted to a sea-going vessel (and, naturally, was available for rental) floating at the dock. Hanging from palm trees along the way were bird sculptures made of palm leaves, almost invisible in the greenery unless you were paying attention.
Webb and Davidson, with their years of playing experience, were just the right accompaniment to the late afternoon vibe. From the Beatles and the Marshall Tucker Band to songs like "Wooden Ships," they made their allegiance to the '60s and '70s clear with guitars and the occasional fiddle.
"This next song is the reason I bought this $2,000 Rickenbacker guitar," one of the guys said. "When I first heard that guitar, it sounded like god to me. It's the guitar Roger McGuinn of the Byrds and Tom Petty played."
Even a non-musician like me knew what he meant as they launched into "Turn, Turn, Turn." One of the first albums I ever asked my parents for at Christmas was "The Byrds Greatest Hits" and it was because when I heard that guitar, it sounded like, well, not god because I'm a heathen, but certainly it resonated on an emotional level I responded to.
And hearing a Rickenbacker live? Yes, please.
After the mass selfie and photo-taking explosion that happened with the sunset was over, many people around us headed for the doors. Not us. Sensing the potential for a fish fiesta, we stayed on to sup and sip more rum drinks, as befits the best kind of post-sunset tiki evening.
While you can bring your catch to Lorelei's for cooking, we'd been too busy exploring the island to fish (ha! as if), so we went with menu offerings instead. The piece of fish on my grilled mahi mahi sandwich was almost twice the size of the bun, while Mr. Wright's mahi tacos were obscenely fat because of all the local fish stuffed in them. It's looking like we're both good candidates for island cuisine.
Not to mention that hearing that gorgeous Rickenbacker tone on a beach with my main squeeze while watching the sun slide behind mangroves made it plain why the locals had insisted we do the requisite sunset visit.
And if that's the rum punches talking, we'll take another round.
Sunday, January 6, 2019
Conch Fritter Life
Let the R & R begin.
The good news is, when you wake up on a Saturday morning at the Miami airport hotel, you can be at the "Welcome to the Keys" sign by 11 a.m., even if you take a less traveled route than the obvious Route 1.
Our arrival time meant we slid into Alabama Jack's before the lunch crowds, scoring a waterside high table with no effort. One of Mr. Wright's Vero Beach buddies had suggested the vintage dive bar as essential road eating, mainly for the conch fritters.
No one needed to tell us twice to stop at a place with a cut-out metal sign reading, "Harley parking only" and with two milkcrates inexplicably sitting on the roof.
Although we also ordered perfectly delicious spiced shrimp, Hugh had been right and it was the fritters that needed to be experienced. Instead of a basket of neat little balls of fried bread and conch, what arrived was an enormous fritter that overflowed the sides of the basket and had the shape of a tentacled blob. I mean that in the best way.
Two plastic knives were impaled in the fritter, the better to carve out bites of the monster while gleaning the history of the joint from our friendly server. Seems Alabama Jack's started life as a fishing camp across the water from a mangrove forest. It wasn't hard to imagine salty fishermen traveling dirt roads to get there.
Open to the elements on all sides, the railings were covered in Sharpie-scribbled declarations of love, the ancient fans mounted on the weathered walls were covered in rust and when food fell off a plate to the floor, the staff just kicked it into the water. Old license plates hung everywhere, from a Florida plate reading "NO TAX" to a Maryland plate that had expired 3-31-70.
Every time the bartender got a tip, he rang a rusty old bell. That kind of place.
The first time I saw how food removal happened, it was a chicken bone the server jettisoned into the water. Immediately, a school of what I learned was needle fish - long, skinny, almost translucent green needle-nosed creatures - descended on it voraciously.
When I commented to our server about the feeding frenzy, she told us to wait until the mango snappers showed up, which was anytime a piece of conch fritter hit the water. Naturally, I immediately pulled off a piece of ours and tossed it overboard, only to see 30 or so fish shoot out from the wooden slats under our table and fight over it.
And by fight, I mean, out of the water, tails slapping each other and the water, and fish bumping into each other. Kind of like what I imagined eating at an orphanage was like in Dickensian times.
Shrimp shells had a similar, if not quite as frenetic, effect on the needle fish, but the mango snappers clearly wanted their lunch fried. Some rube tossed out lettuce and onion and the fish and I looked at him incredulously. These fish wanted the good stuff off our plates.
Surely this goes against every law of nature, right? What ecosystem supports cannibalism anyway?
But it wasn't all ugly competition. Boats passed by slowly, many of the occupants waving hello because the distance from us to them was so close. Meanwhile, across the water we saw a great blue heron standing calmly by the mangroves, his back to us.
Or maybe he was just disgusted with his fellow water dwellers.
By the time we left, new arrivals were having to sit far from the water and were happy to get that. We may have been ungodly early at Alabama Jack's, but our timing was impeccable.
Our next stop was as unlikely as it was charming. Tucked behind a Holiday Inn and hard to locate, we stopped to see the original African Queen. That's right, the boat used in the Hepburn/Bogart movie, which now docks behind a glass bottom boat in Key Largo.
Since it hasn't been all that long since I saw "The African Queen" at the Byrd, it was instantly recognizable.
Even more surprising was how small it looked. There was the boiler (recently replaced) in the center and the canopy that kept the rain off Hepburn as she slept. On the back was a wooden crate of gin like the one Bogart emptied in the movie. The smell of old water-saturated wood rose from the old girl.
A guy standing on the dock told us that the 1912 boat had been bought in 1982 and moved to Florida. Both an American and British flag were mounted on it and you could actually go out on a dinner cruise on it despite its petite size.
And while that would have been lovely, we had other places to be, namely Islamorada.
The digs for our winter getaway is called Leila's house and sits on the most placid Atlantic I've ever seen. When it's low tide, there's a little beach and when it's high tide, there's an ocean that ends near the downstairs patio and pool. From the main deck, about all we see is water that ranges from turquoise to bottle green to pale blue and palm trees constantly rustling in the breeze.
Best of all, it was 82 when we arrived, although the woman at the Visitors' Center warned us of an impending cold front, so it would be dropping to 75. Don't make us laugh.
Suddenly the past few weeks of non-stop deadlines are forgotten. Hello, warm days and nights. How I've missed you.
The good news is, when you wake up on a Saturday morning at the Miami airport hotel, you can be at the "Welcome to the Keys" sign by 11 a.m., even if you take a less traveled route than the obvious Route 1.
Our arrival time meant we slid into Alabama Jack's before the lunch crowds, scoring a waterside high table with no effort. One of Mr. Wright's Vero Beach buddies had suggested the vintage dive bar as essential road eating, mainly for the conch fritters.
No one needed to tell us twice to stop at a place with a cut-out metal sign reading, "Harley parking only" and with two milkcrates inexplicably sitting on the roof.
Although we also ordered perfectly delicious spiced shrimp, Hugh had been right and it was the fritters that needed to be experienced. Instead of a basket of neat little balls of fried bread and conch, what arrived was an enormous fritter that overflowed the sides of the basket and had the shape of a tentacled blob. I mean that in the best way.
Two plastic knives were impaled in the fritter, the better to carve out bites of the monster while gleaning the history of the joint from our friendly server. Seems Alabama Jack's started life as a fishing camp across the water from a mangrove forest. It wasn't hard to imagine salty fishermen traveling dirt roads to get there.
Open to the elements on all sides, the railings were covered in Sharpie-scribbled declarations of love, the ancient fans mounted on the weathered walls were covered in rust and when food fell off a plate to the floor, the staff just kicked it into the water. Old license plates hung everywhere, from a Florida plate reading "NO TAX" to a Maryland plate that had expired 3-31-70.
Every time the bartender got a tip, he rang a rusty old bell. That kind of place.
The first time I saw how food removal happened, it was a chicken bone the server jettisoned into the water. Immediately, a school of what I learned was needle fish - long, skinny, almost translucent green needle-nosed creatures - descended on it voraciously.
When I commented to our server about the feeding frenzy, she told us to wait until the mango snappers showed up, which was anytime a piece of conch fritter hit the water. Naturally, I immediately pulled off a piece of ours and tossed it overboard, only to see 30 or so fish shoot out from the wooden slats under our table and fight over it.
And by fight, I mean, out of the water, tails slapping each other and the water, and fish bumping into each other. Kind of like what I imagined eating at an orphanage was like in Dickensian times.
Shrimp shells had a similar, if not quite as frenetic, effect on the needle fish, but the mango snappers clearly wanted their lunch fried. Some rube tossed out lettuce and onion and the fish and I looked at him incredulously. These fish wanted the good stuff off our plates.
Surely this goes against every law of nature, right? What ecosystem supports cannibalism anyway?
But it wasn't all ugly competition. Boats passed by slowly, many of the occupants waving hello because the distance from us to them was so close. Meanwhile, across the water we saw a great blue heron standing calmly by the mangroves, his back to us.
Or maybe he was just disgusted with his fellow water dwellers.
By the time we left, new arrivals were having to sit far from the water and were happy to get that. We may have been ungodly early at Alabama Jack's, but our timing was impeccable.
Our next stop was as unlikely as it was charming. Tucked behind a Holiday Inn and hard to locate, we stopped to see the original African Queen. That's right, the boat used in the Hepburn/Bogart movie, which now docks behind a glass bottom boat in Key Largo.
Since it hasn't been all that long since I saw "The African Queen" at the Byrd, it was instantly recognizable.
Even more surprising was how small it looked. There was the boiler (recently replaced) in the center and the canopy that kept the rain off Hepburn as she slept. On the back was a wooden crate of gin like the one Bogart emptied in the movie. The smell of old water-saturated wood rose from the old girl.
A guy standing on the dock told us that the 1912 boat had been bought in 1982 and moved to Florida. Both an American and British flag were mounted on it and you could actually go out on a dinner cruise on it despite its petite size.
And while that would have been lovely, we had other places to be, namely Islamorada.
The digs for our winter getaway is called Leila's house and sits on the most placid Atlantic I've ever seen. When it's low tide, there's a little beach and when it's high tide, there's an ocean that ends near the downstairs patio and pool. From the main deck, about all we see is water that ranges from turquoise to bottle green to pale blue and palm trees constantly rustling in the breeze.
Best of all, it was 82 when we arrived, although the woman at the Visitors' Center warned us of an impending cold front, so it would be dropping to 75. Don't make us laugh.
Suddenly the past few weeks of non-stop deadlines are forgotten. Hello, warm days and nights. How I've missed you.
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