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306 pages, Paperback
First published March 12, 1987
The Old City Hall has four large clock faces in its tower. Few people glance at them, though, thoughts of time being eschewed here.
The Keys once lent themselves to this sort of innocent treatment, and in a way they still do. There is the road, and there are the fitfully present descending markers accompanying you, suggesting that a trip is little more than coloring your own experience between provided lines. At MM #—— there is an egret; at MM #—— there’s a pretty view between two violet jacaranda trees; at MM #——, if you can wait that long, is a bar where the bartender wears live snakes wrapped around her neck and wrists—her “pretties,” she calls them.… And so on.
Time passes, of course. The snake lady is run over one night as she is crossing the road. Someone builds his dream house in front of the pretty view, cutting down the jacaranda trees in the process. But the Keys, though no longer the empty, silent stretches they once were, still markedly lack (you might as well be told) historical and cultural monuments. And the osprey still builds his nest larger each year at MM #——. And the tarpon still roll and flash each spring under the bridge at MM #——. And certainly at MM #—— the disreputable bar remains. The best way to enjoy the Keys is still to seek out their simplicity and their eccentricity.
(Flagler had three wives. The middle one, Ida Alice, went mad after finding too much solace in her Ouija board. The planchette kept telling her she was destined to marry the czar of Russia. The strict divorce laws of Florida were changed for Flagler. Sailing through the legislature and signed by the governor in a swift two and a half weeks, a new provision made incurable insanity grounds for divorce. Flagler disposed of Ida Alice and quickly wed a bubbly lady named Mary Lily, who liked bourbon and laudanum but avoided the Ouija board.)
Oceanside Motel (MM #82.5). Most famous for the abduction of Bert, a peacock who blew in after Hurricane Andrew in 1992. Two carpenters from Miami snatched the bird but were arrested by alert sheriff’s deputies who saw Bert’s tail feathers sticking out the van’s sliding doors. “No matter what their intentions, I think it was a real bad thing to do. The bird was happy here and all of a sudden he was kidnapped,” the manager said. You can see Bert (one hopes) and even enjoy a great suite on the ocean with a wraparound balcony. Telephone: 664-3681.
The pelican is a bird of myth as well as droll actuality. His image is common on ecclesiastical heraldry and was often engraved on chalices. Many medieval bestiaries include a story in which the mother pelican caresses her offspring with such devotion that she kills them. When the father returns to the nest, he so despairs over the death of his young that he tears at his breast with his bill, and the blood from his wounds revives the dead birds. Dante, in the Paradiso (canto XXV, line 113), calls Jesus Christ nostro Pellicano—mankind’s pelican.
The Spanish name means “Deep Bay,” and this marks the geologic transition from the Upper Keys, which are coral, to the Lower, which are limestone. As it is transitional, it is unique in many ways, its coral skeleton supporting sand beaches, dunes, and a coastal strand hammock in which a number of rare plants grow, including the yellow satinwood, the only tree of its kind in the Keys, and the Jamaica morning glory. The seeds have all been brought here from the Caribbean and the West Indies by birds, wind, and water. There is a nature trail that winds around a lagoon at the northeastern end of the park where you can wander through this subdued exotica—you will see quite a number of the slender silver palm, pale as the silvery raccoons that forage here under the hot sky.
You can’t pet an iguana anymore because the Iguana Man died and the iguanas don’t come down to see Sunset by themselves.
In July of 1995 the Copa, along with the chic restaurant Antonia’s, burned to the ground in the traditional suspicious, middle-of-the-night fire. Built in 1917 as a movie theater, it had been wearily showing Deep Throat for a decade before it was transformed in the ’80s into a glossy gay cruise bar. There were flickering lights and heavy-duty dancing, with bars below and male erotic videos above. There were Wet Jockey Shorts nights and Doris Day nights. The Copa was crazy and wild and kept up nicely with the times before it was torched, introducing such European notions as descending bubbles of slippery foam that enveloped the dancers after midnight in an unspeakable mélange. The fire was so hot it blistered the paint on the fire trucks, and the Miami Herald utterly lost its composure with the headline: TEN YEARS OF DEBAUCHERY GOES UP IN FLAMES. The Copa recrudesced for a time as a quarrelsome straight nightclub named Epoch, but the site is now suffering the final indignity—there’ll be more retail here.