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.
In “A Thousand Clowns,” the unemployed writer Murray Burns often goes to the docks in Manhattan to shout “Bon voyage!” at the people leaving on ocean liners. I loved this about Murray, one of my favorite literary characters in high school, but I’ve learned over the years that it’s more fun to watch people arriving.
So I don’t really mind when I have to pick up friends at MIA (as I did last night). I get to the International Arrivals Hall early and wander about, trying to guess the provenances of the people filing out or, sidling up to small groups, the languages being spoken. The last time I was there I got a nice photo of a little girl sitting with her father under a cluster of “Welcome Home” balloons. And then of course there are all the emotional reunions, the lovers’ kisses and the inter-generational, no-holds-barred bear hugs.
Last night, to my dismay, the hall was quiet and there was little to see. When our friends finally emerged, they said their flight from Paris was practically empty. I felt a little cheated.
Someone posted on social media recently that she was on a beach in Brazil, toward the end of the day, and heard people clapping. She thought they were applauding the sunset. Then she learned that they were in the vicinity of a lost child, and the custom is for people to clap so the parents will know where to find their wayward offspring.
I liked this story for two reasons. One, it showed the special cohesiveness of Brazilian society. And it also demonstrated to travelers that going where the locals go – even when it’s the beach – can be illuminating about the culture.
On social media recently I came across a video someone had posted from Ho Chi Minh City. It was of a central square, which looked familiar, and as the camera turned, I saw the Rex Hotel, where I had stayed in 1994. There were a few new additions – a Gucci store – but the high-energy scene of traffic and people and lights was just as I had remembered it. I recalled how I would stand on the hotel steps, taking it all in and wondering how I could describe it to readers back in Florida, most of whom had never seen such a show. And, watching the video, I realized that travel writers are now relieved of the responsibility of description, for the physical world is now all on film.
Paul Theroux wrote about the realities of expat life in yesterday’s New York Times, listing, at one point, some of the countries Americans find popular and noting their drawbacks. Venomous snakes in Costa Rica; drug cartels in Mexico. For Portugal, all he could come up with were “parking problems.”
An interesting interview with Rick Steves in yesterday’s New York Times magazine, particularly when he talked about the personal costs of travel (though they were similar to those experienced by many workaholics). And he somewhat downplayed the environmental costs. He claimed that, if suddenly rendered unable to travel, he would embrace the situation, taking as much joy in the pleasures of home as he did those of the road. It reminded me of Jonathan Raban’s acceptance of, and fascination with, the stroke that ended his traveling life (which he brilliantly chronicles in his memoir Father and Son). Good travelers possess an innate optimism, and curiosity about things, that serve them well wherever they are.