I opened the curtains and let in America. There it was! Clean! Sparkling! The Stars and Stripes snapping in the wind! Key West, where every T-shirt is five dollars.

Once outside on US soil I turned on my cellphone, bracing myself for sixteen messages from the home security service. But no. I had no news. Things were fine. I released all the pent-up what-ifs that had been bottled in my brain for the last ten days, and felt exhilarated: we’d be home soon, and home would still be there.

First thing I saw when I walked into the plaza by the pier was an old couple dressed in immaculate whites; she even had a white-brimmed hat. They looked like Old Florida Keys society figures. Sitting next to them, cross-legged, trying to make conversation and failing, was a filthy fellow with a bongo drum. They’d cracked a crypt and zombie beatniks poured out! I headed downtown to see if I could find some architecture, and soon enough found this:

Nice. But there was another theater, converted into a Walgreens, and it had some bas-reliefs up top:

But that wasn’t the real treat. I saw this:

Ah hah! Of course! you say. But look closely, and tell me if you see some works. Yes: KRESS. I’d never seen a Kress store. To me they’ve always been a peculiar parallel-world retailer. In olden times of downtown yore a burg might have a Woolworth, and it might have a Kress - or a Kresge. Each chain had a similar mission, and a founder with a similar name: S. H. Kress, S. S. Kresge. The K-named gentlemen who ran the chains made an agreement to stay out of each other’s territory, and so no Kress appeared downtown where one might see Kresge, and vice versa. Kress was shuttered long ago, although Kresge remains in a different form.

I went inside to see if anything remained of the old store. (It’s now “Fast Buck Freddie’s” - more here.) A clerk pointed me to the rear, where the lunch counter used to be. Like the mosaics of old Pompeii:

You can’t entertain a kid with old department store sleuthing, I’m afraid. She wanted to go to Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum, so I paid out a ridiculous sum and we headed indoors. To be honest I was interested, too; I read Ripley paperback compilations when I was a kid - there was always one in the downstairs bathroom, next to Dad’s VFW magazines - and have great affection for the art style and the lettering and the history of the strip. But I still think “Believe it or Not” isn’t the most challenging assertion. I don’t believe it! Okay, well, that’s your right. You’re under no obligation to believe it. Says so right there. That’s the “not” part. Have a nice day. On the other hand, I’m not sure how belief comes into the matter of a giant picture of Heath Ledger as the Joker done entirely in colored gumballs. I DON’T BELIEVE IT! I WANT MY MONEY BACK! Upstairs it was nothing but dusty old rusty crap in glass cases, oddities of the sort that might tweak a rube’s interest for a minute in 1932, but hardly seem shocking today. A cane - with a monkey’s tooth embedded in amber! A monkey’s head - with amber eyes! A cane - carved out of amber by a monkey! The museum also serves as a shrine to Ripley, who had a serious case of Oriental jones; enormous photos show him trundling around Cathay in a rickshaw, dressed in a suit and tie; another photo shows him in his New York apartment, dressed as a Chinese potentate complete with false moustache, surrounded by hundreds of Chinese gewgaws and a few guests who looked ill from incense fumes. Odd dude.

There was also Mike the Headless Chicken.

Hmm. To put this in Ripley terms: NOT. As in, my belief-state equals negative. Mike was white.

Natalie had a great time, though. I had a great time watching her have a great time. It’s horrifying to think that the memories she will carry into adulthood start about now, and everything I remember will go with me - except for what I’ve written and filmed and edited, which is why I’ve written and filmed and edited, but it’s not the same. Nothing you can do about that, except take every day as the first, and say: good start.

Back on the ship. We were next to the Disney Magic, which has to be the best-looking cruise liner I’ve ever seen. Leave it to Disney, really: it’s a throwback to the great age of liners, from its color to the lines to the stacks. (One’s a dummy.) I promised Natalie we’d take the ship next year, because it’s only fair: she was one of 2 kids on this voyage, and I owe her a trip with a thousand peers.

Out to sea, heading up to Ft. Lauderdale. Folks gathered at the stern and watched the sun head down, cheering, as always when it disappeared.

We cheer because we expect it back. One cannot even imagine a situation in which it wouldn’t, aside from heaven and earth passing away, but that’s not an odds-on fave for tomorrow. After that, who knows, but tomorrow?

Tomorrow we go home. Beyond that, who knows and who cares?

So you think after a long good vacation. What you know, and what you care about, seep back soon enough, and in week or two you're facing the mirror, knotting your tie, and your tan's gone. Sigh. But you'll be back. For every day you put on a tie, there's a day you take it off, after all. It's tied around your neck, not locked around it.

What Have I Learned? That I love the sun, nice cruise ships, good wine, late nights in a small cigar bar with friends, and late-night cappucino on the stern. I don't know if I mentioned the Navigator's 24 hour coffee machine: it was by the pool. It made you a drink by the cup, using Lily beans. It was the best coffee I've ever had. The machine only made half a cup, as if to say: if I made more of this excellent coffee you would go mad - or at least be spoiled evermore for mortal coffee. One night after a long talk in the Cigar Bar I went to the machine, had an espresso, went up to the stern, and watched the wake. I had no idea what time it was; I had no idea where I was. It's a bad way to spend your life. It's a necessary way to spend a week.

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More about the line, here.