Several years ago – before March 11th, 2020 when the COVID-19 pandemic first became a blunt and irreversible reality – we had hoped to winter on Key Largo. In fact we had negotiated a contract with our estate agent to do so. Now that we are at last here – after the 2020 contract for the upcoming year 2020 to 2021 was obstructed and eventually busted by a government Travel Advisory between Canada and USA, and after subsequently facing a year later inordinate prearrangement obstacles for 2021 to 2022 due to the delayed lifting of the Travel Advisory when we were as a result obliged to winter on Hilton Head Island at a unit which sorely displeased us but from which there was no escape in spite of the estate agent agreeing to cancel our contract (there simply was nothing else available along the eastern seaboard or on the Florida Keys that late in the season) – I feel it is incumbent upon me to delve into the tissue of Key Largo.

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It was by design today we frequented a local mom-and-pop restaurant for a celebratory luncheon. The allure was its world famous Cuban sandwich. Weeks ago after having first heard of the joint we curiously ventured on site late one blustery and yawning January afternoon for a personal assessment of the establishment.  We are I confess uncommonly evaluative of the exoteric list of beaneries. They now constitute our gastronomic vernacular. Take for example the Hideout Restaurant at 47 Shoreland Drive. It has been a favourite of ours since its discovery many years ago, an oasis of refreshment en route from Daytona Beach Shores or Longboat Key to Key West. The truth is, within our limited sphere restaurants have become akin to apparel; that is, only certain ones any longer fit. And specifically within this paradigm the limitation provokes that which is more casual than formal or fussy.

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When I reflect upon the time we’ve spent together over the past 27 years – most of which I am happy to say was for lengthy periods both at home, at play and at work – I easily recall what you have done for me, how you have tangibly and meaningfully amplified my life, how I am indebted to you for your generosity, how you are critical to me and how unimaginable life would be if we had not met. You have always been there when it counts.

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Early this morning, after breakfast and brushing my teeth, I removed the car from the parking lot in front of the townhouse to a spot adjacent a nearby tennis court. It’s only a hop and a skip to there from the townhouse where we’re anticipating that substantial roof work will commence either today or tomorrow. I wanted to make room for the trades. And it constituted but a small intrusion of my otherwise bromidic day. Nonetheless it marked for me a noticeable adjustment to my stringent routine, one which lately has been disturbed by other minor though acute complications. As a consequence I was ready to regain my balance and to dedicate myself to earnest and uninterrupted shiftlessness.

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Key Largo is an island in the Florida Keys, an archipelago off the south coast of the U.S. state. It’s a popular holiday destination where onshore and offshore state parks provide opportunities for wildlife encounters, fishing, kayaking and diving.

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The reflection of the morning light upon the water in the marine inlet projects itself onto the second storey windows of the townhouse opposite. The entirety of the building is ablaze in light, a startling rejection of obscurity. Beneath on the pathway adjacent the marine inlet I see the occasional walker fulfilling his or her constitutional duty, some are walking a dog.  A drop of avocado oil forms at the corner of my mouth as I manipulate my ham and cheese single slice combination, employing the smallest renditions of knife and fork available in the kitchen drawer. The knife has serrated edges for precision and limitation.

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I am beleaguered to imagine a more idyllic resort than Buttonwood Bay (BWB) on Key Largo, Florida in the United States of America. Knowing as I do so many others who are exceedingly well-travelled boundlessly about the entire globe, I approach this celebrity with noticeable caution and with no immoderate hesitancy. Nor do I wish to imperil or discredit the prior judgement of others. I accept that each of our worldly preferences is the product of incalculable experiences whether empirical, emotional or psychological. I therefore willingly prefer to confess my own limitations rather than contradict those particular emanations. Though my comparisons do not for example include Bali or other similarly exotic venues nor the continents of South Africa, South America, Australia and New Zealand, I can however speak and adjudge with a particle of credibility by having frequented the eastern North American shore along the North Atlantic Ocean from Newfoundland to the Florida Keys; in Europe from the Baltic Sea to the Mediterranean Sea, the Costa Brava and the French and Italian Riviera; in Mexico the North Pacific Ocean, the Gulf of Mexico and the Mayan Riviera; and, numerous islands in the Caribbean Sea.

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Fried bread isn’t for everyone. I like it for breakfast with an “egg in the hole” (what some call an “egg in the basket” though it is also known by a variety of other expressions such as “bullseye eggs”, “eggs in a frame”, “eggs in a nest”, “gas house eggs”, “gas house special”, “gasthaus eggs”, “hole in one”, “one-eyed Jack”, “one-eyed Pete”, “pirate’s eye”, and “popeye”; the name “toad in the hole” is sometimes used for this dish though that name more commonly refers to sausages cooked in Yorkshire pudding batter). This dish is also known from its frequency in many films including Mary Jane’s Pa (1935) with actor Guy Kibbee, Moon Over Miami (1941) with actress Betty Grable, V for Vendetta (2005) with actors Hugo Weaving and Stephen Fry and my personal favourite Moostruck (1987) with actors Cher and Nicolas Cage.

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The dawning spectacle of another quintessential day on Key Largo heightens the partiality of the staunchest Calvinist on this vivid albeit sterile Sunday morning. Nothing absolutely nothing above but blue sky, the kind that bleaches on the periphery. Within this implacable ether melds the very brookable tropical costume of white linen and silken synthetic shorts, unpretentious levity and pragmatism. Some pomade to complete the preparation, to straighten the limits, to adjust the chaos, to compose the artistry of one’s being. The hour is yet so early on the Sabbath that there is no disturbance to my propitious agenda of indolence.

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The provenance and heritage of the Buttonwood Bay interloper is not long materializing with or without the most casual address or confab. Even without such iconic nouns of address as Phiddy (to whom I was yesterday happily introduced at the center pool) sojourners here are by my reckless suspicion and calculation more predominantly associated with the Anglo Saxons and Italians than with the those whom might for example instead promote my personal favourites Franny and Zooey of JD Salinger’s memorable Glass family from the Upper East Side in New York City.

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