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Travel Journals

Key West
by Sandy Summers

Prague: Pivo, Prosm!
by Ellen Kamilakis

From Umbria to Le Marche
by Jackie Goyette

That Smile
by Claire Rogers

Zuppi Santi (Soggy Saints)
by Corrie Cook

Isadora—Street Queen of Yogyakarta
by Barrie Lie-Birchall

Storefronts
by David J. McLaughlin

Observations of Those On the Road
by Matt Superfisky

Avoiding Travel Scams
by Julie Vick

A Hunger in Berlin
by Abha Iyengar

Flickering Yellow Flame
by Marlo Desjardins

An Italian Library
by Jackie Goyette

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Archives

Travel Journals

Key West
by Sandy Summers

It's a place where confused roosters crow morning, noon and night, as out of sync with society as the Bohemians who come here with pen, paintbrush or sculpting knife. It's a place of faded Hawaiian shirts, sensible sandals and fanny packs that adorn refuges from the real world seeking a few days of voyeuristic Hedonism. Then there are the true Hedonists. We all envy them, whether we are willing to admit it or not. They go about as they please soaking up the sun, imbibing at will, living on an inner peace that precludes the parochial and reveling in the backdrop to their unchained lives that is uniquely Key West.

As I walk along Duval Street, I see transvestites selling trinkets and performing for the masses, gay men strolling unselfconsciously holding hands and two lesbians walking with their hands in the back pockets of each other's jeans. Old hippies, beards yellow from living in a smoke cloud, wander along with misdeeds forming deep ridges on their faces and a stare in their eyes. All are interspersed with the camera-swinging cruise ship tourists who contribute to the locals' livelihood, but who unwittingly provide a stark contrast that illuminates the ordinary among them.

The declining stock market and the crack in my kitchen floor tile are as far away as Pluto. I sit overlooking Duval Street, watching a young couple deep kissing at a nearby tiki bar. It brings back fine memories of kissing Johnny Cunningham in the tenth grade. The pragmatist side of my brain tells me the two are likely laden with kids, a couple of SUV's and balloon mortgages, although I would guess not mutually. The man wears khaki shorts and cordovan loafers sans socks. He has a banker's frugal haircut. The woman's short white shorts accentuate the many preparatory tanning booth sessions that have turned her step-aerobic legs a deep morning glory yellow. Splendid cleavage strains from the top of her XS pink shirt. They both are in a Margarita-induced limbo, foreplay to the heaven that I am sure awaits beneath the mosquito net at their quaint B&B.

The young couple continues alternately kissing and sipping their love potions, oblivious to the white angel mime on the sidewalk not ten feet away. Wings spread, the angel is motionless, overseeing the midday frat party spilling from Fat Tuesday's across the street. The angel is as out of place in this city of self-satisfaction as Miss Manners at a wrestlers' WWF reunion dinner. Suddenly the angel changes position, turning to face the tiki bar customers and our lovers. Just when the man's attention is distracted from his lover's trance to the sidewalk, the angel looks directly at him and gives him a long, slow white wink.