From Blue Heaven to Black Hole

With her daughter's Spring Break trip to Figure Eight Island finally confirmed, courtesy of a friend's very gracious family, JSG proposes a similar getaway for the two of us.

Envisioning three days of outdoor adventure and strenuous hiking in the Southern Appalachian foothills, she gleefully inquires, "Have you ever been to the Highlands?"

"Have I ever," I mutter quietly.

Sometime back in the late seventies, having entrenched myself firmly in the family business, I was informed by my father that I had been elected to the Associate Board of the Southern Home Furnishings Association and that it was incumbent upon me to attend its upcoming Meeting/Convention at the Cashiers Mountain Resort near Highlands, North Carolina.

If this rustic retreat is a wilderness lover's delight, offering trails galore and vistas to pine for, getting there was a harbinger of nature's fickleness. Just past Asheville, the last thirty miles -- as the crow flies -- morphed into ninety minutes of steep winding defiles and tortuous switchbacks skirting such notable townships as Bat Cave (pop. 15), where my father, an inveterate quipster, vainly searched for the synagogue.

An historic timbered main lodge dominated the landscape, but none of its 116 rooms was available to my wife and me. Instead we were dispatched to one of neighboring cabins, all woodsy and primitive, though a little too authentic for my taste, as it lacked the two basic amenities of telephone (in the pre-cell era) and television. Our two remaining recreational options -- golfing (which we didn't care for) and exploring the great outdoors -- were soon chilled by the forty-degree temperature and drenched by a steady three-day rain. We spent most of our time trudging back and forth through the mud, finally escaping the dreary premises on our last evening for a group excursion to downtown Highlands, where some of the natives put on a clogging demonstration worthy of "Hullabaloo."

Desperate to avoid a reenactment, I rack my brain for an appealing alternative. "Have you ever been to Key West?" is my brilliant riposte.

Well, she had, about thirty years ago, coincidental with my own initiation to the place, a distant Thanksgiving weekend with another couple, which was dampened once again by intermittent showers, although this time we were happy to move indoors for a marathon tasting of draft beers and key lime pies.

Two decades later I returned for a Christmas holiday, accompanied by another wife, five children ranging in age from fifteen to twenty-five, two boy friends, and my seventy-five-year-old mother. The kids weren't nearly as enamored as I was. Our hotel was near the airport and a good thirty-minute shuttle ride from the center of activity. Wandering aimlessly up and down Duval Street shopping for tee shirts was hardly their idea of fun. The profusion of bars held little attraction for them -- for which I should be grateful -- and the single postage-stamp-size beach they were able to locate was a disappointment.

Brunch among the free range chickens in the open-air backyard restaurant Blue Heaven was probably their highlight, while I was so fascinated by Hemingway's habitat, his feline menagerie, his romantic entanglements, and his boundless vitality that, ever the bibliophile, I was compelled to purchase a biography at the gift shop.

Employing her usual diligent research, JSG reassures herself that, if not a cyclist's paradise, this little island is encircled and crisscrossed by enough bike lanes to dispel any rumor that hedonism and indolence are its sole attributes. Poring over pages of Trip Adviser reviews, she recognizes a Bed and Breakfast (of the American variety, that is, meal not included), the Marquesa, highly recommended by some friends, and snatches the last room available, for three nights.

We choose to fly out of Roanoke, on Delta, transferring in Atlanta, not so much for the cost savings -- about $100 per person -- but because the schedule seems more convenient. We can be in Key West by noon on Tuesday, and depart late Friday afternoon, which gives us almost four full days.

An ominous fog delays our arrival in Atlanta by thirty minutes. After making our connection by a hair's breadth, we congratulate ourselves on a job well done, devour the brown-bagged snacks (peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, of course) I slipped past Homeland Security, and, once the cloud cover evaporates, bask in stunning views of the west Florida coastline and the sunlight shimmering in the Gulf of Mexico.

Our placidity is interrupted by a somewhat bizarre communication from the cockpit, which, with all its good intentions, merely elevates the terror level in those of us regularly anticipating disaster. "We're used to landing these 737's on eight-thousand-foot runways," says the pilot. "But this one is only forty-eight-hundred feet, so we're going to bring this plane down hard in order to dissipate all its energy and stop it in time." What he judiciously omits is: "before we roll into the sea."

Actually, I've experienced worse, although is it just my imagination that our descent is so slow that we appear perilously close to stalling? "Not really," he says, in response to my pesky curiosity. "But there's a red stripe out there, and if we can't hit it, we have to abort and try again. And [in words that will come back to haunt me] we want to get you here on time."

When informed of our destination, a friend who has obviously never partaken of its subtle pleasures inquires, "Just what do you do in Key West?" To which I can summon no better response than, "Not much of anything," while reflecting that such idleness will be a welcome respite from the discomforts of a harsh winter, the melancholia of a loved one's impending death, and the challenges of a business losing a key executive.

Our boutique hotel is charming, comfortable, and elegantly appointed. Twenty-eight years ago the proprietress, Caroline, and her partner, a contractor, rescued this three-story villa from a state of near collapse, and transformed it into a hidden treasure nestled in the corner of Fleming and Simonton Streets behind a deceptively modest shutter facade and front gallery. Its signature attraction is a picturesque rear courtyard embedded with two (one heated, one not) swimming pools, shaded by tropical palms, and decorated with dangling orchids and hibiscus -- the perfect place to recuperate from the extreme heat and humidity of a morning jog, sip a bracing brew from the bottomless coffee urn perched just outside the lobby, and enjoy a breakfast of homemade oatmeal or soft-boiled egg with English muffin.

While I'm content to choose a restaurant based upon the availability of seating, the persuasiveness of the menu, the depth of my hunger pangs, or a mere flip of a coin, for JSG the decision rises to the level of a college term paper. Fortunately, our helpful hostess is a fountain of knowledge borne of her longevity in residence and her clientele feedback. For lunch she directs us to (where else?) Caroline's Cafe for our initial local specialty tasting of conch fritters and key lime pie, the latter complimentary when she presents us a with promotional coupon. For dinner she recommends (where else?) her own adjacent Cafe Marquesa, where the atmosphere is intimate and refined, a crisp flatbread with homemade hummus a delectable surprise, and our grilled wahoo and phyllo crusted hogfish cooked to perfection.

Having staked my gastronomic credibility (such as it is) on the virtues of Blue Heaven, I'm pleased to report that JSG agrees it's well worth the ninety-minute wait -- which gives me enough time to scarf down a bowl of conch chowder at a nearby cafe. I'm still in the mood for Richard's made-from-scratch blueberry pancakes, but wisely settle for one after noting their bicycle tire circumference as a pair are laid before a wide-eyed eight-year-old. It's quickly dispensed with, giving me time, while JSG savors every morsel of her eggs benedict, to ogle the dessert being served behind me -- mile-high key lime pie, which proves too tempting for us to resist.

Does one detect a pattern here? When we can't get a dinner reservation that night at the very popular Santiago's Bodega until 9:00 o'clock, for a late afternoon appetizer we amble down to the seaport for happy hour on the porch at Alonzo's Oyster Bar, where drinks (one beer, one margarita) and a combo (two spinach parmesan oysters, two key lime oysters, and andouille sausage clams casino) are half price. Once again, however, our attention is drawn longingly to our neighbors' table, as two young fishermen are reeling in heaping platters of their own fresh catch of the day (tarpon, tuna, dolphin, snapper?), fried, grilled, and blackened by the house chef.

Santiago's is a hefty hike from the central business district, but once there we're welcomed graciously amidst a beehive of activity. A charming chap in his early fifties introduces himself as Allen; he's an expatriate from Atlanta who wearied of his actuarial career about fifteen years ago and chased the sun and leisurely lifestyle southward. He serves eighty to a hundred patrons a night (about fifty more than at his previous high-end establishment), and garners enough in tips to survive in a locale where one-bedroom apartments command $2000 a month.

And well he should. Our tapas plates are a delight: spring mix salad tossed with citrus-ginger vinaigrette; smoked salmon carpaccio; oven roasted brussel sprouts sauteed in brown butter and parmesan; cayenne spiced pan-fried potato croquettas; and petite lamb rack encrusted with pecan bread crumb and thyme.

One more superb dining experience awaits us: lunch at Latitudes, the Westin Cottages Resort restaurant on Sunset Key, a twenty-minute ferry ride from the pier. On a shaded patio overlooking a pristine sandy beach and the Gulf of Mexico, fish tacos for me (grilled, not tempura, upon advice from JSG and kindly accommodated by our waiter) and a grouper sandwich with key lime tartar sauce (and pina colada) for JSG are our final entrees as extravagant epicureans.

We do make a valiant attempt to burn off some of these calories. A rental company delivers us a pair of single-gear, coaster-braking antiques even more primitive than the fat-tire mountain riders we use at home. "At least the terrain is flat," I mumble to myself, as we roll south through town toward the trail that borders the coastline.

But, turning east, we are met head-on by a steady fifteen mile-per-hour wind that brings us almost to a standstill, as if we are pedaling up a ten-degree incline. For four or five miles we inch forward, balanced between a couple of resorts baking in the midday heat on one side and on the other a sea roiled by foaming whitecaps, until we reach the bight at the end of the island. From there our circumnavigation continues at a gentler pace through a shabby commercial district and a small park back to our hotel.

For more exercise JSG is on a mission: to replace my circa 2000 solid green and navy CVITT (the insignia is on the shoulder) moisture wicking tee shirts with something more fashionable. Up one side of Duval Street and down the other we traipse, peering through windows, shuffling down aisles, sifting through sizes, rejecting one design after another either because it's too expensive (after we've spent $80 for dinner for two) or because the motorcycle, drag racer, catamaran, or leaping swordfish imprinted on the back just doesn't seem appropriate.

We almost strike gold at Blue Heaven, where the logo conveys a message more universal than crass marketing and the pastel color choices are appealing, but walk away foiled when their small size stretches too tightly across my bulging pectorals and their medium hangs limply off my narrow shoulders.

JSG almost talks me into a polo shirt (it would be my first and only) at Banana Republic, but, ever the bargain hunter, finally bestows her blessing on a pair of $9.99 blended tees, one dark blue, one gray, that are on sale for a dollar off. I'm pleased to report that they fit perfectly and are now my Sunday garb of choice.

Every evening thousands of tourists saturate Mallory Square to purchase a souvenir bracelet, painting, or photograph from a street vendor; to wash down popcorn and pretzels with smoothies, lemonade, and key lime tea; to cheer jugglers, tightrope walkers, unicyclists, and fire eaters; to eyeball their bizarre and beautiful fellow travelers; and to jostle each other for prime position and an unobstructed view of Key West's famous sunset.

I'd like to spend more time exploring the Sculpture Garden, where thirty-six men and women who played significant roles in the social, political, and economic history of the island are memorialized in cast bronze busts and biographical inscriptions, but peals of thunder emanating from the crowd are too provocative to ignore.

This is no ordinary busker buffoonery. The globe-trotting Red Trousers dynamic duo has lit up Boston's Faneuil Hall and the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C., and headlined festivals as distant as Australia, New Zealand, and Pakistan. It's a two-man circus whose gymnastics, dexterity, and running commentary evoke awe, amazement, and raucous laughter from a circle of spectators fifteen rows deep. The talented teammates toss blazing torches and razor-sharp Bowie knives back and forth and tantalizingly close to a dazed five-year-old; balance atop one another feet to shoulders, hand to hand, and head to head; use their noggins to catch a cap thrown like a frisbee; and for the grand finale hold themselves up and out at arm's length like human flags from an extension ladder anchored by four sturdy volunteers.

As for the obligatory main attraction, other than an annoying palm tree protruding from Sunset Key, it's truly a natural wonder: a fiery red-orange orb gradually illuminated in stark relief by the darkening blue-violet hues of the enveloping sky, its reflection glistening in the water as it sinks below the horizon -- although I wouldn't risk life or limb, as many are doing, to capture a proprietary image of it when hundreds are accessible through the click of a mouse or spread out on nearby tables and racks begging for a home.

More entertainment awaits us, and it's not for the straight-laced or faint of heart. "It's the best drag show in town," says our hotelier, "because the performer actually sings rather than lip-sinks." She makes a reservation for us at the historic Hotel La Te Da, an abbreviation of La Terraza de Marti, named after Cuban freedom fighter Jose Marti, who rallied the masses with fiery speeches from an outdoor balcony of what was then a private home shortly after it was built in 1893. Marti was also a poet, journalist, philosopher, and professor -- an impressive resume for a man who died at age forty-two. One of his poems provided the lyrics of the Cuban patriotic anthem "Guantanamera."

We are escorted upstairs to the Cabaret night club, seated at a small table with a mixed-race female couple from New Jersey, and served the first of our two-drink minimum, beers for each of us, more reasonably priced than I expected. The lights dim, sound blasts through the loudspeaker system, and out from stage right steps . . . Bette Midler, who erupts into the staccato rhythm of "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy." He may not be her, but he's darn close, he being impersonator Randy Roberts, who's nailed not only the costume -- the blonde hair, the mascara, the eyeliner, the lipstick, the silky strapless chemise, the spike heels -- but also the voice, mannerisms, and hip-shaking shimmy.

"I'm a helluva girl; I'm a load of fun: I look good," Bette exults, before expounding in the mode of Sophie Tucker a lengthy convoluted joke about a bashful nun with magical healing powers who is informed by a sister that a blind man has demanded her services. "But I'm in the shower, naked," she protests, then acquiesces when the sister insists she will remain unseen and unblemished. "Nice tits," says the man upon entering. "Where do you want the blinds?"

Randy's impromptu humor is much better, as he sashays through the audience, bantering with members both straight and gay about their relationships, sex lives, home towns, clothes, and jewelry. Up close and personal, he relishes his femininity and is no less alluring. During a brief interlude he describes and demonstrates on film the meticulous process by which he transforms himself from man to woman, then reemerges in boots, red tights, silver spangles, and towering Gothic curls as that most masculine of temptresses, Cher. His pitch drops two octaves as he revisits a few of her greatest hits: "Take Me Home"; "Half-Breed"; and "The Way of Love."

Randy's third act is his own creation: a gorgeous, brash redhead in a sequined gown with foam-enhanced (by her own admission) cleavage who introduces herself as Christine. Her more subdued repertoire -- featuring "A Little More Mascara"; "The Boy Next Door"; and "I'm Still Here" -- is a tenderhearted paean to the androgynous sexuality she exudes and embraces. The transgendering spirals back upon itself when for an encore, in response to the frequently-asked question, "What do you really sound like?" Christine becomes Randy and in a booming baritone unleashes a spine-chilling rendition of Phantom's "The Music of the Night."

While all glorious vacations must come to an end, little do we know that as we bid farewell to this paradisiacal retreat this one is far from over.

Everyone has his favorite travel horror story, which prompts the question, "Should we board every plane anticipating disaster?" Or should we allow a series of uneventful flights to lull us into what will eventually prove to be a false sense of security, especially after considering how our friendly carriers are constantly devising new and creative ways of harassing us?

"Thunderstorms in Atlanta," reads the television monitor suspended above us as we sit in the Key West airport Friday afternoon awaiting our 5:30 departure. Some speedy Weather Channel googling reveals a bright red (translation: severe) line locked into place from northern Alabama to southwestern Georgia. Ever the herald of doom, I flash my phone at JSG and opine, "I wonder if we should even take off."

Thus it's no revelation to me when two hours later our chipper captain interrupts our reveries with the words no lofty landlubber wants to hear: "We've run into some bad weather here in Atlanta, and the controllers have slowed the traffic down to a crawl. We're going to park up here (translation: circle aimlessly) for a while until we get clearance."

Which not long afterward is followed by announcement number two: "Ladies and gentlemen. The Atlanta airport is now closed. We can wait here about thirty minutes longer to see if the conditions improve, but after that we will have to make a decision." (Translation: we're running out of fuel.)

Which in good time is followed by announcement number three: "It doesn't look like we're going to get into Atlanta any time soon. So we're going to hop over to Savannah to refuel. But don't worry. It's called 'Gas and Go.' We just pull up to the terminal, fill 'er up, and head on back. All the flights into and out of Atlanta have been delayed, so we'll be able to get you there in time to make to make your connections." (Translation: start worrying.)

Fifty minutes later we're on the ground in Savannah. It's now about 9:00 PM, an eerie silence blankets the cabin, and no one seems to be in much of a hurry to "gas and go." After about half an hour, an unfamiliar voice booms through the intercom. It's no longer our captain speaking; too embarrassed or too cowardly to acknowledge his disingenuousness, he's abdicated his role as host and commentator and passed the baton to the Delta Terminal Manager.

It's bad news, and more bad news. "Our crew has timed out," he says, "which means they are unable to fly this plane back to Atlanta tonight. We [translation: you] are going to have to lay over in Savannah." People begin to stir in their seats as rumblings of disgust and disbelief roll through the aisle. "And, oh, by the way, we've been checking our local hotel sources," he continues, "and regretfully I must inform you that there are no rooms available within fifty miles." (And no rental cars either, since we've been deposited in the middle of the Masters Golf Tournament.) (Translation: we're going to have to spend the night in the airport.)

Is that water vapor leaking from the climate control system or smoke rising from the incensed brain cells of every passenger? Is this an unavoidable calamity, as I'm sure the powers-that-be will insist, or one that could easily have been averted? Why didn't we stay on the ground in Key West a little longer? Why did we consume precious minutes in a pointless holding pattern? Why did we divert to Savannah when it was certainly no secret that accommodations were problematic? The sheer hypocrisy of the flight attendant's asking us to "please be patient; we're all in this together" when I'm sure she has a warm bed awaiting her and of Delta's purported commitment to customer safety, comfort, and satisfaction, according to its CEO in the video I watched several hours ago, is doubly infuriating.

Once we are deplaned, the anger and frustration of one hundred innocent victims is palpable, as they frantically search their phones for an alternative, without success. Having located a vehicle, one ecstatic fellow dashes to the exit not only to find the prize already leased but security blocking his return to his family since he no longer has a valid ticket -- a patent absurdity since the airport is essentially closed.

The man in charge of this tragicomedy is an officious, beady-eyed, red-cheeked, pot-bellied bureaucrat who refuses to be rattled by the invective hurled his way. "Bad weather I can understand," I confront him with, our noses a mere twelve inches apart. "But there's no excuse for the crew timing out -- and leaving us all stranded." "Are you going to hit me?" is his snide retort. I back away silently, the thought bubble "As much as I'd like to, no. I'm not a man of violence" dancing above my head.

Boxes of Domino's pizzas -- plain cheese or pepperoni -- magically appear, and temporarily distract us from our predicament. Then we're herded like docile sheep to our sleeping quarters, the main lobby of the Savannah Airport, a spacious area sectioned into quadrants and furnished with long benches which are quickly claimed on a first-come basis.

I'm resigned to camping out on the cold, hard floor when I notice several baggage carts being trundled onto the premises by a camouflage outfitted squad who must be from the Georgia National Guard. They offload stacks of large rectangular cartons, and extract from them Delta's feeble attempt at providing a modicum of relief to its weary flock: folding metal army cots. Assembling these contraptions requires an engineering degree -- and more strength than I can muster alone to stretch the green mesh decking from one side rail to the other, so I wave over one of the soldiers to assist me.

It might be possible to catch a few hours of sleep, except that someone forgot to tell the airport manager to turn off the lights. Even more annoying is a recording that, every twenty minutes or so, shatters my eardrums just as I'm about to doze off. Homeland Security has issued an emergency terror alert, and requested all travelers to be on the lookout for any unusual or suspicious activity. Admittedly this place resembles a war zone, but I don't think a few disgruntled insomniacs staggering back and forth to the bathrooms qualifies as much of a threat.

The expeditious processing we were promised the next morning turns into a two-and-a-half hour fiasco as one hundred vagrants must be ticketed back to Atlanta on a flight that doesn't exist and make connections that have long ago been sold out. When it looks like we have no chance of getting to Roanoke until midnight, I beg JSG to let me rent a car, but the thought of riding shotgun for eight hours beside an exhausted, stark-raving maniac is more daunting to her than wasting twice that many in the airport.

Is it conceivable we would get one lucky break during this free fall into Delta's black hole? We're on standby for a noon flight from Atlanta to Roanoke when the agent summons us to the counter. "Are you willing to split up?" she asks. Apparently impressed when I gallantly defer to JSG, she confirms a seat and ushers her to the ramp. Not five minutes later -- as I'm lingering in the vicinity vainly hoping for another no-show -- a strange-looking woman about as wide as she is tall and carrying two oversize bags waddles up and slaps down her boarding pass. The plane is still there; the gate is not closed; yet the agent shrugs her shoulders and mouths those deadly words: "I'm sorry, ma'am. You're too late."

In this case, parting is oh so sweet. JSG retrieves our car in Roanoke, and is at her door by 3:30. We'd already booked ourselves to the next closest city, Greensboro, which enables me to rendezvous with her via one-way rental around 6:00 that evening, only eighteen grueling hours late. And I did discover what probably prevented our fireplug friend from making that earlier flight: a dog which started yapping from her bag while we're waiting together at the gate for Greensboro. Which explains why the attendant checking the roster stopped at JSG's seat and said, "You must be the lady with the dog."

It's been an ordeal which I would never want to repeat, but most certainly will unless I decide never to set foot on another commercial airplane. And if it takes me back to Blue Heaven, I just might volunteer.