Category Archives: Travel

Back on the Cape, One Constant in an Ever-Shifting View

Last summer, the pandemic interfered with our annual trip to Cape Cod.  For the first time in twenty years, our family failed to spend part of August at the modest little cottage complex in Truro that we love so well. My husband began going there with his parents and siblings when he was a little boy.  Our journey to the Cape is not just a vacation; it’s more like a pilgrimage.  That narrow ribbon of land, curved like a hook into the bay, is, to us, if not quite the promised land, then something quite close to it.  Certainly it’s a second home.  We have no financial claim to any bit of real estate there, but we’re loyal renters.  More importantly, as pilgrimage sites do, the place has claimed us as its own. 

When we return, we go back to the same waterfront cottage, at the same time every year. We reconnect with many of the same families. We look out to a vast expanse of sand that leads to Cape Cod Bay, framed on each side by islands of sea grass and wild roses. The spare, simple skyline of Provincetown, about a mile away, appears to float atop the water. Its most distinctive feature, appropriately, is the tall, granite bell tower that commemorates the arrival of the original Pilgrims to the area, in 1620. Five weeks before landing at Plymouth, the Mayflower docked at what is now Provincetown Harbor. Due to rough weather, the ship had missed its mark in Northern Virginia. Anchored far north in Massachusetts, where the contract the Pilgrims had signed with the Virginia Company was deemed void, the group determined “to covenant and combine . . .together into a civil body politic,” to maintain order and the common good. So it was in Provincetown that the Mayflower Compact, an early and largely successful attempt at democracy, was written and signed. The Pilgrim Monument, now the symbol of the town’s warm, accepting and all-inclusive spirit, reminds us that great things are possible when we work together. For residents and returning pilgrims like our family, it’s a welcoming beacon. I love it that the tower is the anchoring feature in the ever-changing view from our little cottage.

The Pilgrim Monument was completed in 1910. Its design was based on the civic symbol of Siena, the 14h century Torre del Mangia in the Piazzo del Campo, the town’s main square. Other features of Provincetown’s narrow silhouette are two water towers, several church steeples, and the Town Hall tower.

Our view toward the bay varies minute by minute with the shifting of the light, the play of the clouds and the passage of the hours.  The ethereal, transformative quality of Cape light has long made this area a favorite destination for artists. Above, around noontime, the sun glints off sparkling blue water, and a line of clouds hugs the horizon, in an otherwise clear sky.   

On partially overcast afternoons, the water tends to turn silvery, like a sea of mercury. It’s often on days like this that the wind picks up, and my husband, and also now our daughter, may be out windsurfing.

One evening toward sunset, a sky resembling orange sherbet settled above the town’s dark silhouette and a bay of molten lead.

The color of the sand is changeable, as well. In early mornings and late afternoons, it may take on a peachy pink cast, as in the photos above and below. The dark patches of seaweed that litter the beach no doubt seem unsightly to some. But we’ve grown so used to it that it’s no longer remarkable. It’s just more evidence of the abundant life that thrives in and around the bay.

Windsurfing boards await my husband and daughter.

Occasionally, as a storm or dense fog moves in, all the towers of Provincetown are rendered completely invisible. 

To me, the loveliest time of the day is just before sunset, when the shadows in the sand turn a magical, brilliant blue.

Sunset itself, on every clear day, is an event that brings our small, enduring community outside in admiration and awe. The sky often glows with streaks of increasingly fiery red, orange and yellow. And then, as the brilliant colors gradually dissipate, and Cape light fades into Cape night, the Pilgrim Monument is illuminated. Its white granite glows clean and bright against the dark sky. The tower is typically the last thing I see before I close my eyes at night. How comforting to know it is there, a reassuring beacon at all hours, in all weathers and seasons.

On The Road Again, and Back into the World

We did something highly unusual recently. Something we hadn’t done for close to two years. We packed the car and drove across several state lines to visit relatives for the long Memorial Day weekend. Thanks to the Covid vaccines, we could do so without fearing dire consequences. We had taken another major step the week before, when we attended our daughter’s graduation from the University of Virginia. We were there, in person, on-site! And when D returned home a few days later, we didn’t require her to go into a period of quarantine in our home office. We’re gradually easing back into something akin to pre-Covid “normal.”

My husband’s intentions to visit his parents more regularly had been foiled by the pandemic. He and my daughter had also been eagerly awaiting the opportunity to get some ice time with our young hockey-playing nephews. So H’s hometown of Rochester, New York was our first out-of-state family destination. At Bill Gray’s Iceplex in Brighton, H and D matched skills with the boys for an hour of non-stop action. My sister-in-law and I, in our figure skates, passed the occasional errant puck around and served as videographers.

The Eerie canal village of Spencerport, where H’s sister and her family live, was as charming as I remembered it from our last visit over the Memorial weekend in 2019. The lift bridge, which raises to allow the passage of larger boats, had been freshly painted. Bright flowering baskets hung from shop windows. Our nephews have become enthusiastic fishermen during the pandemic. They breathlessly described to us the many fish that inhabit the canal. On a cold Saturday morning, undeterred by the icy wind blowing over the water, they proceeded to catch a wide range of examples. “A pumpkinseed? Really? That’s a fish?,” I asked the boys, thinking I’d heard wrong. Yes, indeed. A small and colorful speckled sunfish. Kids are such fountains of knowledge.

As much as my husband enjoys speeding across the ice in pursuit of a hockey puck, I like a brisk stroll through picturesque neighborhoods. I had been looking forward to walking again along Spencerport’s tree-shaded streets lined with beautifully tended old homes and historic churches. I kept falling behind my daughter and sister-in-law as I paused to take photos. So many captivating architectural details, so little time.

Spencerport’s First Congregational Church
Spencerport’s United Methodist Church

The lamp posts on the main streets of the village were again decorated with flags and Hometown Heroes banners. Photos of our military men and women currently serving in various branches of the armed forces gazed down on us. Although the images were different, the group was just as youthful-looking as those of a previous year. Some were smiling. Others had adopted more serious expressions. All, I expect, must have been feeling a sharp mixture of anxiety and optimism during those photo sessions.

Their faces look down on the quiet, peaceful streets of home. Yet the real young men and women are far away, in places where turmoil reigns and peace is elusive. Every time I think of pretty little Spencerport, with its inviting sense of homeyness, I think of these hometown heroes. I pray that they return whole and healthy to their families.

I pray also that we civilians do our part to earn that name. May we not forsake our civic duty. May we pursue truth and learn from it, especially when it is painful. Especially when it reveals shortcomings that need to be addressed. May we actively work toward justice and peace for all people. May our country, our democracy, remain worthy of our pride and of the service and sacrifice of our military men and women.

Fairfield Cemetery, Spencerport

Springtime in Charlottesville

Charlottesville is about a hundred miles south of our home in the DC suburbs.  The weather there is consistently warmer and sunnier than here in Northern Virginia, and spring tends to arrive earlier.  My daughter thoroughly appreciates the beauty of her temporary home.  She knows I do, as well.  I’ve been wanting someone in our family to attend the University of Virginia for the last thirty years, but that’s another story.  Here now, thanks to my daughter, some photos of Charlottesville in its spring glory. 

That Satisfying Sameness on Shore Road

Shore Road, Route 6A, is our Main Street while we’re in Cape Cod, and I walk it nearly every morning.  As in our little cottage complex, major changes along the road are refreshingly few and far between.  Its scenery is almost as familiar to me as my childhood back yard.  My Shore Road walks serve to further sustain the illusion of timelessness in Truro. 

Fence-hugging hydrangeas, for example, which thrive in the moist salty air, are always bountiful and glorious.  

Typically, any changes along this thin ribbon of land by the bay are so subtle that they serve to reinforce the unchanging nature of the place.  Most of the homes and cottage groupings appear largely the same, year after year after year.  Routine maintenance, not extreme renovation, is the guiding principle.  The small structures of this condominium complex, above, continue to be nestled snugly amid the roses, much as they have been for nearly two decades.  Hours of diligent pruning, no doubt, keep the surrounding plantings looking luxuriantly abundant but not overpowering.

Nature can easily get the upper hand, if left unchecked, as it has above.  Each year, untamed, weedy foliage encroaches a bit more around this small, sagging, cupola-topped cabin.  Considering the high value of real estate along the bay, there are a surprising number of small Shore Road structures, some barely bigger than sheds, that exist in a state of ongoing gradual decay.  They appear to lack all creature comforts, but some show signs of sporadic human occupation.  This gives them an air of mystery that adds to their appeal. 


There are certain areas where the tug-of-war between nature and the attempt to subjugate it is particularly evident.  For as long as I’ve walked Shore Road, the large lot above has been occupied by a small semi-dilapidated cottage, whimsical bird houses on tall posts, and the occasional boat.  Some years, the foliage reigns victorious, as in the top photo, dating from 2013, where the cottage appears to float in a sea of tall grass and grapevines.  The following year, the weeds were mown and vines cut back substantially.  Flower boxes adorned the cottage’s front windows.  Near the road, a patriotic tableau had been assembled: a wooden bench painted like the flag, Adirondack chairs and a pot of geraniums

Since 2014, nature has been allowed its riotous advance.  Once again, the cottage is enveloped by high grass and unruly foliage.  The flag bench, its paint faded, appears to be sighing toward collapse, and the split-rail fence groans under a heavy tangle of grapevines.  The chairs have disappeared, and even the bird houses are in advanced decline.  The lighthouse is unrecognizable, and the caboose is little more than a façade.  (See Shore Road Scenes in Cape Cod, August 24, 2012.)  Next year, will the progression toward wildness and ruin continue?  Or will there be another effort toward taming nature and renovating the manmade?  I hope it’s one or the other, and not a dreaded third option:  a gleaming new structure that stands out starkly from the pleasantly worn and familiar Shore Road sights I cherish.      

I’m not averse to some instances of refurbishment.  Two years ago, for example, this rusty roadside owl received a coat of white paint and amber-colored eyes.  Such measured, unobtrusive alteration I can wholeheartedly support.  I appreciate it all the more knowing that it’s likely to be overlooked.  I enjoy thinking I know Shore Road the way I know an old companion.    

I can also welcome a unique addition that fits in well with that which already exists.  The gray shingled house above, with its American flag and rainbow banner bearing the word PEACE, looks essentially the same every year.  Several years ago I noticed an interesting vehicle parked in front, a small car colorfully painted with a variety of sea creatures in a folk art style.  This year the little car gained a sibling, a minivan painted with similar colors and designs: sharks, lobsters, fish and  sailing scenes.  A white plastic egret keeps watch from the roof.  The light-hearted, slightly eccentric spirit of these vehicles is in perfect sync with the PEACE house and with the Outer Cape.  (They remind me of the Key West Don’t Dredge on Me truck encrusted with sea creatures.  See Uniquely Key West, April 24, 2015.) 

It’s been five years since I last wrote about the Shore Road sights I hold dear.  As I began looking back and comparing this summer’s photos to those from earlier years, I was afraid that the idea of sameness might prove to be primarily in my mind.  Maybe my old friend has changed more than I’d like to admit?  

Generally, I don’t think so.  This narrow strip of land still seems to be largely immune to the accelerated pace of change that characterizes my former Atlanta neighborhood or the DC suburbs where I now live.  Every return visit brings this reassurance: the familiar sights of Shore Road, and its inimitable essence, they endure.  Perhaps I hope that through proximity, this immutability is contagious.  By spending time each summer in a timeless place, can I slow my own aging process?  Or at least feed the fantasy?  These days, it couldn’t hurt. 


For more on this topic, see Back Again, on Shore Road in Truro, September 13, 2013. 

In Cape Cod, the Illusion of Timelessness

At the end of July, our family made our annual drive from northern Virginia up the east coast, almost to the very tip of Cape Cod.  Our happy summer place is an unassuming cottage complex in North Truro.  It looks out on the curve of the bay toward the Pilgrim Monument in Provincetown.  For two weeks every summer, a little gray shingled rental cottage is our home.  Why return to the same place year after year?  Once I didn’t understand.  When I was growing up, my family considered real vacations as rare indulgences.  With the exception of a few special trips when I was older, we made do with a few days accompanying my father to a public health convention in Jekyll Island, or a visit to help out extended family in Kentucky.  Had H’s family been in thrall to the same sort of thrifty practicality, they never would have packed up their young kids in a cramped VW camper and driven from Rochester to the Outer Cape in the summer of 1974.  They certainly wouldn’t have returned every year since.  And that would have been a shame.

Cape Cod seems an odd fit for a couple that doesn’t swim, sail, or even eat seafood.  But the unique beauty of the place casts its spell.  It gets under your skin and beckons you back.  My husband and I began joining his family there with our daughter when she wasn’t quite three.  Seventeen years later, it’s hard to imagine a summer that doesn’t include our little piece of the Cape. 

View from our picnic table:  across the sand and the bay, the Provincetown skyline.

During my husband’s family’s first visit to the Cape, they crowded into a one-room efficiency in a Truro motel, all five of them.  (The next year there would be six, after H’s sister was born.)  Quarters were tight, to say the least.  The proprietor could have been friendlier, but they chose to overlook his surliness.  When, while checking on a malfunctioning stove burner, he spoke with biting harshness to H, a meek seven year-old at the time, that was simply too much.  The Cape was wonderful, and they would return, but they would find another place to stay. 

On their last day, they took a closer look at a nearby establishment set back from the bay on a particularly wide stretch of beach.  It featured white dollhouse-like cottages grouped around two neatly manicured greens.  Each house had its own picnic table outside.  The interiors were basic, no frills.  Each had two bedrooms, a living room with a fireplace, kitchen and bathroom.  Some had covered front porches.  There was a big, new, sparkling pool.  Kids were playing on the greens and digging in the sand.  Families were cooking burgers and hot dogs on the little grills in front of their cottages.  It was a relaxed, friendly place.  H’s family determined to try to stay there the next year. 

Luckily, they succeeded.  H’s parents return to the very same white cottage still.  We have a cottage for the three of us, and H’s sister is there with her husband and two boys in their own place.  The wide, uncrowded beach has become even wider and therefore even less crowded.  All the sand eroding from everywhere else along the bay seems to be deposited there.  Otherwise, the appearance of the family-owned complex, in the same hands since 1967, has changed little since then, or even since the 40s, when most of the white cottages were built.  The atmosphere is still that of a big-hearted summer village.  The well-maintained greens are still perfect for ball games and water fights.  Several somewhat larger cottages, with more expansive views and open floor plans, were constructed in the 80s.   These are covered in weathered cedar shakes.  Accommodations throughout are still basic.  While microwaves and WIFI were added in recent years, there is no AC.  This is not the destination for those who require high-end resort living in a space worthy of Architectural Digest.  Head to the Outer Banks or the Charleston area for that.  But for those who yearn for reassurance that the Old Cape Cod of the Patti Page song still flourishes, this is the place. 

Ripley the Golden Retriever rests in his customary spot outside the office door.  He may appear to sleep, but his tail starts wagging when he senses the approach of a friend.  As long as I can remember, there has been a resident retriever keeping watch by those steps.  Before Ripley, it was Logan.

The “new” cottages, seen from the bay side.

The view from our kitchen, as sunset approaches and the shadows on the sand turn blue. 

The summer village we return to every year is humble, but it offers a priceless luxury in this world of ever-accelerating change:  the illusion of timelessness.   As I’ve written before, the pace of change is exceedingly slow along this part of the Cape.  (See Back Again, on Shore Road in Truro, Sept. 13, 2013.)  While the light and the sands are constantly shifting, the narrow strip of land, its scrubby vegetation and unimposing, weathered buildings, like those in our  cottage complex, appear much the same, year after year.  Here, it’s easy to pretend, for a week or two at least, that time stands still. 

A temporary time-out. 

Time out of time. 

Or the illusion of it.

It’s almost worth the drive.  

Coney Island, June 1993

According to the Farmer’s Almanac and calendar no-it-alls, it’s still summer, for one more day.  The autumnal equinox occurs tomorrow, September 23, bringing with it the first day of fall.  I’d thought the summer had slipped away, but it hasn’t quite.  A couple of months ago, I’d intended to write several posts on summer places.  But the days passed, filled with other preoccupations.  On this very last day of summer, I’ll try to make up for lost time.  First up, Coney Island.


I was about five years old the first time I heard of Coney Island.   It sounded magical and exotic, an ideal, seaside summer place.   Neighbors of my grandmother in Kentucky had just returned from there, and they spoke of it in glowing terms.  It was way up north near New York City.  There were roller coasters, carousels, and a huge Ferris wheel right on the beach.  I’d never seen any ocean then.  I’d been no farther north than Ashland, Kentucky, and no farther south than Waycross, Georgia.  (Daddy’s job in public health occasionally took him to Waycross, and Mama and I went with him a few times.  While it sounds like small peanuts, I remember it as a very cool place, home of the Okefenokee Swamp, a great Holiday Inn pool, and crumbling antebellum mansions.) Anyway, that family’s Coney Island experience made quite an impression. I vowed someday I’d see it for myself.   

By the time I was living in New Jersey, twenty-something years later, Coney Island sounded decidedly less magical.  But I was still intrigued.  One Saturday in June before I moved back to Atlanta, H and I drove up for the day.   013

We were in H’s enormous 1968 Chevy Impala SS (last car on the right, above).  I’d gone with him to Trenton in the spring to buy it for $450.  Battered and well past its prime, it was the perfect car for Coney Island in 1993.  Like the faded amusement park, it could be seen to possess an inimitable air of tough deadbeat cool.  We parked right next to the old Thunderbolt roller coaster; there were no vast, well-maintained parking lots as at a typical Six Flags.  The Thunderbolt, opened in 1925 and out of use since 1982, sat decaying behind a rusted chain link fence.  At first I thought it was the famous Coney Island Cyclone.  It didn’t look safe at all.  But, on the bright side, there was no crowd. 


Then I spotted the Cyclone, across the way.  In comparison to the decrepit Thunderbolt, it looked positively spiffy.

007The above photo shows the Cyclone from the top of the Wonder Wheel.  The classic white wooden coaster dates from 1927It’s not especially tall.  It doesn’t look particularly impressive if compared to sky-high roller coasters of the twenty-first century. There are no full loops.  The cars don’t hang upside down.  It doesn’t go backwards.  It’s associated with no blockbuster movie franchise.  But it is one memorable, absolutely thrilling ride. 

On that sunny summer Saturday, the queue for the Cyclone was  surprisingly short, almost nonexistent.  At H’s insistence, we waited out one run so we could get the front car on the next one.  As a little boy at Seabreeze Amusement Park in Rochester, his grandfather taught him that for the complete coaster experience, one must ride in the first car.  We got in.  When the safety bar came down, I thought there must be some mistake.  There was way too much room between the bar and my lap.  In fact there was space for someone several times my size, or for me and a couple of friends on my lap.  I was afraid I’d fly out on the first dip.  I anchored my elbows forcefully into the worn vinyl padding of the bar. 

The cars lurched, and we were off, chugging slowly up the first hill.  At the top, there was that suspense-filled pause, and suddenly we were hurtling downward.  Thrillingly, alarmingly.  The first descent is banked precipitously, and I hunkered lower, dug my elbows in harder. We were back up, rounded a turn, and then we were headed down again, screaming, laughing.  It was exhilarating. 

At the end of the ride, when the little train arrived at the platform, we were laughing and wind-blown, like all the other riders.  H’s shirt had become completely unbuttoned.  My bra had come unhooked.  We had been warned to secure all valuables.  According to the attendant, false teeth, glasses, jewelry, wigs and even underwear had been found on the tracks.  I can see why. 

Back then, you could stay on for another ride at no cost if you chose.  We both wanted a repeat, but we needed some time to collect ourselves, to button up, to recover from the thrill.  To prepare to be thrilled again.

Reliving the memory, I think, as I have many times over the years:  we’ve got to go to Coney Island with our daughter.  Not surprisingly, she’s a roller coaster fan. 

Next: More Coney Island

Uniquely Key West

I’d thought I was done with the Key West posts.  But then I remembered the manatee mailboxes, and the little blue truck that appears to have spent time on the ocean floor, the toothy back yard sculpture, and a few more oddities.  I saw these as I wandered the city’s quiet neighborhoods during our winter visit.  They’re among the many sights that evoke the quirky spirit and laid-back humor of this unique place.  


On our walk home from Duval Street on New Year’s Eve, we passed this cast concrete postal manatee dressed to party. 


A few streets away, on the first morning of 2015, another manatee mailbox balanced a Happy New Year beer can on its head. 


In this shady front yard, a creature left over from Halloween, or a year-round ghost? 


Gracing a white-columned porch, a Christmas wreath adorned with starfish, crabs and lobster.   


No guard dogs needed for this gated compound.



The “Don’t Dredge on Me!” truck, ornamented with all manner of sea creatures, some painted, some three-dimensional, for a diverting, barnacle-encrusted appearance.  It protests the proposed and hotly debated dredging of the Key West Harbor Channel for the purpose of allowing even larger cruise ships to dock. 


In a classic Key West contrast, the truck, a sort of rolling folk art diorama, is parked in front of this neat white Gothic revival church.  The historic Cornish Memorial AME Zion Church, built in 1903, is named for the freed slave who started the church in 1864. 


Something that does not belong in a post on the whimsical eccentricities of Key West is the Celebrity Constellation, pictured above, in port during our visit.  I include it here only in reference to the little truck that speaks out against harbor dredging.  Could there be a need for bigger cruise ships in Key West?  Isn’t this ship too big already?  Most locals dread the sight of thousands of cruise ship passengers descending regularly upon their island city.  But here’s what you’d think would make the proposal a certain no-go:  the Channel is located in the protected area of the Florida Keys National Marine Sanctuary.  It appears ludicrous to argue that dredging could be anything but harmful to marine life and water quality, although proponents  jump through hoops in attempts to minimize the impact.  While the city voted “No” last year to a feasibility study on dredging, the question is not yet completely settled.  May the message of the “Don’t Dredge on Me” truck be heard, loud and clear.  And heeded. 



Perhaps as well-known as the Hemingway House cats, freely roaming roosters and chickens, and the art they inspire, are a common sight in Key West. 


I’m not sure what the artist of this back yard assemblage intended, but I see a pitcher plant monster on legs of tree branches.  As Audrey II demanded in Little Shop of Horrors:  “Feed me, Seymour!”



The Key West Airport is tiny and charming. On our next visit, we’ll be flying (not driving) in as well as out.   

Cherry Blossom Time in DC

Throughout the DC area, the blooming of the cherry trees in our nation’s capital is a much-discussed topic beginning in late February or so.  Will the bloom coincide with the actual Cherry Blossom Festival?  Usually not, but there is always hope.  Over 3,000 trees, a gift from Tokyo during the Taft administration in 1912, border the Tidal Basin near the Jefferson Memorial.  At their fleeting, elusive peak, they are a truly remarkable sight. 

It’s a sight I can’t recall seeing at close range during the nearly seventeen years we’ve lived in Northern Virginia.  My husband says we were there once pushing our new baby in a stroller, but I have no recollection of the visit and no photos to prove it.  Our daughter certainly has no memory of it.  Once, on our way to Atlanta for Easter, she and I saw the pink fluffy trees as our plane followed the line of the Potomac on takeoff.  In the spring of 2008 we were at the Tidal Basin, with our daughter and puppy, about ten days too late, as the photo below shows.  001 This past weekend, the trees were at peak bloom.  After a winter that threatened never to end, the weather was almost unbelievably perfect.  Sunny, warm, slightly breezy.  Not hot.  The ideal time to go blossom watching.  Ideal, at least, in a less populated world.  When I suggested a jaunt into DC, our daughter was enthusiastic.  But my husband groaned as though he were suffering grievous injury.  He had taxes to finish, yard work to do, work emails to face.  Traffic would be beyond horrendous.  And it was our first chance all year to relax in the comfort of our back terrace.  

I didn’t press the matter.  I agreed with his traffic prediction.  We live eighteen miles from DC.  Once, when we drove in during the early hours of Thanksgiving morning, it took us a mere twenty minutes.  More typically, it means creeping along for an hour or more on I-66 or the George Washington Parkway.  The Metro should be the obvious choice, but parking at the station, especially during cherry blossom season, is problematic at best.  Better to stay home. 

Around mid-morning we were all in the car, about to run some necessary errands, when H suggested a sudden change in plans: he could drop D and me off on the Arlington side of the river.  Maybe he’d been thinking about what a wonderful, understanding wife I am and how I didn’t protest when he flew off to Aruba over Valentine’s Day.  “I know what the trees look like,” he said, “but since you two like to look at pretty stuff, I’ll drive you.  We’ve gotta go right now, though, because the traffic will be really bad this afternoon.” 

My daughter and I didn’t need further persuasion.  I dashed back inside to get Kiko.  Walking through a beautiful landscape is not quite complete for me without my little dog.  (H and D, however, disagree.  They have a lower tolerance for Kiko’s habit of constantly pausing to smell every twig and blade of grass.)  Kiko had just settled down to nap.  He was lying on the playroom floor looking pathetic, his front paws tucked up under him, like this. 


The dog appeared stunned when I popped back so quickly and asked his favorite question, Wanna take a ride?   It took him a moment, but he roused himself and stretched.  Oh yes, he’d gladly take a ride.    

     Cherry Blossoms 004

My husband dropped us off just before the Arlington Memorial Bridge.  He headed to Crystal City where he could take care of errands and avoid the crowds of cars and pedestrians.   

Cherry Blossoms 031

And then, there they were, those justifiably famous cherry trees.  They resemble puffs of pale pink cotton candy sprinkled among the white marble monuments.  Or paper trees in the magic crystal kit my daughter discovered in her Easter basket one year.  Almost too pretty to be real, especially when set against a baby blue sky and reflected in the water.  Worth enduring the slow-moving throngs.  Perhaps even more often than every seventeen years.      

Cherry Blossoms 040 Cherry Blossoms 032 Cherry Blossoms 026

Cherry Blossoms 033


Casa Marina in Key West: Flagler’s House by the Sea




Casa Marina, one of Key West’s loveliest resorts, combines the best of old and new.  It’s located in a quiet section of the island’s south shore, a fifteen minute walk to the heart of Duval Street.  Like several of Florida’s grandest old hotels, Casa Marina owes its existence to Henry Flagler.  Flagler, a truly self-made man who dropped out of school at age fourteen to work in a grain store, became a partner in Standard Oil with John D. Rockefeller and a wizard who worked his magic in railroads and hotels.  Nearly all Florida tourism, and much of Florida as we know it today, in fact, owes a huge debt to Flagler.  

Honeymooning with his second wife in St. Augustine in 1883, he was enchanted by the area’s beauty but dismayed by its lack of decent hotels and infrastructure.  He built the city’s first major hotel,  the Ponce de Leon (now Flagler College), bought a local railroad line and soon began extending it south towards Miami.  Along the way he built more hotels, including two in Palm Beach:  the enormous Royal Poinciana and The Palm Beach Inn (later renamed The Breakers).  Flagler’s own mansion, Whitehall, built in Palm Beach in 1902, is now the Flagler Museum.

Before long, Flagler set his sights on extending his Florida East Coast Railroad over open water to Key West, which was then the state’s largest city and a busy port.  By 1905, construction had begun on his Overseas Railroad, a project so unlikely that it was often referred to as “Flagler’s Folly.”  The extension was beset with countless construction difficulties and devastating weather events, including two hurricanes.  Flagler persevered, and the Overseas Railroad was completed in January of 1912, when Flagler was in his 80s and a much-admired figure.  He was greeted with great fanfare by cheering crowds when he arrived in Key West in his own private railcar.  He died a year and a half later, from injuries sustained in a fall on the stairs at Whitehall. 



Flagler planned Casa Marina to be the southernmost pearl in his string of luxurious Florida hotels.  He enlisted his favorite architects, Carrere and Hastings, whose designs had included the New York Public Library, the Hotel Ponce de Leon and his own home, Whitehall.  Flagler died before construction began, but the architects held true to his vision for his “House by the Sea.” When the hotel opened on New Year’s Eve of 1920, it became Key West’s swankiest destination.  The arrival of President Warren G. Harding a few days later further enhanced its reputation as the place to be.   

Flagler’s original building was extended with flanking wings during the 70s and 80s.  While these don’t measure up to the quality and style of the central older section, a recent renovation has eliminated many of the less attractive features of earlier piecemeal restorations.  The resort may be now, more than ever since it’s 1920 opening, attuned to Flagler’s concept.  Its Spanish Colonial style is classic and stately rather than opulent.  This is no garishly gilded palace plopped down in an unlikely beach setting.  Its creamy white exterior gives it the look of a well-planned, red tile-roofed sandcastle.  On the water side, a deep, high-ceilinged arcade offers a gracious welcome.  



The crest above the center door that leads out toward the beach is said to represent Flagler’s Key to Sunshine.  If you want to avoid warm, sunny weather, by all means stay away from Key West. 


The arcade looks out to the Atlantic. 


A water walk bordered by reflecting pools and palm trees leads to the beach and separates the resort’s two large swimming pools. 



Talented sand artists create seasonal masterpieces at the Casa Marina.  While we were there, Bumble the Abominable from Rudolf set the star atop the Christmas tree.  In the words of Yukon Cornelius, “Looky what he can do!”



This sandcastle that could have been lifted from of a Maxfield Parrish painting served as marriage proposal. We hope Jessica said yes. 


Casa Marina has one of the largest private beaches in Key West. 


Beside the hotel’s main entrance off Reynolds Street stands a Seward Johnson bronze of a bellman taking a cigarette break. 


Upon our return from Duval Street on New Year’s Eve, our daughter adorned the bellman with a celebratory tiara. 


Can we go back yet?  Seems like it’s time. 

Hemingway Havens in Key West

Our family is unintentionally following Hemingway’s footsteps in our recent vacations.  Last year in Paris, our favorite café looked toward the author’s first French bare-bones apartment on Place Contrescarpe.  During our winter trip to Key West, we found ourselves firmly in Hemingway country again. 

The writer and his second wife Pauline arrived in Key West from Paris via Havana in 1928.  They hadn’t planned to linger, but the new car that Pauline’s wealthy uncle had bought for them was late in arriving.  The couple moved into an apartment above the Ford dealership while they waited for their car.  During the three weeks they spent there, Hemingway finished A Farewell to Arms, and both he and Pauline fell in love with Key West.


In 1931, they decided to settle on the island.  Pauline’s generous Uncle Gus (doesn’t everyone need an Uncle Gus?) purchased a spacious and beautiful but dilapidated home for them.  The Spanish Colonial style villa on Whitehead Street dates from 1851.  It was built by Asa Tift, owner of a shipwreck salvaging operation.   (The nearby Key West Shipwreck Museum tells the story of the city’s lucrative salvage industry.) The Hemingways renovated the home extensively and lived there with their two young sons until 1940.   


Deep, airy porches and tall windows provide shade and ventilation in the tropical climate. 


Hemingway’s large swimming pool is as well-known as his house.  The pool, the very first in Key West and within 100 miles, dates from 1937-38.  At the time, Hemingway was in Spain reporting on the Spanish Civil War.  Pauline supervised the construction, a mammoth and hugely expensive operation that involved digging through solid coral.  During the 1930s, when Key West lacked a city-wide system of fresh water, the pool was filled with salt water piped in from the water table.  It took several days to fill, and because the salt water was prone to algae growth, the pool had to be regularly drained and refilled, a laborious process. 



These days the most well-known residents of the Hemingway property are the fifty or so pampered polydactyl cats that roam the grounds and lounge on the furniture. A typical cat has five toes on each front paw and four on each back paw.  Polydactyls have six or more on each front paw and may have additional toes on each back paw.  The Key West felines are said to be descendants of Snow White, a polydactyl cat given to Hemingway by a ship captain.  Polydactyls were popular as ship cats because sailors considered them to bring good luck. 

At feeding time at the Hemingway house, the cats head to the garden terrace in droves, providing a good opportunity to see their wide variety of toes.  Some appear to be wearing mittens because of an additional toe. 


In the pavement near the garden, concrete proof of extra toes.


This tabby struck me as macho tough guy (perhaps in the Hemingway mold) but my daughter found him to be a sweetheart. 


This cat has claimed a comfy spot on the hassock of a chair in Hemingway’s writing studio above the garage. 


Another signature Key West attraction associated with Hemingway is Sloppy Joe’s Bar, originally owned and operated by Joe Russell, who became a close friend and fishing buddy of the author.  Hemingway began patronizing Russell’s speakeasy during Prohibition.  In the photo above, preparations are underway for the New Year’s Eve midnight conch drop. 


When Joe Russell’s bar officially opened on Greene Street in 1933, it was known as the Blind Pig.  With the addition of a small dance floor, it became the Silver Slipper.  Hemingway, who had frequented a bar in Havana known as Sloppy Joe’s, was instrumental in the final name change.  A rent increase that Russell refused to pay prompted a sudden change of location in 1937 to its current spot on Duval Street.  Russell and his customers were said to have carried drinks and furniture down the street to a vacant bar in the middle of the night, with service never ceasing.  The original building above, which dates from 1851, first housed an ice house and morgue.  It became Captain Tony’s Saloon in 1958.  A young Jimmy Buffet played there often in the 70s.  (The bar and its owner Tony Tarracino, a former Key West mayor, are the subject of Buffet’s song The Last Mango in Paris.)


The outdoor courtyard of the Blue Heaven Restaurant and Bar on Thomas Street marks the location of the boxing ring where Hemingway refereed matches. Originally located in the back yard of the author’s home, it was moved when the pool was built.  During high season, the wait will be long to eat outside under the old trees of the merrily lighted courtyard.  We waited, and it was worth it.  Live music, a friendly, celebratory atmosphere, wandering roosters and cats, great seafood and Key Lime pie make a meal at Blue Heaven one of the quintessential Key West experiences.