Makendra Patzer

11/10/2017

A Different Kind of Paradise

The Long Road to Paradise and a Rooster

The ocean, bluer than it is possible, pounds against the rocky coastline. Palm trees sway

in the wind, waving us welcome with their broad leaf fans. Up ahead, buildings painted in pinks,

purples, yellows, and greens contrasts against the cloudless, azure sky. Not a shade of beige or

gray or brown is in sight. The world has transformed into a sea of colors outside the windshield.

The highway ahead slows down to a turtle crawl as cars move along the narrow, one way streets.

Fellow weary travelers and their children with cereal clenched in small fists press their faces up

against car windows drinking in the view. The road curves to the right sending us west along the

southern coastline of the island. Straight ahead, a short rock wall, weathered smooth from salt

wave beatings stands as the only barrier between human habitat and the Atlantic Ocean. The road

continues to veer right tracing along the coastline. The sea is off to the left and civilization lives

off to the right.

The navigation system on my phone is either outdated or too advanced. The roads in front

of me do not match up with the map on the screen. Modern technology has yet to arrive on this

island. This new place is unfamiliar to my eyes. It seems paused seventy years in the past. Not a

single streetlight is in sight. Sidewalks, neon signs, and attention grabbing advertisement boards

are missing. In their place are weathered buildings exhibiting handmade signs, chipped paint

siding, shuttered windows, and opened umbrellas creating pathways of spotted shade. Few

telephone wires decorate the skies. Looking up, I instead see palm trees and birds.

Outside the window, people weave through cars on mopeds, bikes, and roller blades,

honking and jeering joyfully to one another. I envy their freedom of movement as my own limbs

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are sticky with sweat. Up ahead, traffic stalls for a moment. A rooster, adorning red tail plumage,

struts across the road stalling the row of travel weary cars. The bird pauses in the middle of the

street, staring defiantly down the line of idling vehicles. The frustration is thick in humid air. The

cocky bird is daring them, the drivers, to slam the gas pedal before the watchful eyes of children

and islanders. Ahead, is a standoff between man and bird. The rooster pauses another moment,

tilting its head to the right where something clicks in its pea sized brain. The bird gives one last

look down the row of vehicles before meandering back the way it came. My father lets loose a

grunt of annoyance. We had been driving for four hours, and the world just paused for a chicken

to cross the road.

Work-cay-tion

There are four of us in the car: my father, my mother, my brother and myself. We are on

the last leg of our eight day vacation in the tropical state of Florida. Seven days ago, we were

bundled in sweaters, down coats, snow boots, and woolen scarves readying ourselves to board an

overnight plane to meet sunny skies, humid weather, and palm trees in Orlando, Florida. In the

home of the famed Walt Disney® World theme park, we stay for two nights, adjusting to the

balmy climate as our Northern Idaho home is entrenched in another six inches of snow. The two

days we spend in northern Florida are filled with alligator sightings, zip lining, and a tornado

warning that sends my mother into a panic. Seeing that the tornado warning is, after all, just a

warning, we decide to continue on with this adventure.

My father is a business man who has dedicated his life to a family petroleum business.

The Exxon Mobile Oil Distributers’ Conference occurs every other year in unique location each

time throughout the United States. Mixing work with pleasure in places like Chicago, San

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Francisco, and now Miami Beach stimulates attendance from its business partners. By a stroke of

luck, this year’s location is located in southern Florida, conveniently scheduled at the same time

as spring break. My father extended the invitation to the rest of the family seeing that we would

not be missing school. The offer is enthusiastically met. A relaxing vacation awaited us and my

father would gain the families companionship. Gladly, the four of us trade our winter weathered

streets for sunny skies and sand in our toes.

Glamor at the Beach

Miami Beach reminds me of the glossy futuristic Hollywood movies. Resorts line the

coast standing proudly at the Atlantic Ocean. The buildings are tall, lined with glass windows,

silver garnishes, and many shades of white and blue. Each building is similar to the one next to it

making the entire coastline a blend of glass enclosed boxes reflecting the sun off the water.

Valets stand at every entrance offering assistance, sometimes without permission. We befriend

one of the bell boys who, to our delight (although I detect a monetary motive) sends a

complementary basket of cheeses, crackers, fruits, and chocolate welcoming us to the resort and

the city of Miami. Our room faces the ocean. It is the first time I actually meet the Atlantic

Ocean. I can only think of how similar this ocean looks to the Pacific, the only other ocean I

have ever met. Vacations for me are best spent adventuring in a new place. Maybe I was

expecting something grander, distinctly different to what I already know. The thought bothers

me slightly. I am staring at something new, but I have already laid my eyes on this very sight.

Why spend all the efforts to see something already seen?

Our mornings are spent sitting on the beach, running our hands through the silky sand,

collecting shells, crashing through the warm waves, and letting the sun dry us, encrusting our

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bodies with a healthy layer of salt.

Around us, we surrounded by states of luxury screaming out for attention from labels on

clothes, to the crisp white uniforms of the hotel staff. At every turn there is an attentive hand,

greedily looking to help. These smiling people are at every turn, and the place is crawling with

them. I feel as though I am an imposter in this place. The smiles, the luxury, all of it is foreign. It

is if I hopped on the wrong taxi and ended up here in luxury. Here in the place of glass and

metal, reality feel fake. I am unable to relax, afraid I might break something or be recognized as

an imposter. My mother bats away at my remarks. “How often do we get to this at home?” She

asks me. Never. ”Well this is a once in a lifetime trip. Enjoy every moment of it.”

After a few beach filled days, we head south for the briefest leg of our trip. The cherry

on top of this vacation is visiting the Florida Keys. The string of islands are famed for

descriptions of beauty and narrated by eccentric tales. I was most intrigued by the distant sandy

shores ahead.

Small Island, Big Personality

We finally locate the bed and breakfast after three wrong turns and another lap around the

island. Once settled, I can finally appreciate the beauty around us. I admit to expecting

something bigger. The size of this island took me by surprise. I look to one end of our little room

and see the western coastline. In the opposite direction, two miles away, lies another coast line.

One side faces the Atlantic Ocean and the other borders the Gulf of Mexico. If I look out another

window, perpendicular to the Atlantic’s view, I see the beginning of the Caribbean seas. The

proximity is both alarming and fascinating. For the first time in my life, I am staring at the very

landmarks that have always filled the pages of maps and history books. I am able to touch the

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places I spent years in geography and history class wondering about. The stories were always

just stories. Now, I can touch them as real places.

Never have I felt so vulnerable to the strength of the sea but enchanted by its power all

the same. Having lived inland all my life, the tales of the sea were stories that were more

amusing than frightening. Up close, the water glistens and moves, crashing against anything in

its path. From the lightest blue, dancing near transparency in the sea mist to the darkest of hues

resembling black, the ocean immerses itself in every aspect of this place. The island stands

defiant to the nature of the sea.

Where the sea dares to go no further at the sandy shores, the island’s personality begins.

Each building is unique in color. As I mentioned before, never have never been off the mainland,

so to see bubblegum pink buildings and lilac purple inns is a bit of a jaw dropper. The people

here are proud of their colors. Nearly every building sports a rainbow colored flag signifying

their proud stance on LQBTQ rights. Oh the people themselves are fascinating. If they aren’t

promoting their sexuality, they are competing with the buildings for attention. They walk around

wearing the brightest of colors clashing in every which way that would make fashion critics

screech. If they don’t express themselves in colorful clothes, then it is wackiest of hairdos. Many

times, it is both. The islanders wear crowns of dreads piled artfully on their heads. People of all

colors surround us wearing these statements going about their business. Not a single shade of

pale is in sight—expect perhaps my family whose legs haven’t seen daylight since last

September. I find myself people watching, intrigued at the uniqueness of each being we walk

past.

The islanders are not alone in their colorful dress. Chickens roam the streets displaying

their own colors of gold, red, silver, and black. Crowds part as the flocks waddle on the

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cobblestones. Somewhere, there is an unwritten rule of royalty where the poultry have earned the

highest of honors here. Everywhere these birds roam, they are offered bits of bread. Maybe it is

the islanders’ way of apologizing for the treatment of poultry around the world. Regardless,

bread crumbs are laid out as a feast so that no member of royalty may go hungry. The islanders

are the most eager to offer bread. The hens follow the bread trail, unaware of anything but the

next crumb in succession. The roosters follow the hens only leaving them when another rooster

comes to challenge. There is unwritten rules about whom is king among the foul. In most

monarchies, the debate about power is always complicated. With these roosters, it seems to be

simpler with the decision is based on the number of hens collected. He who earns the most

female attention wins. Chickens rule here on the island.

The House of Countless Cats

With an open afternoon, my family dawdles down the streets drinking in the unfamiliar

sights. With a complementary pamphlet to guide us, we waste no time becoming lost on the

cracked pavement and underneath the palm trees. The dirt path leads us to an open gate. Inside

the gate is a great colonial house with eight arch framed windows trimmed with black and paired

with yellow shutters. On the gate, a sign with green copper lettering reads, Hemingway House.

The house of Ernest Hemingway beckons us forward. Through the entrance, we are

transported back in time. The island buildings are not the only parts that are frozen in another

decade. Hemingway’s house sings of different times, but the culture of the Florida Keys is not

absent from this time capsule. The island brings color into airy spaces through large windows

facing the gardens. The house is sparsely finished with dark wood tones, and light linens. A

small room, with the grandest view faces the ocean with an arched window. At that window sits

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a desk with a chair, surrounded by piles of books. A gray tabby cat rests on the chair cushion, a

paw tucked underneath the sleeping form. The sign above the door reads, “The Writing Room”.

Down the hallway, the dark doors open to a bedroom. The bed is white cast iron, contrasting

with the dark floors. On the white linens sleeps a black tuxedo cat, stretched out the length of the

mattress. The cat sighs as the tour group is moved along.

Back through the servant’s entrance, we enter the gardens. The house is small, but the

gardens are large and magnificent. Cobbled pathways weave through trees. An orange cat

sporting six toes on each paw greets us on a perch in a tree. Beneath this cat is a sign that

announces the name of a native tree. Little signs, placed by the museum staff, inform us of

significant spots where Hemingway used to write, dine, or entertain guests. Each spot seems to

be claimed by a cat: in the chairs, the gardens, perched on the cracked cement wall, up into trees,

darting under bushes. The tabbies are combinations of grey, black, white, orange, patched,

striped, big, small, short haired, long haired, fat, skinny, green eyes, yellow eyes, amber eyes.

They pause to watch the people gawk before resuming their naps. When a child leans in for a pet,

the creatures scamper away from the eager touch. The pamphlet at the ticket center states that the

cats are descendants of Hemingway’s original purring companions. The museum cares for all of

them. Because there are so many felines, they inter breed with the other wild cats of the island

before the staff can properly fix them. Many of the creatures now sport six toes and unique color

combinations. The pamphlet mentions that there is has never been a pest problem since the

museum opened. The path curves left to a gate. A white cat with blue eyes sits at the gate on the

stone wall. It bids us goodbye with the flick of its tail.

A Different Kind of Paradise

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What makes a personal paradise? For my mother, vacationing is sitting at the beach

watching the wave rolls into the shore. With a magazine in her hand and a comfortable shaded

chair, she sits and enjoys her time on the beach. For my father, his oasis is driving along the

coast line listening to music from his younger years. With pretty scenery from Miami Beach to

Key West, he found his personal paradise. For my brother, vacationing is zip lining over an

alligator habitat or hiking through the jungle. He seeks peace in places that are hard to get find.

For me, well, my personal paradise is not any of these things.

When I think of an island, I think of the commercialized version. Big resorts on white

sandy beaches. Palm trees for miles. Seclusion from the masses. A luxury oasis. Expensive and

expansive. Paradise is served up from TV ads, internet travel sites, and flyers promising

relaxation, adventure, and absolute awe in humid climates. During the few days at Miami Beach,

we were in luxury. From the food we ate to the scented towels offered by the pool, the guest

services were always prompt and proper. Amidst all this luxury, I feel like a foreigner. It is fun to

pretend to live like the wealthy, but the conversations were impersonal. The formalities were

insincere. The service was not exclusive or genuine, but expected. We were part of a million

other vacationers soaking up the sun, roaming the waves for shells, relaxing in the sweet humid

air. I realize a commercial paradise is not for me.

I prefer a place different to what I expect. I yearn to be surprised. To learn something

new. To witness something textbooks and stories cannot describe. I wished to watch the island

people care for their creatures, roosters and felines alike. I wish to observe the small ways of life

unique to the place where I visit. There are no unruly palm trees and cracked cobblestones in the

city of glass and luxury. The resorts scream boring out into the sea. See one resort and one is

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able to picture the entire coastline. Where is the imagination? The creativity? The adventure?

The stories?

In a little island off the beaten path, I found a paradise I wasn’t expecting. I found

adventure with the roosters march in the streets. I sought stories where countless cats reside over

a palace. I watched people shout their culture proudly on an island that knows no shade of beige.

I found the streets I wish to wander, and the place where I want to make memories with

adventure at every corner. I danced with the ocean as it waltzed with the shore. Here in Key

West, I find my interpretation for something new, something beautiful, something true.

90 Miles from the End of the World

With the sun drifting towards the horizon, the heat and humidity lessen enough for us to

venture out onto the streets. We venture south to the famed highway zero sign. Actually, we

already passed the sign on our way into town. This sign marks the beginning of the interstate

highway stretching from Key West, Florida all the way to Canada tracing the eastern coastline.

The sign is small. It simply states, “Here marks the beginning of Highway 1.” I pose in front of

the sign while my mother snaps my picture, commemorating the moment as all good mothers do.

Then we move on.

A few blocks away, we start seeing signs pointing us to other landmarks. As good

travelers do, we follow the signs which lead us to a pier with a giant shore bound buoy. On the

buoy it reads, “End of US mainland. 90 miles from Cuba.” Cuba. How small Cuba is on maps. It

has always seemed impossibly far away, yet here I was, so close to a world as opposite as my

own. I gaze out at the endless ocean finally realizing that all those history books and time spent

on the internet looking at pictures finally came alive. Here on this little island, I have found a

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home in my own version of paradise. Before me, I see adventures that span the continents. Out

there, in this world so large, is a million paradises of my own making. In my mind’s eye, I see

the world. It opens before me.

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