By the time Saturday morning rolled around, I was rested from my solo sleep, but a tad sore from my sunburn that I keep insisting is a tan despite its determining scarlet color. But not to worry, as of today, the top few layers of epidermis are peeling off--completely ignoring the sticky aloe that I have lathered myself with over the last 4 days.
We all met for a breakfast at a diner where I had a Keys version of eggs benedict which is still residing in my colon as a little vacation souvenir. Quick poll: how many people reading this (both of you) a) have ever ordered, consumed or heard any other human request rye toast? Or b) had 2 people at the same table order rye toast? I believe c)never is the correct response.
We did some last minute souvenir shopping for all of those sad children I left behind, and one of our stops was at a giant sporting goods store which houses Ernest Hemingway's old boat, the Pilar. What a way to end a book weekend than running my hands along the well-varnished railings that the Old Man did. It was a little surreal, actually. I bought a hat there, too, something I think that completely transforms me.
On the way back from Shell World, which I dropped a handsome price for some cheap sunglasses and shells for the boys, I noticed the tire dangerously low. I filled it with air, but after about a mile, it was as flat as my hair was under the new hat, so we pulled over to a convenience store and before we had a chance to call for some professional help, some nice gentlemen offered to change the tire for us. It only cost me a couple of twenties and 2 books. As I went back to fill the spare with air, one of the men came running up. "Hey Tracey, will you sign this book for me?"
Can you stop me?
This time I had a pen.
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