Thursday afternoon my family and I drove north to Key Largo. The trip was considerably shorter than we anticipated because there was very little traffic, but the scenery was not any less magnificent. Fishing boats clustered both the Atlantic and the bay and several dirigibles (what a cool word, “dirigible”) dotted the crystal blue sky.
When we entered the hotel complex we were halted by a security guard at a tiny gate. He handed us a parking pass and ushered us forward. The area looked very impressive, surrounded by lush green foliage and a crystal clear sea. We received our room key, grabbed our luggage, and wondered up to condo expecting luxury. It was a shit hole.
Not only was the furniture old and dilapidated (for Mitch), but the room was filthy. Grease and grime coated the entire kitchenette. The furniture and the toilet seats were badly stained and pieces of food were crusted to the top of the dining room table.
Obviously my entire family was dissatisfied with the room, but when my mom discovered a patch of dried blood in the bathroom she freaked. My mom is regularly a mega-bitch (think Kyle’s mom from South Park yet exponentially more overbearing), but this disgusting room turned her into a super, duper King Kamehameha biatch. Fortunately, my dad volunteered (like he had a choice) to go down to the manager and get our room changed.
A few minutes later he returned with a key to a different room. Unfortunately this room was even filthier than the previous one. I looked at my mother and thought her head was going to explode. She glared at my sister and me and told us to remain in the room while she and my father went and tried to get their deposit back for the room.
She stormed out of the room, tugging my father behind, leaving my sister and I behind to wallow in a mold, dingy, grimy, dilapidated room. Although we couldn’t sit down in the room (for fear of catching the bubonic plague) my sister and I were glad that we were not on the receiving side of my mother’s wrath. So we stood in the room for twenty minutes, watching a kid faint during a spelling bee on ESPN and waiting for our parents to return.
My father returned looking tired and haggard, like a war veteran that has been scarred by memories too horrible to forget yet too terrible to discuss. My mother was obviously a casualty of her own pouting. Although she had obviously won the war (since my dad was quickly ushering us out of the condo) she was still fuming over the fact that she had to fight the battle.
In the car we decided that since we were no longer constrained by prior bookings we would spend one night in Key West and one night in South Beach. We found a nicer, cleaner hotel a few miles down the road. It was surrounded by a marina that was dotted with small cabana bars and restaurants. My folks and my sister took a poolside seat at a cabana and I wandered off looking for a place to register for another snorkeling trip.
Right off the coast of Key Largo there is a large state park with a huge living coral reef. Since summer is the off season in the Keys I had my pick of dozens of tours. Obviously I chose the company that had the prettiest crew (yes Ellie, they were non-ugly women). After shamelessly flirting with Karen and Kelly (and making sure that at least one of them would be sailing out on the morning trip) I booked the trip, joined up with my family, and had a relaxing dinner.
The next morning I found both Kelly and Karen manning the small catamaran. They were getting the snorkeling gear ready for the trip and listening to Captain Cock (which wasn’t really his name, but I didn’t feel like paying attention to him) bark out instructions. With the exception of my family, there were only three other passengers on the trip. I spent most of the time talking to Kelly, who was actually along to snorkel on this trip, not to work.
When we arrived at the spot my sister and I swam off together and explored the reef. Although we were not blessed with the large schools of fish that we saw during our evening tour in Key West, Key Largo had a much more impressive system of coral reefs and a wider variety of fish. I dove a bit to check out some of the more intricate coral and to get closer views of the fish that blend in with the reef. After a few dives, I realized that my sister had swum off with my father and I was relatively alone, at least I thought I was alone.
I peered down at a grass bed and saw a bikini clad figure zip beneath me. Kelly surfaced, grinning, holding a bright yellow sled (there was a more technical name for it but I was paying to much attention to Kelly’s figure to remember it). Over the next hour we played around on the sled a bit, taking turns chasing various fish around and sharing it to follow a few Sting Ray that were scared off the sea floor due to our commotion. Because I was with Kelly, El-Captain Cock did not whistle me away from stronger currents or coral beds that were signed and protected.
Unfortunately there was a very odd little man that was also a passenger on the trip. He kept swimming beneath us while we were treading, despite that our dive spot (which was the size of several football fields) was relatively empty. I figured that he was just some pervert that had a thing for Kelly and just ignored him.
When the dive ended Kelly and I made our way back to the ship. The odd little troll-man, who was covered in thick grey body fur, followed us slowly. Upon boarding the boat I headed to the head and used the restroom. When I opened the door, the little furry man was standing stark naked in the entrance way. He looked at me and said “I need to change” which struck me as an odd thing to say (not as odd as him being naked, but odd none the less) considering that you usually want privacy to change so people don’t see you naked. So I squeezed by him in the narrow entry way, trying very hard not to allow his twig and berries to brush against me.
When we docked I was sorry to say goodbye to Kelly and Karen, but I was a bit relieved to escape troll man. My family and I showered off, grabbed a bite to eat, and then drove towards South Beach.
We arrived at a lush hotel in South Beach at around one in the afternoon. The hotel was uber posh, sporting the type of hotel rooms that I thought were reserved for the wealthy or people of celebrity status. After we finished unloading our luggage my whole family decided to go sit on the beach. It was nice to return to a traditional sand beach, even if there was very little surf. Large, expensive boats were docked right off shore blaring odd techno music that I guess is popular among the super rich, trendy SoBe natives.
After an hour or so I began to grow restless so I decided to stroll down the beach. Strolling down the beach, I noticed that quite a few girls were sunbathing topless. I also noticed that quite a few of them were very, very attractive. Of course I oogled them a bit, although I swear I tried not to.
That night we wandered down Lincoln Street, which houses quite a few trendy stores and a multitude of Starbucks. The street was littered with beautiful people (of course my beauty overwhelmed them all) and I instantly realized that I could never, ever live in Miami.
After several recommendations from locals, we settled on Aura, a trendy Italian restaurant. Although the food was not memorable, my waitress was. Her name was Veronica, she was from Lake Como Italy, and she was absolutely gorgeous. I struck up several conversations with her during the three hours we were dining and I was captivated by her wonderful Italian accent. I began to think that I may be able to move to South Beach after all.
My forced departure from Veronica nearly brought me to tears, but I didn’t cry, I am too much of a man to cry. Okay, I cried, but only for a moment. We continued down the strip and stopped at a Starbucks for coffee. At a table outside of the Starbucks I noticed the Godfather of all gay men. The guy was a massive hulk of muscle, and during the twenty minutes that we occupied a table inside Starbucks at least one thousand huge, muscular gay men stopped to give him a hug and a kiss. How do I know they were gay? Well the impeccable fashion sense was a clue, but the lip locked greeting kisses were a dead give away.
That was when I realized that most of these good looking men that were walking up and down Lincoln Street were probably gay. Maybe I had a chance with Veronica after all…alright, I didn’t have a chance in hell with Veronica, but a man can dream can’t he?
Later that night my sister and I went to some club that was supposed to be really trendy. There was a bouncer that was picking and choosing who got in. I guess my sister is as good looking as my friends tell me (before I punch them in the jaw), because we were instantly allowed access into the club. It was, well, for lack of a better word, feh. I am not a big clubber.
Anyway, the following day we went home, which brings my tale to an end. If you read this whole post, thanks. If not, what the fuck is wrong with you?
