Our geography here in this skinny little island chain comes with some challenges. But I have to admit, even after 24 years, they still sort of make this place — and me — feel more exotic, more rugged, more island-ish.
We still walk across the tarmac at our little airport — for now. A new project will bring typical jetways to connect our planes to the building, but for now, we still get to enjoy that hot blast of humidity as we exit the plane and head for baggage claim.
Our mail takes longer to arrive.
Our ice melts faster.
Our pools need chillers, not heaters.
Our tap water never gets truly cold.
Chickens roam the streets and thrill visitors — until they start cock-a-doodle-doing right under their bedroom window from 3 a.m. till about 6 a.m.
Iguanas rest in our trees and sun themselves in the middle of the street. They spend more time on our golf course than a retired CEO.
Geckos dart around our porches eating their weight in bugs. (Thank you, geckos. Don’t ever kill these little guys. We love our quick little mascots.)
No-see-ums ravage our ankles with feisty bites.
We wear our nonchalance to random power outages like a locals’ badge of honor. We immediately text friends to confirm their power is also out and we check the outage map on the Keys Energy Services website. That done, we settle in and wait stoically, hoping the power returns before the cool air escapes our home.
We wait — a few minutes, an hour tops — for our top-notch power crews to turn us on. We know they’re working on it. And once we confirm that it’s an outage (and not our own unpaid bill), we’re OK with it.
We’re in it together. We accept the interruptions and disruptions with a surprising degree of patience and empathy, given today’s intolerance of any inconvenience.
We live here. We get it. It happens.
Our lives are powered by one giant extension cord plugged into a power strip on the mainland.
Then there’s a whole nest of smaller extension cords snaking from the big one to our neighborhoods and homes.
A storm need not thrash the power lines to throw the island into the unmistakable stillness as our lives, appliances and electronics sigh into silence.
Tree branches fall on the power lines. Birds somehow touch two wires simultaneously. (It doesn’t end well for the bird.) Sailboats blow into the power tieline alongside U.S. 1. Drivers hit power poles.
During these powerless episodes, retail transactions are interrupted. Drive-thru orders are disrupted. WiFi routers are rendered useless. Then we nearly overload the cellular networks, using our phones’ mobile data to check Facebook for details and updates.
But we tend to take it all in stride. And we harshly judge any Keys rookie who mouths off online about the temporary inconvenience.
We don’t call Keys Energy to complain. We know they’re working on it. We get regular updates from our utility heroes. We know our restaurant orders will take longer. We know we’ll have to pay cash – or come back later. We know that intersections become four-way stops when the traffic lights go dark.
We’re good with it, because we’re exotic, rugged and decidedly local. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.
