Boy, I’ve never goofed one like this before. Riding down to Key West, expecting to check-in to a cottage in Old Town, and boom, we find we’re arriving a night early.
A night early! Oh mealy worms. Sometimes I have the common sense of an overcooked macaroni noodle.
The wife found out when she called to request late check-in.
“Um,” they told her, “you’re not scheduled to check-in until tomorrow.”
The heat of embarrassment took a tour through my body, ending in my toes. I thought my toenails might pop off. I looked for someone to blame, and maybe the dog, but I had to take this one squarely on the shoulders. I misread the paperwork — dates were never my strong point — and we were up the creak.
What a way to start a week-long vacation in the Keys.
But you know, a start like that means it can only get better. And it did. It all worked out. Thompsons may have chronic bad luck, and petroleum jelly for brains, but we’re survivors. It all worked out because in the Florida Keys there’s no living but good living.
I love it down there. And it’s not for any of the reasons most people have. Frankly, I don’t do anything that makes the Keys the Keys. Don’t boat, don’t fish, don’t drink until I’m inside out, don’t lobster hunt, don’t collect shells, don’t buy cheap crap, don’t visit tourist attractions, don’t snorkel, don’t scuba and don’t go anywhere that might bring me into close contact with marine life that views my hind quarters as a pork chop.
Instead, my wife and I do simple things. We take long strolls until the heat of summer has wilted us to puddles and melted our knees. We take in galleries and eat well. We admire architecture and plot changes to our house — “What about a windmill?”
We walk around with a list of every ice cream shop in town so we’re always prepared, and we admire yachts with mansions growing out of them, prompting us to wonder what we did wrong to be so poor.
And this trip I learned that life can be best enjoyed from atop a beat-up beach cruiser bicycle. We rented bikes and scooted around Key West without a care in the world, except for the fear of running over rabid chickens that might chase us.
I don’t usually like to rent bikes because most are brand new, bright colors and come affixed with big signs that read, “Dork tourist coming, be mindful and don’t kill.”
But the bike I found to rent had character. It was covered in rust and looked like it had just been dredged out of the bay. The tires were underflated, and the back wheel was so bent it flopped around like a spinning pancake.
It was the perfect Key West bike. I rode around town in proud style, swerving uncontrollably when I got going too fast because the front wheel wasn’t actually attached.
I love a vacation that when people ask, “What did you do?” you have to answer, “One word: tetanus.”
I kept the freezer stocked with Dove bars. I picked up coconuts and carried them home. I drank more bottled water than there is in Virginia. I invented cocktails. I didn’t answer the phone. I ate roasted almonds. I bought expensive chocolate.
What a time. What a wonderful, wonderful time.
Now we’re back, and real life is returning with a thud. The beach cruiser is gone, and so are the mid-day ice creams.
But a boy can still dream, can’t he? Dream of a day with a yacht that has an ice cream store and a big crane that lowers a rusting bike ashore every morning.
The back wheel will still flap like a pancake, and I will always arrive one day too early because who doesn’t need to get a jump on vacation?