The Key West citizen. [volume] (Key West, Fla.) 1879-current, 1940-03-28
SUN RAN
STORY ON KEY WEST


fashioned in the most delicate
pastel shades, had no capacity
whatever to insulate against the
damp chill.
Next morning, he met man
in the lobby carrying two suit
cases. He asked him if he was
going back home and the man
said, Hell, no. I'm doing what
everyone else in Florida is doing.
I'm going South for the winter.
This seemed like a reasonable
idea to my frozen friend, so he
packed his bags again, paid his
bill and took to the road once
more, this time. bound for Key
West, which is about ITS miles
farther south. 1t was wonderful,
he said, to feel the sun gathering
strength as he got out of Miami,
BY the time he had passed the
village of Homestead the last of
any significance on the main
land, and got out on that incred-
ible road which leaps from key
to key, life seemed worth living
again. Then he discovered that
his car was one of long process
sion, all going at breakneck
speed and all apparently filled
with human beings driven by the
same urge which had seized upon
him. Once he had crossed the
Seven-Mile bridge he had forgot
ten all about the cold and was
able to lower the top Of his car
and bask in the incredible sun.
Now he began to see people
along the road-groups gathered
around trailers. other groups
fishing from the innumerable
bridges-all living that outdoor
life which he had so long been
seeking. When, after four hours
driving. lie came at last to Key
West, he knew that he had found
what he sought.
Key West, he discovered, is
partly Bermudan, partly BAHIA
man, partly West Indian, partly
Goldsmith's Deserted Village and
hardly Floridian at all. So far
as he could discover by question
ing, Ernest Hemingway is the
only person of note who has TAX
en- up permanent residence
there, though the son of a New
York millionaire was looking for
a house for the rest of the Win
ter. There is a small naval base,
accessible only to destroyers and
such minor warships, and a still
smaller army barracks. The town
itself is made up chiefly of tiny
wooden houses, one Or two
stories high, either implanted or
Streaked with ancient white
wash. At least a quarter of them
are vacant. The pleasant bal
comics with which most of them
are equipped and the gray patina
of the Weathered wood give them
whatever quality they possess.
The main shopping street is so
narrow that it is Of necessity a
one-way thoroughfare and the
shops which line it are mostly
given over to selling souvenirs of
one sort or another-sponges,
conch shells, tortoise-shell orna-
ments and hand-painted oil paint
irgs of moonlight on the Keys.
There are few professional
artists scattered about and a
group Of them had organized a
modest show, eked out with
WPA prints.
My friend says he found all
this satisfactory and that from
the moment he finished his first
meal he knew that at last he had
found his souls resting place,
for the winter at least. He liked
the town. he liked the hotel and
he liked especially the people in
it. One or two tennis courts and
a deserted croquet lawn seemed
all the land space devoted to
what is called sport. For the
rest, men and women lolled on
the white beach in their bathing
suits-he saw only two actually
/ in the water-or walked to the
end of the little pier to watch
the fishing boats come in. Those
that went fishing were, nat
urally, quiet folk. and big fish
are so common that they are not
worth Boosting about. The after
dinner music was soft and low
and only an occasional couple got
no energy to dance. BY II o'clock
the music stopped and everyone
went to bed.
NV friend walked back to the
main street, peeped into the bar
rooms and watched the navy's
shore police maintaining strict
order and even sobriety among
the sailors from the destroyers in
the harbor BY midnight even
this attenuated excitement had
]. died down. Walking through the
dark, quiet streets on the way
back to his hotel. my friend sud-
denly discovered the real basis
of the charm of the place: there
/ isn't a golf links on the island.