Dan and Hannah travel the Keys to Key West, Florida

Driving to Key West!  Does it get any better for the traveling man?  I think not.

Heading south on Route One (the same Route One that lies within a mile of our house in Maine) through the everglades of southern Florida in mid-January, Hannah and I drive on an uncluttered four-lane highway with chain link barbed wire fences on either side of the highway.  Constructed to keep the gators and crocs from being roadkill and the traveling cars from a nasty speed bump, they bracket our drive to the southernmost part of the United States (further south than any part of Hawaii). 

As we approach Key Largo (97 miles east of Key West) on what is referred to as the Overseas Highway, the concrete barriers on the bridges are painted coral Florida blue, blending nicely with the surrounding marshlands.  Unfortunately, viewed from Route One, Key Largo is just another strip mall city USA.  Albeit, with a southern Florida feel.  We pass Phantom Fireworks, Shell World, Scuba Outlet¸ and Sandal Outlet, where one can get three tee-shirts for $10.  We see a Friday Nite Fish Fry, all you can eat, for $10.95.  Bait and tackle shops.  Do you know what tackle really is?  It is the equipment used when fishing.  Thank you, Dan, you must be thinking.

Dressed in tee shirts, shorts, and sandals, we totally forget the near zero temperatures in overnight Maine.  The Keys are just another world; a place to leave the world of work, day-to-day responsibilities, and the threat of snow behind.  We see boats for sale everywhere.  Seeing a sign to swim with the dolphins, we later pass a tanning salon.  Seriously?  Tanning salons in Florida!?

With 120 miles of sun-bleached road to Key West, which will take three hours today, we delve into the subject of how much to tip housekeepers at the motels where we stay.  Usually, I don’t think much about it, which I am well aware, is not impressive.  Early today Hannah saw an envelope left by the housekeeper for a tip.  I often think of tipping housekeepers as such an anonymous transaction - leaving a tip to someone you never see.  The maids come in at 9A and we are long since gone to our next stop.  Even so, I think tipping these housekeepers, who are often Hispanic or American-African women, says more about who I am than about them.  How do I acknowledge the plight of others clearly not as fortunate as myself with more than just words?  Do I appreciate and share my bounty?  What if I were the immigrant struggling to make ends meet in a foreign country?  What kindnesses would I appreciate?

It brings to mind the poem, Final Analysis, by Kent Keith. It begins with People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered. Forgive them anyway… and ends with In the final analysis, it is between you and God.  It was never between you and them anyway.  (It’s a stunning, inspirational poem.  Click on the hyperlink above.)   We are blessed and are fortunate to share our largesse.  We quietly tip because we can, not because we must.

Along much of the highway south are bike paths, sometimes ten yards or more from the highway; at one time there was a railroad bridge from the mainland to Key West that operated from 1912 to 1935; sections of the old railroad bridges remain for bicyclists, fisher folk, and snowbirds walking.  Other times, bicyclists are no more than five feet away from cars bombing 60 mph to the land of Jim Buffett.  The highway is framed by deciduous trees which never lose their leaves.  Palms and Spanish moss give the area the feel of paradise.  I have a new appreciation of how vulnerable these islands are when the next hurricane comes.  Pelicans perch on the bridges as if in an island paradise painting. 

Taking over the driving south of Marathon (48 miles from Key West), I unfortunately will begin the Seven Mile Bridge.  

I’m not a big fan of high bridges, especially high ones with lots of water for miles and miles (acrophobia).  Though the speed limit is 55, I putter along at 45 with a death grip on the steering wheel; looking neither right nor left, fearing that doing so would cause the rental Chevy Aveo to veer over the side.  

Stealing a glance at our GPS, which counts down the miles to the next spit of land (the key), I feel a drop of sweat coming from my right arm pit.  Four miles to go!  With tunnel vision, I see the far side of the bridge and continue to say not a word to Hannah.   And them voila, I’m over the bridge on to dry land.  The Seven Mile Bridge (actually 6.79 miles) takes just eight minutes.  It seemed a lot longer. 

 

We cross into Key West and have the good fortune to run into Larry at the Visitor Center.  But that’s for the next posting.  (That’s what we call a tease in the business.)