The Key West Citizen

BALTIMORE SUN RAN
STORY ON KEY WEST

(Continued from Page One)

way of getting any, and that the blankets on his bed, though fashioned in the most delicate pastel shades, had no capacity whatever to insulate against the damp chill.

Next morning, he met a man in the lobby carrying two suitcases. 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 175 miles farther south. It 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 mainland, and got out on that incredible road which leaps from key to key, life seemed worth living again. Then he discovered that his car was one of a long procession, 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 forgotten 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, he came at last to Key West, he knew that he had found what he sought.

Key West, he discovered, is partly Bermudan, partly Bahaman, partly West Indian, partly Goldsmith's Deserted Village and hardly Floridian at all. So far as he could discover by questioning, Ernest Hemingway is the only person of note who has taken up a permanent residence there, though the son of a New York millionaire was looking for a house for the rest of the winter. 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 unpainted or streaked with ancient whitewash. At least a quarter of them are vacant. The pleasant balconies 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 ornaments and hand-painted oil paintings of moonlight on the Keys. There are a 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 soul's 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, naturally, quiet folk, and big fish are so common that they are not worth boasting about. The after-dinner music was soft and low and only an occasional couple got up energy to dance. By 11 o'clock the music stopped and everyone went to bed.

My friend walked back to the main street, peeped into the barrooms 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 suddenly discovered the real basis of the charm of the place: there isn't a golf links on the island.