Monday we drove down to Islamorada and, in the evening, went to the Cabana Bar at the Lorelei for Happy Hour. The tables were all occupied at 5:30, so we took seats at the bar, where a tall man in dark glasses and a grey ponytail served us margaritas in plastic cups. The people at the bar, like those at the tables, had a uniform look: cap, T-shirt, shorts, and sandals. Many – especially those whose shirts had long sleeves – looked as if they were quenching their thirsts after a day on the water. A band started up, the singer invoking, in a gruff voice, the names of Jesus and Jimmy Buffett.
We finished our drinks and headed down the road to Morada Bay. Families gathered between the two restaurants, their children running barefoot across the hard sand. Young couples posed for pictures in front of the dropping sun. There was no music, just the sound of children’s voices and the occasional adult, reigning one in. A few rows of chairs faced west so people could sit and enjoy the view. Normally, I gravitate away from tourists to hang with locals, but in Islamorada, the sunset ritual of the visitors was more to my liking. They even applauded as the sun disappeared behind a key.
