Here lies the end of the rainbow, so they say. Either way, it’s definitely the end of the road. Literally and metaphorically.
It’s difficult to tell what this town will bring. I’ve heard everything from paradise to hell. It’s a place where the mosquitoes sting can bring good luck just as quick as it can suck you dry. Shoes are optional, bicycles are mandatory and a hard day is modified with a slice of key lime pie. The sunset eases the worry of the rent you can’t pay, as does the notion of sleeping under the Caribbean sky.
The locals drop names, the captains drop anchors, and the tourists drop cash while festivals of people drop their inhibitions. It’s “The Poor Man’s Riviera” according to Hemingway. To others, it’s “The Last Bastion of the Overqualified” as deemed so by a colony of musicians and artists and clever tongued people who fancy themselves poets and frequent open mic’-ed café’s.
These are the things I know. But there is so much I don’t – and I must say beware! For one sailor’s mansion is another’s leaky boat…
Will the mangoes taste as sweet to me or will I find them dying? Will the endless parties and rows of bars bring cheer or maybe they’re just loud and annoying? Is it okay to confess I know the snowbird, but know nothing of indigenous chickens or deer or queens of the sea?
But perhaps I’ll find the sun can paint me bronze instead of weathering beneath. Can I forge a life in this hippie haven? Find a place in a pirate’s cove? Ya know, maybe even find myself a poet too? If so, must I write only of coconuts and ocean and blue skies or is it enough just the hope it inspires?
Here lies the end of the rainbow and surely the end of the road. Once down and out, soon up and in, looking for that Key West pot of gold.