We’ve said goodbye to Key West, former home of Hemingway and his enviable studio . . .
. . . where works like For Whom the Bell Tolls, The Green Hills of Africa, and The Snows of Kilimanjaro, among others, were written. The day I visited, there was the loveliest breeze coming through the windows and rustling the palms outside . . .
Hemingway seems to haunt the place a bit. I can’t even count the number of look-alikes I encountered during our sojourn. Here’s one conveniently posed by the sign, in case you didn’t catch the resemblance.
Goodbye also to Louie’s Backyard, an excellent restaurant next to the dog beach. Our favorite is the small plates restaurant upstairs, where the Prosecco is cold, the chef is world class and where we twice lucked into a balcony table with a view of the sea looking like this. →
And no more Mallory Square Sunset Celebrations where the performers hope for tips, the artisans hope for sales . . .
But aside from these usual tourist events, I don’t know where else we’ll see things like this . . .
. . . or this . . .
But all that is now in the past. We made it to the end of Route 1, and since Key West was meant to be the end of our original year of adventure, leaving Key West really is the beginning of the road home.
We will actually be in Florida for two more weeks, which we realize is a very good thing, since FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, this winter has been UNBELIEVABLE. Bon courage! It seriously does have to give way to spring eventually.
So you’d think it would be no big deal, but there is an odd feeling of something ending. At the same time, though, some new things are beginning and other good things will be resuming, so in this season of change, we remain grateful for the opportunities we’ve had and the friends we’ve made both in France and here in the states.
We love you all. Thanks for sharing our journey with us. We’re not done yet!
Life is not so much about beginnings and endings as it is about going on and on and on. It is about muddling through the middle. ∼Anna Quindlen
A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. ∼John Steinbeck