The edge of paradise

The edge of paradise

The A1A highway follows the southern shore of Key West. The edge of the highway is embroidered with a wide sidewalk to cater to all forms of human powered locomotion from pedestrians to roller bladers to cyclists. I headed south and west, following the curve of the key on my rented beach cruiser.

I did not like the bike. It was heavy, slow, and uncomfortable. But it was a bike, and the warm breeze drifting in off the sea begged to be enjoyed. The smooth sidewalk rolled leisurely under my wheels as I pedaled along. Cuba was tucked behind the horizon, and the sun was dipping through the clouds, heading home for another evenings rest. The day’s work nearly done.

Bathed in the waning light, lulled by sun sliding over the glossy water, it felt a little like paradise. Like the people of the key found a place blessed by God and chose to accept that blessing. I rode on, lost in paradise until I saw a flash of orange cones. I hit my brake hard and skidded to a stop inches from a gaping hole in the sidewalk. A sign for a pier that no longer existed hung askew on its post. Concrete jutted into the water, broken and useless, evidence of the violence of the recent hurricane. The juxtaposition of the wrecked pier and the placid water was jarring.

I rode on.

I met a group of people for dinner on Duval Street. The cruise ships disgorge just a few blocks away, and Duval street reflects the transient traffic. It is dotted with touristy stores selling T-shirts and trinkets emblazoned with Key West branding. Scattered among the glass-front stores are old houses with large covered porches converted into clubs and restaurants. If you squint hard enough, you can imagine Hemmingway drinking on one of these porches, sweating in the humidity, getting ready to pound away on his typewriter in drunken exuberance.

There was a parade down Duval while we were eating dinner. I left my table and stood on the edge of the road as bicycle after bicycle festooned in lights and bearing garishly outfitted riders rolled by. Bells rang and people shouted, “Merry Christmas,” over the whir of the bike wheels and the hiss of bike chains. It was mesmerizing, the parades of light and noise under the evening sky. I smiled at it all. The bikes, the lights, the extravagant outfits.

A parade of lights 

But as the parade streamed by, I noticed a theme among the outfits that wasn’t Christmas. Mr. and Mrs. Claus and their elven helpers were repeated over and over again in what a costume store would label as the “sexy” version of the outfit. In the midst of a parade featuring a sexualized children’s fable, I found myself thinking that perhaps this parade wasn’t really celebrating the birth of Christ after all. My childlike wonder at the spectacle faded, grayed, decayed in a moment.

After dinner, I rode south on Duval, Past the tourist T-shirt shops, past the packed bars blasting island tunes, past the clubs where bored women in lingerie leaned on second story railings, and into the night. It felt pure, the night. Open and free and unadulterated. I leaned over my bike, tucked into it, and pushed as hard and as fast as I could.

People sat in pairs on benches, watching the water at night. A pair of old men smoked cigars with their back to the water. A pair of lovers, their arms intertwined, leaned into each other. A woman jogged, her fluorescent clothing burning bright under the street lights. And I pushed on. I spun those pedals as fast as I could, wishing for more gears, more speed, something to push against. Searching for the sweat numbness of hard physical exertion.

A section of the road in front of me had several street lights out, and the darkness was impenetrable. I stopped pedaling and coasted into the darkness. It was like falling. It felt dangerous and inescapable, as if the ground was about to open in a great trap door and I would be flung through the far side of the earth. I began to pedal, and the feeling of falling increased, as if I was accelerating into a void. I burst into the light on the other side and smiled at the stupidity of it all.

Into the abyss

I spent a week in Key West, and I do not understand it. There is great beauty there. Sandy beaches, warm waters, and pleasant weather. But there is this feeling of corrosion about the place, as if it is rusting around the edges, that is inescapable. It feels as if it is clinging to glories long since faded.

As I watched it grow smaller out of my airplane window, I wondered if the corrosion was moral or spiritual as well. I wondered if there was something about the place that draws one toward the decadence of Duval. And then I wondered if maybe it was just more honest than most places. That the corrosion I felt was just closer to the surface there than back home. As if the veneer of civilization was worn away by sand, sun, and alcohol until man’s base nature was exposed.

The beaches are cool though