Key West, mid-afternoon, nowhere in particular.
I ordered a beer. The woman behind the bar gave me a nod and slid a bottle brewed in Islamorada to me. Outside, the heat was relentless. Inside, it wasn't much better. No AC, just open doors and windows.
Two stools down, a guy with faded tattoos and skin like old canvas raised his bottle in my direction. "Thank Christ," he said. "I thought you were gonna order something frozen."
I didn't know if he was being friendly or having a pop. In the end, I think he was talking to himself more than anyone else.
We sat in silence for a few moments, an Eagles song played from the sound system. Out of nowhere he asked if this was my first visit to Key West. I told him I'd been coming for years. He nodded slow.
"You've seen it change, then."
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the open door. Outside, a group of young men stumbled past — sunburned, rowdy, all in matching vests, high-fiving like they'd conquered something.
"It's all cruise-ship cowboys and bachelorette parties now," he said. "I blame Hemingway and Buffett."
He didn't say it bitterly, just flatly, like someone describing a storm that had already passed but still soaked everything.
Then he pushed back his stool, left a few scrunched dollars on the bar. "Should've been here twenty years ago." And with that, he stepped out into the white light. No drama. Just gone.
The truth is, I was here twenty years ago and more.
In fact, we first stayed here around 1990, with the kids in tow. We stayed at La Concha on Duval. Ceiling fans that barely turned. Smoke from the cigar bar curling into the lobby like something from another decade. The kids hated the smell.
It's smarter now. Polished. The cigar bar's gone. Someone told me the rooftop bar is closed too. Everything changes, just as we do.
Truth is, Key West is full of tourists. The town plays to us, those in search of stories, of sunburned escapes, of a version of themselves that only exists with sand between their toes and salt on their glass rim.
We keep the lights on, fill the hotels, buy the shirts, overtip musicians, tag the bars on Instagram, eat the conch fritters and buffalo wings. Key West has always been a last stop for someone. And every fresh pair of flip-flops on Duval means the story keeps going.
Hemingway was already complaining about tourists back in the '30s — said they were ruining the place. And that was when people still showed up in linen suits and hats.
The irony's thick. Now he's part of the show. Sloppy Joe’s, T-shirts, walking tours, frozen drinks named after him that he probably never even drank. Next week, it’s the Hemingway Look-Alike Contest. Scores of men of a certain age with white beards and Hawaiian shirts chasing not the writer, but the myth: the drinker, the deep-sea tough guy, the legend with a typewriter and a temper.
Every Labor Day weekend, the island slips into flip-flops and raises a drink for Jimmy.
No contest. No judges. Just tribute. Parrotheads flood Duval singing Buffet classics like it’s church. There’s a parade, conga lines through the bars, steel drums in the streets, and someone always crying during A Pirate Looks at Forty.
No contest. No judges. Just tribute. Parrotheads flood Duval singing Buffet classics like it’s church. There’s a parade, conga lines through the bars, steel drums in the streets, and someone always crying during A Pirate Looks at Forty.
Jimmy Buffett breezed into town in the '70s and gave it all a name, even a tune — Margaritaville. Booze in the blender. He made it okay to waste time. Gave the place a soundtrack and a shrug.
We tourists follow the expected path. Visit Hemingway's house, gaze at his study, spot six-toed cats. Make our way to the Margaritaville bar, order a drink named after a lifestyle, and hum along to laid-back favourites.
Two aspects of the island's charm, one devoted to legacy, the other to a carefree vibe.
And in the future, somebody'll be sitting right where I am, sipping a beer, and a local will tell them…
You should've seen it twenty years ago.
