Yesterday at the Visit Europe Media Exchange, held at the Hollywood Diplomat, I had a hard time explaining the kinds of stories I write. By about the sixth visit - every 15 minutes you changed tables, sort of like speed dating - I finally said: "I write anti-travel stories." "Very good," the woman from Zagreb said, before showing me pictures of palaces in a region of her country not many tourists visit.
But that wasn't what I meant. I'm not looking for sights in unvisited places, I'm looking for the commonplace, the everyday - the nonsights - in touristy places.
Many of the representatives gathered spoke of interesting festivals in their countries. But most festivals - unless they're like carnival in Trinidad - do not feature the widespread and creative participation of the locals. At most festivals, the locals become like tourists. I write stories in which the tourist (me) approximates the life of a local. They are travel stories that focus on the people who haven't traveled. And tourist boards don't know how to help with that.
I was eating tacos yesterday at Dave's Last Resort and Raw Bar in downtown Lake Worth - my first venture out of the house since last Wednesday - when a middle-aged couple with a small poodle sat down at the table next to me. The waitress came over and handed them menus.
"How you doing?" she asked.
"Super duper," said the man.
"That's a great answer," said the young waitress, which was exactly what I'd been thinking.
Wonderful dinner - bouillabaisse and duck - at Cafe Sole, sitting outside in the high-fenced garden and chatting with Ania, our Polish waitress. (Hania probably one of the few customers who had been to her hometown of Legnica.)
The next morning out for breakfast to Blue Heaven, which was closed, as was La Crepe across the street. A woman doing some work inside told us that the owners were from Brittany, and would make Hania a 100% buckwheat crepe (usually they add a little white flour) if we come back and call one day ahead. In Besame Mucho, Hania admired the dresses and jewelry (for a narrow street, Petronia has a lot to offer) while I bought a Paolo Conte CD.
Had better luck with lunch at the vegetarian Cafe (on Southard just off Duval), which had a gluten-free menu. Hania ordered a salad and a gluten-free beer (nothing like being told you can't have something to make you crave it) which was delicious (and Belgian of course). I had a watermelon salad with feta cheese.
After lunch we walked to The Gardens Hotel, where Kate Miano showed us the new high-tech wine tasting room, the art-filled garden (including the little pool Hemingway reportedly fell into), and the resident turtles' new offspring, the two tiny turtles looking a bit like artwork themselves.
Back on Petronia we paid a visit to Zbyszek Koziol, sitting and painting in the Zbyszek Gallery. Then we got in the car and drove to White Street and the Polish market Pierogies.
It wasn't too far to the Casa Marina (even if you can't stay in grand hotels, you can always stop in for a look) where we admired the palms along the beach and the saris slowly filling the courtyard.
On the way back to our modest motel we stopped at Louie's Backyard and discovered that there is more affordable dining upstairs - wine and tapas - with the same stunning setting overlooking the ocean. Next time, after our buckwheat crepes.
For dinner we walked down Duval to Nine One Five, where I had a kind of Thai (and superior) bouillabaisse, with coconut milk and lemongrass, and Hania had the autumnal risotto. Then we walked back to Petronia - all roads in Key West lead to Petronia - for a nightcap at Better Than Sex Desserts.
In the morning we found a wonderful breakfast place, Harpoon Harry's, a few doors up on Caroline from Pepe's. The latter had more history (opened in 1909), but the former had more locals, a few of whom were greeted with hugs and cries of "Welcome home." We sat in the front, in plush armchairs, reading the Key West Citizen. The lead story reported that, at this year's Fantasy Fest, the police were going to crack down on nudity.
Our first stop on Duval Street was at a sidewalk stand where a young man bearing a vague resemblance to Novak Djokovic made us a strawberry and banana smoothie. I asked if he was from Serbia.
"Latvia," he said.
Two blocks later we admired colorful hillocks of gelato and asked the uniformed young women standing behind them their countries of origin.
"Moldova," said the petite one. "Russia," said the other.
We made a right at Smokey Joe's, in pursuit of Alonzo's Oyster Bar. Passing another ice cream store, Hania suggested we go inside and ask for directions. We had tried two men standing by a pickup and they hadn't had a clue.
"There will probably be some Moldovan who has no idea where it is," I said as we entered.
The young woman behind the counter was dark and petite. "Can I help you?" she asked severely.
"Are you from Moldova?" Hania asked.
"Yes," the woman said surprised. We both laughed, which surprised her even more. Hania explained the Eastern European nature of our walk.
"Do you know where Alonzo's Oyster Bar is?" I finally asked, without much hope.
"Yes," the young woman said. "Go down this street and turn right and walk to the end, Alonzo's will be on your right. They have the best conch fritters."
In my story about my lost suitcase, I mentioned that the only American college I saw represented on T-shirts in Palermo was Franklin & Marshall. I wondered if there was some little-known connection between the Pennsylvanian Dutch and the Mafia. But apparently, the Lancaster college's reach goes far beyond Sicily, as my friend Dan Laskin, who is spending a year in Paris, writes:
Speaking of collegiate America, Tom, I saw your posting about Franklin & Marshall. You should know that we are ALWAYS running into Franklin & Marshall shirts here in Paris. Jane's (far-fetched?) theory is that Franklin is a name that the French find familiar, going back to Benjamin Franklin, of course; and Marshall is a name that's easy to pronounce -- and perhaps it evokes the Marshall Plan?? This theory does not account for the name's popularity in Italy, though: well, Marshall maybe, not not Franklin.
This afternoon, walking to the conservatoire de musique in the 10eme (where I enrolled for trumpet lessons and an "atelier klezmer"), and passing a bunch of wholesale clothing stores, many of them packed with garb bearing Americanesque verbiage, I thought of you and Franklin & Marshall. In one window, I saw sweatshirts marked, respectively: United Marshall College, U.S. Marshall College League, U.S. Marshall 25th Eastern Conference (with two football helmets facing each other), Miami 1972 U.S. Marshall, Official U.S. Marshall, and U.S. Marshall College Athletic 1972 Florida. This "U.S. Marshall" business makes me think of the feds. So maybe there are manias for two Marshalls abroad here in Europe.
Mom, or anyone else who's interested, to read my story about my missing suitcase (and to see a picture of the wayward bag) click here: http://www.worldhum.com/features/tom-swick/mr.-suitcase-20100831/