The Key West Citizen

Conch Chowder
By DOROTHY RAYMER

Last Thursday morn, I was up, but not away, by five o'clock and ready to begin the trip to Miami around 6 a.m. with tennis instructor Les Jahn driving. He had business to attend to and I had hearing aid repair to be done. (It turned out that two condensers were shot, one in my good aid and also one in the spare). So I went along for the ride.

First stop en route was on Big Pine Key at Betty and Jim Rush's little restaurant. Jahn's yawns indicated coffee break. Jim Rush, in no rush, and Les, no less, engaged in a chess game! I was just a pawn, as they set upon stalemate, checkmate or whatever. Betty and I chatted, naturally about the hurricane, with Duke Voight who was there having breakfast.

Finally we were off up the highway again. Pity there wasn't time to look more thoroughly at Marathon's recovery. The rebound at a glance is phenomenal. Noted that Tom Hanley's renowned establishment was again functioning and that shops and stores and motels were open and busy.

Shortly before noon, I was being greeted by Bob Jordan whose brother Bill Jordan has the famous Bar of Music on Miami Beach (it is mentioned in Jack Kofoed's new book, "The Florida Story"), and electronics expert Alfred Stankus, and "Miss Naldine" of the Audiphone Co., were checking batteries and aids for me.

Chauffeur Jahn telephoned to say he would pick me up in front of the Columbus Hotel on Biscayne Boulevard at 3:30 p.m.

I walked around window shopping, saw Shirley Girsten at Burdine's buying a fancy sweater for her niece, and then scooted up to the rendezvous 15 minutes ahead of time so that I wouldn't cause Les a go-around in traffic.

There was a bench to sit upon, but it was occupied by people waiting for buses, so I stood, then paced, then stood, then . . . well, by 4 p.m. I was beginning to wonder what had happened, but was afraid to leave my post.

Suddenly a woman, evidently Cuban, walked up and began speaking rapid-fire Spanish, much too fast and too complicated for me to follow. I explained in Spanish that I spoke very little, that I was deaf and that she should speak more slowly. She glared at me, practically spat, and hissed, "Castro!" before flouncing off, I have still no idea what I said which might have been misinterpreted.

Corner Stand

After the irate woman left, I leaned against a white trash box in resignation. Next moment, an impatient hand shoved my elbow aside and a man's voice muttered something to the effect for me to shove over so that he could get his papers. For a split second I thought I had mistaken a newsstand for a trash box. Not so!

The grumpy old scavenger, obviously a knight of the road from his ragged garments, set about retrieving rumpled newspapers from the container.

During the process he eyed me as if he suspected I was standing by to hijack his plunder. Finally he found three sections of a daily, smoothed them, placed them neatly folded under one arm, gave me one last accusing stare and stalked off.

Slightly numb (it was now 4:30 p.m.) from inhaling exhaust fumes of buses and mail trucks which stopped at distressing intervals right at the chosen rendezvous, I began pacing slowly up and down between the corner mailbox and the bus bench. By degrees I became aware that a young man in a black foreign looking suit was doing likewise, directly behind me.

Perhaps this was all a pattern of mistaken identity. Was I now innocently involved in an espionage incident? I certainly wasn't being followed because I looked young and chic. I was bedraggled, weary and had a gypsy-like red hanky tied around my hair for motoring. Perhaps this was some sort of badge? I wheeled and locked the young chap right in the face.

He flashed a beguiling smile and said "Ah! Habla usted Espanol, senora?"

Oh no, I thought, I'm not going to go through another angry hissing episode, so I shook my head negatively. However, the young man looked so crestfallen that I relented and explained I understood very little Spanish, but that I would try.

With that, he whipped out an address book and pointed to a number somewhere on Southwest Second Avenue.

As he was then in the northeast section, I dared not attempt directions without an interpreter. I beckoned him toward the airlines office on the corner. He seemed reluctant to follow. Maybe he thought I was bird-dogging for Eastern Airlines? Just then a green bus pulled up, and with a relieved "Gracias, senora," the lost one leaped aboard. I don't know whether or not it was the right bus; I'm a stranger there myself.

My vigil was finally ended at 4:45 p.m., just after I had managed to grab a place on the boulevard bench. Jahn arrived and we at long last began the journey home. He explained that he was late because he "had to stand around to be waited on." I knew all about standing by that time. Let it stand at that!