(Selfie of Vic, 90 miles from la Habana.)
I had a good day in Paradise yesterday, considering the alternatives. There were some practical issues. I realized Verizon is not the long-term solution to access my e-life, which either is, or is not, of longer-term consequence. And longer term, of course, is where I want to be spending my winters, or whether I need an e-life at all.
I don’t know about that. I do know that my Pal Boats wrote to update me on the emerging nation of Greater Texas. I do not know quite what to think about it, but in the context of unsustainable things, if we can’t go on with what we are doing because it doesn’t work, what on earth will go on?
Boats is a shameless booster of his native Cajun Country, but he recognizes something greater in the region, and his view seems to crystalize the fundamental difference in outlook from Mayor Bloomberg, just to pick one, and Senator Cruz, to pick another.
Anyway, this is the view of the Master Chief Boatswain’s Mate:
“Glad you are enjoying the Conch Republic. Unfortunately, Florida is not really part of Greater Texas. It has been infiltrated by too many non-copperheaded non-natives. It has too many economic and social connections to New York and Washington to qualify, and Houston will not pursue any place not willing to join of their own free will.
The Conch Republic is something of an exception. Somewhat independent of the rest of Florida, Greater Texans don’t really regard it as part of the “Floridian Enclave” (of non-copperheads). Nor is it part of Greater Texas, but we admire its independent spirit. If ever they wanted to secede formally from Florida, we’d certainly be sympathetic and no doubt aid the effort. You can think of Key West as a sort of semi-protectorate, with “most favored nation” status relative to Greater Texas.
As a point of order, the real offshore outpost of Greater Texas is the U.S. Virgin Islands. Texans have invested heavily in the businesses down there and have moved there in some numbers. The Texans are slowly and quietly sponsoring a statehood movement, not annexation by Texas, but U.S. statehood, giving greater Texas more congressmen and two more senators. Again, the idea is the defense of the culture, and economy of Greater Texas from the inroads of the dysfunctional U.S. federal government.
If we could convert Florida we would, but the original “crackers” appear to be overwhelmed. The Conch Republic however is “a whole ‘nother’ place even without “crackers”. Enjoy!”
I had to think that through carefully. I decided to select “enjoy.”
The news from Virginia was about a blanket of snow a foot deep, ice and slush all the way south to Georgia. In fact, 49 states (including Hawaii) with only Florida snow-free. There is no getting out of there until the deep freeze thaws, and it is a fine place to be.
Still nothing is perfectly perfect. It turned chill yesterday, or rather chillier. Marlow had mentioned that it was unseasonably warm the day of my rival- I was bathed in sweat unloading the car- and the brisk breeze that rose yesterday found me trooping the length of Duval Street on a voyage of discovery.
I am treating this visit as a port call in a foreign land, absent of course the urgency that goes with only having 72 hours to see it all, and no particular need to sleep, or even sober up.
I wandered the eight blocks on foot to intersect Duval, and turned left, intending to walk both sides of the street and feel the texture. By the time I arrived at the north end of the street again, I thought it would be time for a cocktail.
I stopped at some of the more interesting shops along the way. Mel Fisher, the treasure hunter who found the wreck of the Spanish Atocha’s bounty of doubloons, lost since the great storm of 1622. His company has a storefront managed by a pleasant young woman named Caroline.
(One of Mel’s coins, set as a necklace pendant. Photo Fisher Salvors.)
I had been hearing Russian among other languages on the street, and asked where she was from. She said she was from the flat land that is either German or Russian, depending on which decade, but at the time of her birth was Poland.
I looked at some of the treasure with interest- Mel’s epic tale of finding the wreck, and then fighting for the funding to recover it and the battle against the State of Florida to keep it had gripped my imagination when it was happening. I restrained myself from the opportunity to spend money I don’t have any more, and lied that I would be back as I stepped out the door.
Apparently the south end of Duval is the Gayer of the two directions, the north end being more heterosexual. A couple of the t-shirt stores had shirts with vibrant slogans (like “I’m so Gay that I shit rainbows!”). I could only find amusement in it all, a defiance that is no longer required, thank goodness.
A tall young African American man passed me on the left on the crowded street- I am still challenged in the ability to move forward with any speed or accuracy- and he was singing some tune of his own invention. He pointed at a pleasant looking pair of men in front of me, as he pointed and exclaimed: “Ha! You are the top, and you,” pointing at the other “are the bottom!”
The men looked nonplussed, and I could not tell if the declaration was correct. Singing still, the tall man walked on, and so did I.
Eventually I found myself on the beach on the south end of town, near the Southernmost Tattoo Parlor, and Southernmost Hotel and Southernmost Private Residence, and eventually at Mile Marker 0, ninety miles VFR direct from Havana.
I am going to have to leave it at that. Coming back up the west side of the street I looked into a couple galleries and was jostled with tourists covered in oil- wait, that might have been the music blaring out of Jimmy Buffett’s Original Margaritaville restaurant.
I did not stop. I know the man whose music resonates most for me, and it is Michael McCloud, who plays at Schooner Warf. I walked on, coming to Green Street.
If I had been wearing a watch, I would have looked at it. “It is five o’clock somewhere, I thought and turned left to approach Captain Tony’s. Marlow had taken me there years ago, describing the night that Papa Hemingway and his cast of ne’er do wells moved the furniture out and down the street to re-establish the original Sloppy Joe’s Bar in the place up the block where it has existed since 1937.
It was first in this place, though, and I walked into the dark space filled with second hand smoke to pay homage. I talked to Joe, the bartender from Silver Spring, MD, and knocked back a couple before forging ahead to the Hog’s Breath Inn, where I had a vague notion of catching part of the set of RSV, the band we saw two nights ago. I drank a rum punch when I could find an open stool at the apex of what would have been the Amen Corner, but shorts and t-shirt were not going to make it as the breeze from the north swept in.
I bought a souvenir long sleeve logo shirt to warm up and decided to go home. The woman who sold me the shirt was from Slovenia, and had been here since she could get out of the Balkans. I trudged on to Green Street to turn left and head home, but there was Sloppy Joes, and some animosity that happened over rent in 1937 really should not concern me, and certainly the rivalry of dead Captain Tony and the owners of Joe’s, so what the hell.
I went in and bellied up to the bar and ordered a goddamn piña colada. Shoot me.
The band on the imposing stage in the cavernous space was just finishing up. A tough-as-nails blonde was serving me and a party who were talking about a place where they all got poisoned the other day as I sipped the sweet slush in amazement.
Souvenir plastic cups in hand, I walked through the now-dark night back to the apartment. It was interesting, but I prefer conversation to music, and quiet to raucous these days, though I do like getting out. The walking will be therapeutic, and this is a hell of a place to walk around.
Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303