Keyed Up

With her husband out of town, one of my neighbors organized a kaffeeklatsch for the ladies. Coffee and gossip. After all, that’s what klatsch means, and what goes better with coffee? Okay, maybe strudel. But idle chitchat is what differentiates a klatsch from a coffee break.

Because I had to run an errand, I arrived about an hour into the confab. I had expected animated discussions about fingernails, houseplants, and lanai furniture. Maybe something about the people who bought the house on the corner—and how much they paid. Instead, I sailed into eight ladies hyped up on caffeine planning a daytrip to Key West. A tempest in a teapot, so to speak.

“Can you come? Can you come?” They clamored like seven-year-old girls at a sugar-fueled birthday party. Their urging reverberated between ceramic tiles and high ceilings.

“I don’t know,” I managed to squeeze in, as I headed for the bar laid out with a carafe of coffee, a pitcher of iced tea, and a pot of hot water. “When is it?”

With logistics percolating, they didn’t hear me.

The original thought was for neighborhood singles and couples to head down to the Conch Republic on the Key West Express for an overnight or two.

By the time I grabbed my cuppa java, though, I realized this was not the original trip. This was just the ladies, just for a day. We would carpool to the ferry terminal at 6 a.m., board at 7, depart at 8, and arrive at Key West before noon. The return trip would board at 5 p.m., depart at 6, and arrive in Fort Myers around 9:30. It would mean getting up at 5 a.m. and getting home around 10:30 p.m. I was tired just thinking about it. But, yes, it sounded like fun.

The octet of women raised their voices an octave or two as they phoned and then added a few ladies who weren’t able to make the kaffeeklatsch. Where would the now-12 of us eat, drink, shop, and sightsee? And how would we get around?

While the conversation swirled around me, I retreated into memories of eating, sightseeing, and getting around.

I’ve been to the Keys several times, first in the mid-80s, when I saw my first cockroach, and most recently about four years ago, when my husband and priced available real estate. A million dollars for 1,500 square feet on a postage-stamp lot. Ouch!

Unlike the ferry option, I’ve always driven there. The 113 miles of the Florida Keys Overseas Highway mesmerize with colors ranging from the palest aquamarine and labradorite, through the richness of turquoise and jade, to the depths of sapphire and blue Akoya pearls.

Then there’s the food. I love conch anything and most fresh fish. My favorite dive is the Hurricane Hole, just east of Key West’s only point of egress. It’s one of those places where they’ll prepare your just-caught fish any way you want it. Or order the fresh catch of the day, and they’ll still cook it any way you want.

And the sights. I’ve been to Hemingway’s House twice, as well as other historical and tourist markers, like the misnamed “Southernmost Point in the United States.” It’s not—that honor belongs to Ka Lae, also known as South Point on the Big Island of Hawaii. The Key West buoy is the southernmost point of the continental U.S.

And of course, the Sunset Celebration at Mallory Square. Tennessee Williams is said to have established the first celebration by applauding the sun as it took its final bow. Magicians, musicians, jugglers, clowns, psychics, and trained cats continue that tradition against the brushstrokes of artists, the aromas of food vendors, and the liquid gold sun sinking into the rubied opalescence of the Gulf of Mexico. That’s what most artists were painting.

Perhaps this time I’d like to see the Audubon House and Gardens, or the Key West Cemetery—not that anyone famous is buried there. I just like old cemeteries. And, of course, the Sunset Celebration. But wait. We’d be departing before that. Oh well.

“Can you come?” The ladies broke through my reverie, trying to decide how many golf carts we would need to rent. “Can you come? Can you come?”

“When?”

“June 16.”

I checked my calendar, noting that the turbulence around me would probably be matched by the onslaught of the monsoon season. The image of three or four carts of old ladies flying down Duval Street with shopping bags dangling from arms akimbo and colorful scarves floating in the rain-soaked breeze merged with the kitchen cacophony. I probably wouldn’t get to the Audubon Hour or the cemetery. Or the sunset.

Choosing old memories over new ones, I feigned a visit by in-laws and politely declined. Besides, I’d have to miss my weekly meeting with the Pelican Pens.