I cracked my wallet, displayed my ID, and carefully handed over a crisp $20 bill to the hostel desk clerk. My enthusiasm was tempered by my sobering experiences at the hostel in California, so I approached my room in "the most beautiful hostel in America (Lonely Planet)" with caution. The hostel's "terrific Mediterranean ambiance" would have been true if it were not for the exterior's dilapidated and grimy condition. The interior of my room greeted me with shade-drawn darkness and a substantial waft of foot odor. I was optimistic, though, and looking forward to meeting a few people, for companionship can always raise your spirits up out of such rubbish heaps. No sooner had I lay my belongings down on the single-wide vinyl mattress pad than an excited Englishman bounded out of the shower, still slightly drunk from the previous night's festivities. We began conversing and it immediately became clear this handsome fellow had an alpha male personality and was positively enamored with the wiles of the female sex. I took him to be a "clubber," and with his talkative nature he soon revealed an irritant that he had been exposed to-and then he began to scratch. "Uh-oh!" I thought as he mentioned he may have been bitten by mosquitoes. "No," I answered, "No mosquitoes around here." Then he rolled up his sleeve, his pantleg next, and off came his shirt to reveal a dartboard of red spots. I immediately assessed the situation and shouted-"Good god, man! Those aren't bites from a mosquito, those are from Bedbugs!" This announcement didn't faze the excited Englishman, but I had experienced the utter horror of a bedbug infestation at the San Clemente hostel; and I related to him just how nasty and offensive these creatures were.

Back at the front desk I was recited the "Bedbugs, huh?" standard response. Then I reminded them I had previously worked at a hostel, that I knew all about bedbugs there and we also fed hostelers the "Bedbugs, huh?" line. The clerk then, in a plaintive and unhopeful voice, piped up, "We spray." "Yeah, sure, just give me a bedbug-free room," I demanded. The replacement room was clean but the entrance door would not close freely, the bathroom door handle hung down attached by the last threads of the screws, and the toilet's flush was barely enough to gurgle down the remaining wisps of toilet paper. No bedbugs, thankfully, that I could report after one night's stay. Once I stepped outside and shed myself of the hostel's woes, I discovered that its location, in the heart of South Beach on Espanola Way, was first-rate. The Italian restaurant across the street, Hosteria Romana, was exceptional, unpretentious, and staffed with exceedingly friendly and boisterous Italian waiters. Their wonderful loaves of bread take the art of bread-making to new heights, quite unlike the chain restaurant Olive Garden's bread sticks. Hanging out in the "common area" of the hostel later, I met a young German chap who lived in Namibia, Africa, was employed by a Jewish Holocaust fundraising effort, and worked on website development as a hobby- all this told to me between puffs of smoke on multiple cigarettes, cell phone conversations, and yellowed teeth. "What an odd fellow," I thought. In the morning, after an agreeable sleep, I resolved that I was through with the hostel; and I proceeded to tell the manager how her hostel was a tumbledown fleabag dump and that she should do something about it. After she stared back at me with an incompetent glaze eyed expression, and the other desk clerks hung their heads in shame, I figured I was powerless to convince this head moron and her lackeys of any home improvements. So with a few good stories from my travels under my belt, I began the final leg of my journey to the Florida Keys, a string of island pearls leading to Key West, where people gather in the evening to celebrate the spectacular sunsets.

Thoughts of snorkeling in the crystal clear waters occupied my mind on the short hour drive down to the Keys. Midway down the Keys was the town of Marathon and Sombrero Beach, one of the nicest beaches in Florida. Calm waves and cloudless skies allowed me successful snorkeling here for one day, with the weather and geography blackballing my water interests for the next two weeks. No surf here down in the Keys. Once you're south of Miami, the reefs and bigger islands in the Caribbean effectively block ocean swells, and the only waves you see are knee high boat wake. With no surf or snorkeling, I was forced to do more touristy things, like walk up and down the main street of Duval, rubbernecking about at the T-shirt shops and the myriad bars and restaurants and their patrons.

Chocolate waters

Because the main public beaches had a latrine-like fragrance, chocolate colored waters, and were overrun by vagabonds, I based my operations from the Fort Zachary Taylor Historic State Park. This was a park I could access with my State Park Pass, but only after paying a daily 50 cent "Monroe County fee." This, of course, instigated a quiet outrage in me, since I figured that the $31.50 State Park Pass should cover all such extra miscellaneous fees. Why stop at the "County fee?" I considered, why not tack on more fees? How about a "Parking fee" or a "Beach fee" to access the beach? and what about fencing off the ocean area which would be an additional "Swimmer's fee": all of which could be paid separately at various cattle counters-or all at once... like the $31.50 I paid all at once. As I daily dropped the meager 50 cent sum into the elderly toll both operator's open hand, I dryly stated, "Nickel and diming me, nickel and diming me," which provoked a blankness in some faces and a smile in others.

Lunch at the Banana Cafe was an almost daily enticement, and a fish and chips dinner was served up biweekly at Finnegan's Pub by an Irish maiden from Dublin. At the cafe, crepes were the basis of many of the divine preparations made by the grandmotherly French chef and her son. I formed a mainstay with the turkey club sandwich, but with Mercedes' (a waitress and schooled culinary chef) recommendations, I soon discovered finer delicacies, such as the goat cheese, walnuts, sautéed apples, and spring salad crepe concoction. Another young waitress at the cafe gave me extended glances which I took to be favorable, and in return one day I asked, "So, what do you do for fun around here?" This apparently did not go over well, as a coldness crept over her demeanor and she briskly presented me with the bill, continued to eat her own lunch, and neglected to run my credit card. Sitting at the counter at my next cafe luncheon, I overheard a gentleman announce to another that, "the girl in the blue sweater is my girlfriend." Then I realized that my friendly remarks the previous day had perhaps overwhelmed this sensitive doe with the thought that I was testing her fidelity and desiring to lead her into a nightmarish soap opera world of obsession and jealousy. Or maybe with too much time on my hands I was projecting into her my own hallucinations, and her offish behavior that day was merely the shock of discovering a fly in her lunch soup.

Key West Chickens

Chickens are an everywhere fact of life here, and much to my dismay and to the lack of increased seasoning on my Cast Iron pan, they are protected under town law. They have free reign of Key West. They are at the library scratching the landscaping, roosting up in the trees, and cock-a-doodling at all hours. The healthiness of these birds is what I first noticed: a full coat of feathers and happily clucking about in groups watched over by the rooster. Such a sight countered my memory of the crowded unpleasantness and ammonia fumes of the chicken houses where I live, where the predominant oversight of the farmer is wondering, "How can I squeeze one more of these poor bastards into this box?"

Obviously, tourism is a big deal here, and not only do they arrive by land, they also arrive by sea. Titanic Carnival ships dock here, two at a time, with one waiting a mile out to sea. Once the ship's gangplank is extended over, the tourists are heaved out from its belly, and they swarm over the dock where the merchants and circus performers have been anxiously awaiting them. With the livelihood of the town being tourist driven, it came to my mind how such a place lacks a certain kind of dignity, a dignity realized through standing up on one's own two feet without a crippling dependency on others. To gain favor of the masses it is easiest to appeal to their lowest common denominator, which is exactly what is very apparent in Key West: excessive drinking, drugs, homosexuality, homelessness, swearing, and I saw one person spit on the sidewalk. Key West, it seems, has never risen beyond its sordid past of "wrecking" ships, a process of recovering (thieving, basically) goods from ships that had run aground on the reefs, which Key West became quite wealthy off of.

The strangest attraction by far was situated in a fenced courtyard off from the dockyard grounds. Like a lodestone, the oddity drew me nearer, and with other onlookers we were compelled towards it in gaping awe. Nothing could have prepared me for such a spectacle as what I saw that day with my own eyes. I reached the outer throng and pushed my way into the mass of stupefied people. Clearly, the attraction was a "Come one, Come all," for I muscled my way past wee little children, stout young men, and wrinkled grandmothers, of all color and creed. Grasping the fence bars I peered out into the courtyard, and beheld a rotating device of immense proportions, the likes of which I could compare nothing with. With slack jaw I pondered its horrifying nature, and determined that it resembled the body of a great compass with its central pointing projection spinning about like a Whirling Dervish. The magnitude of what I needed to do at that very moment struck me and like second nature I vaulted over the fence and carefully timing the spinning projection, leaped upon the colossal beast and furiously scaled towards its top. The spectators gave a great gasp in unison at my boldness and incredible athleticism, which I responded to by pumping my fist. Once astride, I planted my feet firmly, grabbed the spinning beam, and attempted to wrench it out of its center connector. The centrifugal force proved too much and it bucked me off, hurling me back into the crowd.

Regaining my composure, I threw myself with abandon onto the monstrous contraption, and had at it once more. This time, I met with some success, as my counter force against the rotation produced a whining sound in the socket and puffs of smoke began to emanate from the motor within. The rotations began to slow somewhat as a groan was heard deep in the bowels of the machinery, and I strained with such might I felt the stitches popping on my hernia repair. The beam slowly ground to a halt and with one last enormous wrench, I popped it out of its socket and snapped it in half, and holding the broken shards aloft, dramatically hurled the pieces down into the courtyard. This met with much fanfare as the gathered people cheered and clapped while I descended the wreckage. I poked around the devastation for a souvenir and pried off a commemorating placard that read, "To the People of Key West, 'The Moral Compass', in dedication to their compassion towards the unknown shipwrecked sailors of the 19^th century." This was my last mark on the Great 2003 Florida Flop Down, and I mounted this placard onto the Short Bus for all to see and proclaim my heroism on the drive back to Salisbury, MD.

Remarkably, I met with no congratulations on the uneventful return drive home, placing me in a somber, reflective mood. Trueness of action does not demand the attention of approval, I conceded. I longed to return to my comfortable house in Canterbury, but without the freezing temperatures I knew to expect for the rest of the winter. Yet, who knows where the next adventure leads? ...To people unmet and lands unseen. I hope this brief story may help a few travelers or surfers to glean a little about these few places I passed through. I know you readers have been on a roller coaster of emotions: from laughing to crying, and from heartfelt joy to disgustful resentment. Maybe you can relate to the criticisms I inflict on these unfortunate souls and the ridiculousness of the blinders they clap on their silly heads. Or maybe you can relate to embarking on an adventure of a lifetime, such as I have had, and experiencing the wondrous world in which we live.

Read other Short Bus Adventures on Rich's Site.

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