Well, I didn’t finish my book yesterday. I’m almost done though. Our Kayak pick up came in a large van… a divorce from Pennsylvania who relocated here 5 years ago was our driver. Everybody has a story. She brought us to Stock Island where we loaded ourselves into Kayaks with our guide Chris and a family from upstate New York who looked about as comfortable on the water as a fish on the patio. It was like kayaking with the Kardashians.
Blue Sky Kayaking was exactly what it was billed to be… an eco tour through the mangroves. Except the part where we all – Kardashians included – thought we’d be paddling for most of the time. Chris had us paddle out here and there and through a few mangroves where we had to split our paddles to get through, but the majority of the 2.5 hour trip, we were sitting over sand bars looking for creatures. And we did find a number. Yesterday I held a live conch, a sea cucumber (GROSS), a star fish, and a sea urchin. We also saw jumping terrapin, a poisonous sea urchin and a number of birds. It was more like a discovery channel show than an adventure excursion. Enjoyable nonetheless. I managed to survive all that time in the sun with only a sun kissed face… granted, I was reapplying spray on 50 spf every 10 seconds.
Upon our return, we just lazed around the pool a bit. I had a pina colada, which blew me up later… but man it tasted good. Billy, our barkeep was back and I met a few other couples staying at the hotel. It seems like everybody is from Pennsylvania.
Mom and I headed out about 6 for dinner. On the way, we stopped in a store where she found a gift. About this time, we both decided that neither of us needed the expensive keepsakes we both had been contemplating. Me—my leather vest for Chicago and her—a picture called Pies and Tarts from a nearby gallery.
Dinner last night was at La Te Da, a dinner theater famous for its drag shows. The chef there, I think her name is Georgia Chase… I haven’t kept up… serves a mediocre theater menu. While her gazpacho was spicy and fantastic, it was far too large a portion for a starter. My entrée was the citrus mahi, whose sauce was out of this world, but when paired with a piece of fish that had obviously been frozen, was disappointing. And for those of us with lactose issues, a single choice of cheesecake or cheesecake wasn’t going to cut it. When we asked the waitress who was foreign and didn’t remotely understand the question if there were any options (even for an up charge) other than cheesecake, she offered us key lime pie, which we accepted. However, a person who understood the dilemma would have said, the pie has whipped cream and a chocolate crust… what kind of place serves an alternatively lactose free dish that is covered in lactose? But what can you expect when you staff your purportedly top tier restaurant with people who don’t understand the primary language. A second example of this there was when my sugar packet solution to our unlevel table was unsuitable for our waitress and she called the bus boy to fix it… instead of him removing my sugar packets and replacing them with a cork he brought… instead he saw the sugar packets and decided the wobbly table was fixed. If you’re going to have a good restaurant, the competence of your wait staff must be unquestionable. The ambiance of the place… being outside… could have been spectacular under the shade trees on a breezy evening. But instead, there were screaming children poolside who were residents of the hotel and smokers who felt it appropriate to light up in the eating area – a practice I find rude and reprehensible no matter the one human family blah blah blah acceptance down here. I will not ever couple dinner with a show at La Te Da again.
After dinner, we had a little time, so we walked back to the hotel to retrieve mom’s glasses so she could see the show and rode back to the place on our $15 pedicab where we learned of the Serbian pedicab mafia. Our driver, Nikola from Serbia, pedals for 12 hours a day! What a great cardio work out. He alerted me to the closure of Machu Pichu in a few years… need to move that up on my travel list.
Back at the theater, mom and I had a few drinks… and couldn’t decide where to sit. We settled on a bar stool table up near the front on the side… which was a great position I thought. The show was Randy Roberts Live, which was hilarious. Randi did three impersonations: Cher, a Cuban named Consuela and Randi. All three were great. My favorite was the Cuban as she spoke Spanish a mile a minute with all the typical ethnic flare. We laughed a lot last night. Mom decided after the show to point out how rare redheads with brown eyes are… to which Randy’s reply was a snarky “It’s a wig.” Bitch.
Mom and I finished our evening with a game of scrabble, which she won… and I went out for the night after she went to bed. I met two 20-something fun locals named J.R. from Jersey and Mason from Kansas. The three of us bar hopped for a few hours enjoying each other’s company. We were a pretty diverse group J.R. was an ethnic rich kid into labels and music escaping reality here. Mason was a runaway from an abusive home with piercings all over his face, and me… the average guy with a real job. I love that in Key West three guys who have absolutely nothing on the surface in common can hang out and have fun like that.
To bed… a wake up in the pool… journaling, packing and checkout… a stop at Blue Heaven on the way out and then to Miami is today’s plan.
The drive up was uneventful, but took much longer than the drive down. Now that mom has done the drive, I hope my next trip to Key West doesn’t include that drive from or to Miami. We are staying at the Chesterfield, a hip, retro boutique hotel in the art deco area of Miami Beach that belongs to the South Beach Group of hoteliers. I can tell mom is uncomfortable staying here. My description of hip translates to our lobby filled with loud bump bump bump music that she is accustomed to hearing from the bass-induced crackhead driving uber ginormous SUVs on Western boulevard. Our halls are lively, which translates to people talking outside our doors, which this being a vintage hotel translates to no sound-proofing. Our sleek bathroom translates to no place to put your clothes and keep them dry when you shower. There really is no pleasing her today. The only semi complements she’s given thus far of the hotel is that the floor is clean and for our bed’s headboard, which she said looks like something Ty would make in the Cry-Me-A-House show. I’m perfectly content with our hotel… of course my pills would make me perfectly content in a cardboard box on the sidewalk too. I am certainly sensitive to negativity these days. I love my pills. They really have made me a better person.
After a nap for an hour, which I really needed having stayed up all night last night, I woke mom up for the happy hour. Me being ready, she decided to take a shower, delaying our departure. So I wandered down to the happy hour, which was a bit out of my comfort zone. Lots of hip hop people hollering and carrying on for free drinks. I had two vodka pineapples and chatted with two pretty girls from Minneapolis who were so far out of their element, I’m surprised they weren’t wearing crocks and carrying Vera Bradley.
When mom came down, we headed out the door and through some more people being obnoxious and a few people looking for an 8-ball, which if I’m not mistaken is some sort of drug reference.
Collier proved too thin of sidewalks, so we headed over to Ocean Dr and walked through the sidewalk restaurants and shops. In a little hip art store, I bought a picture for my bedroom of a schnauzer in a modern cartoony style with a red leash.
Walking through all the sidewalk restaurants in South Beach tonight and checking out all the menus as we did, we settled on an Italian place called Hosteria Romano, which billed itself as the Italian restaurant that Italians go to. I was happy with Italian tonight, wanting something hearty and easy on my stomach. Plus, this place’s red check table clothes looked a little closer to something mom would enjoy versus the encrusted and infused Miami glitterati restaurants. We both wanted the same two dishes, so we each ate half and traded plates. She ordered the pesto gnocchi and I had the Mushroom Risotto. Both were mui fantistico. My risotto was served direct from the pot and ladled onto my plate. While more al dente that I typically have eaten risotto, the mushroom taste was pungent. We ended our meals with coffee Americano and a canoli filled with mascarpone, bits of fruit, chocolate chips and a side of pistachio ice cream. Don’t tell grandma, but this was loads better than hers. The ambiance was festive and the service impeccable. The ocean breeze from across the street kept the night cool for us. Empty chianti bottles hung from the rafters of the overhang. “Nona” the matriarch watched from her perch and “Papa” peppered our dishes and randomly banged on a set of drums to complement whatever Sinatra song was playing at the time. Everybody spoke Italian and indeed, some Italians were dining there. Our waiter, Alex was attentive, not pushy and let us enjoy our meal without the feeling of being rushed. This was by far one of the better Italian experiences out I’ve ever had… even the ones in Italy.
When we walked back, the hotel lobby party was still hopping. Well, hopping is a stretch, but people were actually hopping in the literal sense. I’ve decided the South Beach scene is overrated. There is no glitterati here, only glitterwannabe. And they all are taking videos of A1A beach front avenue from their rolled down Honda civic windows. With my disinterest in the proverbial fake scene down here and the fact that it is also somehow gay pride weekend per the roof of the taxi that drove by earlier… I’ve decided to call it a night.
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