Queen of the Road

by Doreen Orion

  The northern access to the Everglades was nearby at Shark Valley, a 14.5-mile paved road we could either walk (ha!), bike (right!), or take a two-hour tram ride through for $13.95. We did none of those, but rather just strolled for about a mile, which included a couple of small loop areas. We saw plenty of birds, although most everyone, including us, was much more interested in the alligators. Perhaps “interested” isn’t the right word; “keenly focused on” would be more accurate, because if you weren’t careful, you could easily have tripped on one. They were all over the road—big ones, little ones, and most frightening of all, mommas with their babies. Also scattered about were signs warning people not to approach the gators, which I’m sure visitors would have adhered to if only there were signs indicating how in the world to accomplish this. What else could we do but snap pictures of each other reading those very signs as the crocodilians lay nearby?

  We spent Christmas and New Year’s in Key West, one of the only times we had to make campground reservations months in advance. Actually, although we should have, we didn’t, instead snagging a cancellation at the last minute. It seems spending the holidays in the Keys—especially Key Weird—is insanely popular amongst the RV set.

  Throughout our travels thus far, we’d scoffed at rigs, RVs and buses alike, for sporting various kitsch, from oh-too-cutesy stuffed animals clinging to the ladder in back, to lawn gnomes perched precariously on the steps, to custom wooden signs in the windshield announcing the owner’s name and hometown, usually with some little logo signifying a favorite pastime, like a fishing pole, golf club, or bowling pin. Once, in a weak moment, undoubtedly after some disaster that reinforced how alone and vulnerable I felt, I made the mistake of wondering aloud if, as a token of our solidarity with other motor-homers, we should get one, too. But Tim said no, since depicting my favorite pastimes would entail a logo of a bed and a credit card and result in our imminent arrest for solicitation.

  We had promised ourselves, therefore, that we would never stoop to such tacky displays, but then, like Ebenezer Scrooge forced to see the ghost of buses past, we had a change of heart on Christmas Eve. As we strolled in the dark amongst rigs lit up with holiday cheer from two-story, blow-up, glowing Santas, to palm trees strung with colored lights, to life-sized, nodding, fluorescent flamingos, we could not help but smile and laugh at the whimsy of it all. Then we hit upon a rig that had nothing—not even a lone blinking white light—and exclaimed in unison, “What a grinch!” Then, upon closer inspection, “Hey! That’s our bus!”

  In the midst of all the good cheer, even recalling our many catastrophes, we could not help but appreciate everything the bus thing had given us. We were at the one-third mark in our year, and although the time we had left seemed to stretch endlessly before us, we also understood that was not really an accurate perception. The thought of resuming our former lives in eight months’ time saddened us. So, then and there, we made a vow to us and to our bus: The next time we stayed in our rig for Christmas, we’d mend our ways with our own bus bling. And more, we’d remember these days in our mobile home and with each other, and try to keep the spirit of the bus thing alive, even when stationary. We realized that despite our prejudices due to our educations, our professions, and yes, even our wardrobes, we truly were RV people—and proud of it.

  Of course, some things never change, and while in the Keys, I still made my usual for the holiday dinner—reservations.

  The campground itself was not actually on Key West, but on adjacent Stock Island. There had been one on Key West proper until quite recently, but it had gone condo, so to speak. Parking in the campground itself was like being crammed into a sardine can with picnic tables, albeit a very laid-back, mellow, and happy one. (But just as oily—don’t these people know the dangers of tanning?) We’d never been in a park in which the amount of charm seemed inversely proportional to the amount of privacy. It would also be the most expensive place we had stayed in all year by far—a whopping seventy-five dollars per night. But since we were lucky to get any spot at all, we just forked over our dough and got over it, mon.

  Walking distance from the campground was a local favorite eatery, the open-air Hogfish Bar and Grill. We were told it’s more like the real Key West was before the Yuppie influx. We brought Miles. Non–animal lovers need not frequent the establishment, as the bar’s gray cat (named, in typical KW, laissez-faire fashion, “Gray Cat”) climbs all over the tables.

  We fully intended to spend a bit of time exploring all the Keys, but once we got to KW, the laid-back attitude of the place seemed to get the best of us and we hardly left for two weeks. Not that Key Westerners are lazy. Far from it. In fact, this tiny island packs quite an impressive history of staging protests into its seven square miles—as outlandish as the protests may be.

  In 1982, when the U.S. Border Patrol set up a roadblock to search vehicles for illegal immigrants and drugs at the only highway out of the Keys, the Key West city council complained repeatedly about the inconvenience to their citizens, as well as the dampening effect on tourism. They had a point, for this was the only time in U.S. history that part of the country had been treated as foreign soil. Returning travelers were even required to prove citizenship and subject to forced searches. Finally, the city council and mayor reasoned that if the Feds were going to treat the Keys as a separate country, why not become one? And so the Conch Republic was born. Motto: “We seceded where others failed.” The mayor—er, prime minister—then declared war on the U.S., surrendered after one minute, and immediately requested a billion dollars in foreign aid. Although they didn’t get the money, the roadblock was soon abandoned. KW still celebrates Independence Day every April—for a week.

  Then in 1995, a U.S. Army Reserve battalion had reportedly planned to stage training exercises on KW, simulating the invasion of a foreign island. Thing is, no one bothered to notify Key West. So the mayor and city council prepared the place for an all-out assault (which, for the Conch Republic, consists of firing water cannons and targeting folks with stale Cuban bread). The battalion not only issued an apology the very next day, but traded its war games for a surrender ceremony.

  Then there are the unofficial embassies the Conch Republic has in such far-flung places as France and Finland. Continuing the theme, the republic also sells “passports” as souvenirs. Some owners of the more than ten thousand passports issued have actually used them as travel documents, gaining entry not only into foreign countries but the U.S., as well. (According to a Miami Herald story, the lead 9/11 hijacker may even have purchased one.)

  Still, all this merriment is apparently not enough for some people. When I ambled into the visitors center on Mallory Square to get a free walking-tour map, the lady behind the counter was on the phone and obviously flustered. She kept saying “No,” in progressively more exasperated tones. Finally, she ended with a roll of her eyes and a “No. I’m afraid we don’t have an amusement park.” She hung up, turned to me, and mustered a smile.

  “How may I help you?” she offered. I couldn’t resist.

  “Is there an amusement park on Key West?” Her mouth dropped open and just as I was about to be treated to her choicest “no” of the day, she got the joke and laughed.

  “Can you believe some people?” she asked. I hoped she was talking about the person on the phone and not me.

  One of our favorite places in KW was the cemetery. In Boulder, we live near a historic one that’s treated more like a park by the locals. People walk their dogs, play Frisbee, and even sail toy boats with their kids in a stream. It’s lovingly maintained, since everyone appreciates having such quiet neighbors. So when we saw KW’s cemetery listed as an “attraction” (well, it’s not like they have an amusement park, is it?), we headed over.

  The inscriptions on the tombstones ranged from the grateful (“God was good to me”) to the downright superior (“I told you I was sick”). But most curious of all was the statue beside the grave of one Archibald John Sheldon Yates: a naked woman sitting on a
rock, her hands bound behind her—a most definite beyond-the-grave example of too much information.

  We did leave KW for one bright, sunny day (was there any other kind?) when we took a jaunt in our tow vehicle to feed the tarpons at Robbie’s Pier, just off the road in another key, Islamorada. It was a pretty cheap thrill, very much in keeping with the whole Keys vibe, ya know? Most people got their hands all slimy, dipping them into buckets of fish provided to feed the humongous beasts, which went after their meals with the alacrity of tiny piranhas. Not me. There was no way I was going to risk getting slop on the cute little white capris I’d been dying to wear all winter. I just watched the other tourists, staying all neat and clean myself. Besides, seeing those things in their feeding frenzy was too reminiscent of the annual wedding dress sale at Boston’s Filene’s Basement. It’s fun to watch all the shenanigans on the news, but actually participate and risk a limb? I don’t think so.

  We headed farther north, leaving the Keys altogether to visit an indomitable shrine to unrequited love, the Coral Castle in Homestead. We were just a tad concerned about going out of our way for yet another potentially lame stronghold as we had in South Dakota for the Corn Palace debacle, the memory of which still stung. Fortunately, that was hardly the case here.

  For two decades, beginning in 1920, a five-foot-tall, hundred-pound Latvian immigrant (who’d had tuberculosis, to boot) quarried, transported, designed, and fashioned over one thousand tons of coral rock, not only using it exclusively to build his home, but for every piece of furniture, as well. This is even more impressive when you realize that some of the pieces weigh up to thirty tons. He did it all without heavy machinery, in memory of the girl who, back in the old country, jilted him the night before their wedding. To this day, no one can figure out how, with only a fourth-grade education, Edward Leedskalnin could achieve such an engineering feat.

  Normally, the Coral Castle would not have interested me all that much, as lacking a mechanically inclined brain, I really couldn’t fully appreciate how truly amazing the accomplishment was. But, of course, Tim could. And as we wandered around the Castle, I caught glimpses of the little boy he must have been, totally enraptured by science. Unlike during his childhood, now my husband had someone who should have been able to appreciate his passion—me. Why hadn’t I? Like, ever? As I realized my horrendous, nearly two decades’ long lapse, Tim’s joy at sharing all the coral marvels (including a nine-ton door that swings open at the touch of a finger and a telescope designed to sight the stars) became truly infectious. Although I really didn’t understand the half of it (and I was trying, really I was), unlike over a year ago in his den, when he painstakingly and in excruciating detail explained the inner workings of buses, this time, I didn’t utter one sound of protest.

  Back on Key West, we continued the tradition of not doing much, even while feeling that our days were full. We took Miles practically everywhere, as we’d never been to such a dog-friendly place, not even our own hometown. In Boulder, the canine population is said to be twice that of the people. Whenever I go to my bank’s drive-through with Miles, the tellers put dog treats into the tubes along with the receipts. At Tim’s favorite hardware store, McGuckin’s, leashed dogs are welcome and the clerks all sport green vests whose pockets contain dog treats, distributed liberally. (This does create some problems, however, as whenever we walk Miles in the street and pass someone wearing a vest, he or she invariably startles at the giant poodle lunging toward them, nosing their clothing.)

  On KW we even found a dog beach, where we discovered something about our pooch we’d never known. We’d always tried to get him to take a dip whenever we passed a body of water, be it a stream or a lake. Poodles are water retrievers, after all. He was never interested, even if we threw in a stick. At the dog beach on KW, a woman cavorting with her Labrador threw a tennis ball into the ocean, which her dog repeatedly leapt in to retrieve. Seeing us, she kept him at her side, showed Miles the ball, and tossed it into the waves.

  “Oh, he doesn’t like the wa—” we began. Miles jumped right in. Then we realized: It’s not that he doesn’t like water, it’s that he doesn’t like cold water. Smart dog. Takes after his mother.

  We spent New Year’s Eve walking up and down Duval Street (which was closed to cars for the occasion), stopping at various bars and eateries. We’d never been to Mardi Gras, but imagined this must be the next best thing: women flashing their boobage for the privilege of getting pelted with beads by men on balconies, although somehow, Hippies Gone Wild doesn’t have the same appeal as Girls Gone the same. One lass, whose self-esteem was enviable, didn’t have anything to flash with at all (OK, she was wearing body paint). And everyone was walking with go cups (Tim’s filled with beer, mine margaritas) as if the entire street were a Vegas hotel. One bar even featured a “dropping of the wench in the harbor at midnight.” (She was dressed as a pirate, and judging by her steady smile, must not have had an ounce of poodle in her.) Halloween is supposed to be even wilder. Maybe next year.

  We had a few days to recover before we were due at Disney. Key West had gotten both of us—even Tim—used to getting up at around ten every day. While this wasn’t such a difference for me, feeling the paralyzing pull of the Dark Side of sleeping in (which his Pesky Protestant Work Ethic informed me was “slovenly”) disgusted my husband. At home, he’d always been up by six-thirty. Of course, the night before we left the Keys, we both got so anxious about having to wake up “early” (7 a.m.) for our long drive to Disney, neither of us could sleep at all.

  We’re really not Disney people. I mean, Disney people don’t see the Guest Relations kiosk and wonder, “Ya think they sell condoms?” Disney people don’t purposely make outlandish faces on the roller coasters, just as the camera snaps a picture (my favorite: pretending to stick a finger down my throat to gag). Disney people don’t scream, “Look! It’s a dwarf!” every chance they get, just for the satisfaction of knowing they’re in the only place on the planet they can do so and not get dirty looks. (Although Tim did insist on adding, in his best politically correct tone, “They’re called little people, sweetie.”)

  No, we’re not Disney people, but we love Disney, anyway.

  We’d been to Walt Disney World a couple of times before, but always stayed at one of the hotels. This was our first time at the Fort Wilderness Campground. It was truly ironic that in every RV park thus far, no matter how many overhead obstacles—tree limbs, phone lines, high-tension wires—we had no problem maneuvering the bus around our site to get the satellite Internet working. But in the fake campground that is Fort Wilderness, Disney does such an über job of simulating roughing it that we could never lock onto the signal. It figures The World would provide no less than the most campground-like campground imaginable.

  We were assigned to one of the doggie loops, costing us five extra dollars a day. Geez. What would Goofy think? But it was worth it, for every evening, the real parade ain’t on Main Street, it’s on the loop, where canines, their grief lifted after being left alone all day, lead their masters on a joyful trot. You can almost hear them sing, “Hi ho! Hi ho! It’s off to poop we go!”

  Miles was by now eleven years old. And while he didn’t seem to be slowing down, his eyes were clouding. Tim had noticed that when he threw the ball, there were times our pooch couldn’t see it very well. Disney cured all that, as just before our arrival, Tim took Miles to the groomer. Then, just off the doggie loop, Tim found a gully that seemed tailor-made for fetch (and, indeed, probably was). With the hair out of his eyes, Miles’s fetching abilities were magically restored.

  The poodle wasn’t the only one experiencing some Disney magic, for over in the Magic Kingdom, I became entranced by a Fairy Tale Wedding, although Tim made sure to conjure up my coming down to earth. The gorgeous bride was all decked out like a princess, resplendent in her sparkling gown, complete with tiara, horse-drawn carriage, and uniformed footman. I thought it was all rather wonderful, until I heard my long-suffering husband remark, “If
he wants to set her up with those kinds of expectations, he’s welcome to her.”

  We took buses (alas, not our own) everywhere in the park. On each and every ride, Tim was like a wide-eyed little boy in a fire station as he tried to chat up the drivers, fishing for any professional secrets they might wish to bestow. He was simply in awe of their presence. There was a lot to talk about, as WDW had just purchased a passel of new buses that all turned out to have major electrical problems. So when, say, the destination sign wasn’t working, the driver would have to shut down the engine and essentially reboot the entire thing. Made us appreciate our own bus even more.

  And speaking of wide-eyed little boys, Tim took one of the Disney tours, “The Magic Behind Our Steam Trains.” Since I’m not interested in trains and even less interested in getting up at six in the morning, he did that one on his own. The other wives must have felt the same way, as the entire group was one big gaggle of testosterone. Although Tim was fascinated by the tour, he later related that the most interesting part was watching grown men trying not to act all excited when any observer could easily tell they were positively vibrating with the wonder of “We get to see how the steam trains work!”

  Since Walt Disney World is 30,500 acres—twice the size of Manhattan—the buses, trains, trams, monorails, and boats are all essential to get around. (By way of contrast, Disneyland is a mere 300 acres and could, in its entirety, fit inside WDW’s Epcot Center alone.) I grew up about the time WDW was being built and I still remember longing to go throughout most of my childhood. I was never that interested in Disneyland, as The World just seemed so much more, well…magical.