New year, new place. I always give myself two gifts for my birthday: a physical, material one and a metaphysical, ethereal one. This blog was one, one year–and business cards to actually tell people about it was another year. But this year was big, I turned 50, and so I made the grand gesture to myself of moving the farthest that I could–the end of the road. The Southernmost point, closer to Cuba than a Walmart, hanging out all chill and accepting in the middle of the Caribbean–Key West. I would smile so much every time I visited there, so why not give myself the gift of joy as I hit a milestone.

I broke up with my didn’t-do-any-grand-gesture boyfriend–the gift of freedom was the ethereal gift–and rolled on down Highway 1. My physical and ethereal gift two years ago was buying a camper. Never mind I didn’t have a place to stay, never mind I didn’t really know anyone there. I joined the Writer’s Guild and I floated around beaches by day and parked on side streets by night. And a small voice in my head gave me a subtle ultimatum: If you can’t write here, surrounded by talent and legends, then maybe you’re not a writer after all. Harsh words, I know. I can feel their sting as I write them. But it was a ‘shit or get off the pot’ situation in a couple of areas of my life, laced with a ‘now or never’ kind of urgency.

I also figured that if I’d made it this far in life, chances are I was gonna be alright. I put all my chips on it and shook the dice.

It was my second day and I was cycling around and checking Facebook to see what was happening around town. The Business Guild was having a mixer at a stately, historic mansion, seems like a good place to try and find a job. I pay my donation, stick my name tag on, mumble something as someone asks, “What business are you with?” and head to the red carpeted stairs leading to the white columned wraparound porch.

Inside, stretched across the dining room table, was a Cuban-themed buffet. I gawked at the decor–dark walls, tall windows, chandelier and green tiled fireplace. It had been maintained just as it was in the 1800s and the step back in time while I was trying to take such a giant leap forward was making my head swirl. I tried to picture them sitting there, how they looked, which fork they used for what. Then I took my backwards and forwards time travel outside to a table on the porch and grabbed a drink.

The beans and rice and plantains were reminding me of South America and how I’d thrown myself into that culture as well; another place I had started as a visitor and ended up living in.

“May we join you?” cuts through my reminiscent fog.

I nod to the short strawberry blonde and motion to the two empty chairs. Her friend joins her and since I’m too busy enjoying the taste and memories of the food, the first lady starts the conversation.

“So, how long have you been in Key West? What do you do here?”

It’s a common question in this uncommon place. I tell her this is my second day and that I don’t do anything, yet. I tell her how I live in my RV and just kind of go where the wind takes me. I tell her I want to find a part-time bartending job for the season before I leave for another volunteer gig at a state park in the Middle Keys. I throw in the ‘New Year, New You’ idea and how I like the feel of this island so I went with it.

People either think it’s cool or completely nuts, it can go either way, but she raises her eyebrows and her eyes start to light up. She shares how she’s back from visiting friends that live that way and she thinks it’s a great. Freeing. She has that look, the one that says she’d like to do it, too, but can’t because….responsibilities. A gypsy friend of mine calls them alibis.

As she stands up to excuse herself, they’re going to catch a movie, she hands me her business card. “I might have something for you. Come see me on Monday.”

She was the owner of the oldest running restaurant in Key West–Pepe’s Cafe. Harry Truman would sneak away from the Secret Service to have coffee with his constituents there.

It felt like that bet was already paying off. Like Dessa raps, “I swallowed the dice. I make my own luck now.”