(This grand old place wasn’t on the official tour, so I did not invite myself in. All photos, legal or not, by Socotra)

I have absolutely no ide how I can get so far behind when I am doing absolutely nothing. I was going to read a book on this trip- I brought several- but so far I have been lost in controversy on the internet about Climate Change, a foot of which is piled on the ground between me and the Farm, and the other various social-religious issues of the minute.

I was musing with one pal about when the grim argument about us all frying in our juices was going to change to we are going to freeze in our boots and it is all our fault and we have to Do Something Right Away.

The President announced another of his King Canute initiatives to set up seven new Climate Centers (the climate was there first, apparently) to study the matter. The Alarmists are praying that the ENSO- the celebrated el Nino-la Nina cycle in the Pacific is going to cause temperatures to go up a little, validating all their hysteria, while ignoring the fact that temperatures have been constant for nearly two decades.

Increasingly, people are looking out the window and seeing that nature is not cooperating with the computer models.

My pal actually chuckled, and commented that if it really is the ocean and sun that are driving temperature and climate, we can stop worrying about CO2, but somehow I don’t think anyone is going to do a press release saying they were wrong and never mind.

Anyway, by the time that all swirled around- there was a digression on the astonishing Ivanpah solar farm in the Nevada desert which is about to come on line, delivering a modest amount of power only in daylight at about half the efficiency of a new natural gas power plant at more than twice the price. It is also killing birds, who apparently think the shiny garage-sized panels are lakes, and are frying themselves as they try to land on them.

Killing some of those species (like the wind farms do) is a felony for most of us, but apparently not for the “sustainable” energy folks. My pal again was laughing hysterically as he said “as soon as you hear the word Sustainable, check your wallet. Someone is lying to you really hard.”

Anyway, the fact that people are twisting the science into knots is no reason not to conserve and recycle where it makes sense. That is only prudent, and that is what the people of the Old Island Restoration Foundation are all about. Stop Number Two is across White Street from where I am staying, and from the screened balcony I could see the docents in their red skirts setting up at ten yesterday.

Marlow had taken me to one of the periodic showings of some of the local homes a few years ago and I thoroughly enjoyed seeing how the other half lives- or is it the 1%? I always forget who I am supposed to be envious of at any given moment. By the time I had gotten cleaned up and ready to display my public face, the sun was crossing the yardarm, and I knew I needed to get out and about.

I should have gone to House number One first, but my sense of the linear is challenged here in the Keys. I moseyed across White and bought a ticket from the nice blonde woman in a red top and white skirt. $40 is sort of steep, but she told me the House Tour “is our largest and most dependable source of funds for continuing the Foundation’s mission.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“Protecting these homes, maintaining the Oldest House, granting scholarships and preserving the architectural and cultural history of Key West for the enjoyment of those who come after us.” She did not claim it was sustainable, so I smiled and handed over the cash.

“You will enjoy this selection of homes,” she said brightly. “Key West has never been frozen in time from an architectural standpoint. Life went on as,times changed, and housing changed to suit the people.”

“You mean like the climate?”

“I suppose. Our five homes on this tour represent very different aspects of how the city evolved.”

“Thanks,” I said, and put the ticket in my shorts and walked into the yellow house on White Street. The Docents were all over, telling stories about the dwellings. A man in a red shirt said that this house was built after a fire in 1923 razed several homes. “This bungalow style home, popular at the time, replaced the cigar-roller cottages where the Cuban workers lived. Key West was once the largest producer of cigars in the world.”

It was a cool place. They blew out the interior roof and left the beams exposed, also knocking out the non-load bearing walls to make one great room that stretched from front to back. It was quite lovely and I took some pictures on my smart phone until one of the docents warned me that no photos were permitted.

I ambled around, admiring how nice the workmanship was, and passed through the nicely landscaped back yard and around again to the front. They handed me a map that was thoroughly misleading- south was north, and it took me a while to get on track to walk down toward Truman to find house Number Three.

I wish I could show you pictures of the inside of this place on Olivia Street. I think it is OK to share the exterior views- it was an imposing Victorian place built on what had been three lots, and now featured a guest house to the side, pool in the back. There was some historical patter at the front door about the man who had caused it to be erected originally, a man of the sea and commerce, and I walked through with a couple who lived across the street in a more modest (but impeccably) restored bungalow.

Like the yellow house, any internal walls that did not need to be there had been removed, and the current iteration of the place was airy and delightful. On the second floor, I saw there was a wet bar outside the master bedroom, and a fancy coffee maker outside the master bath, which featured a toilet with the original overhead tank as designed by the much-maligned Dr. Krapper.

Really cool. The kitchen downstairs, once I hobbled down the grand staircase, had been opened up to the Great Room, and featured two ovens, a master island with Jenn-Aire equipped island and double dishwashers. The stove was authentically scarred, so it was apparent that whoever lived here was serious about their entertaining and cooking.

Debbie the Docent ruled the kitchen and pointed it all out, and we talked about the appliances, a mix of designer fronts and stainless steel. We agreed that stainless is harder than hell to keep clean, and then talked about my Dad’s contribution to appliance design as incorporated in this kitchen, where the reefer echoed the décor of the impressive fixtures that held plates and artwork with a home-theater just off.

“This house had a cistern for rainwater before it was enlarged. The old cistern is now under the dining table, and the owners have turned it into a wine cellar with more than a thousand bottles in it under the trap door.”

I tried my best to offer to sample a bottle in the wine-cooler built with easy access to the Master’s chair at the table, but Debbie was not buying it. I flowed through the house dreamily, and into the back yard, lush with vegetation around the pool and then through the guest cottage, every bit as elegant though judicious in its use of space. I figured I could live there without much effort, though the larger house probably put the decimal point in the price in a way that guaranteed I would never be invited.

Oh well. I thanked the volunteers at the card table out front and went back to attempting to decipher the map.

Down White, across Truman, and then a right on Catherine to Margaret street. These homes were much more modest in footprint, true to the original cigar rollers, and Number Four was almost invisible. An imperial older woman held court with a handsome young man out front, and she deigned to mark my ticket with a black Sharpie before waving me past. “don’t forget,” she said grandly, “your ticket also provides access to the Tropical Forest and Botanical Garden on Sunday, a five dollar value.”

I thanked her profusely and waked up the walk through a miniature tropical forest. The man in red inside was completing his pitch on the living area. “The owners have incorporated a lot of Ikea fixtures here to demonstrate that clean, spare modernity does not have to be unaffordable.” An architect’s model of the home stood on the glass table. I glanced at the description of the place as the docent pointed out the way things were liked together by gentle curve, and that all the available space was either glass to let in the light, or reflected on mirrors.

I gathered from the erotic art on the walls that a gay couple owned the place, and I envied their taste and means to live small, but elegant. The description on the back of the map said the place had been a dilapidated cigar roller ripped down in 1968, to be replaced by a square and practical concrete block structure. The current owners had blown the place back and up, and incorporated a cathedral ceiling and glass. They left the flamingo-pink tile in the master bath, a touching quotation to the past.

I can’t quite describe the back yard, which is accessed through a den/media room. It completely knocked me out, and I took a picture despite the prohibition. I am a pirate, I guess.

I got to the last house on Windsor Lane, Number Five on the tour just after the card table had been put away and the owner returned. I gathered this was an example of a new construction home, but I am going to have to wait till later today to see it. And Number One, over on Grinnell Street, which is supposed to be in the “eyebrow style,” whatever that might be.

I wandered on from Windsor Lane to Duvall Street, and then down the road of dreams, noticing that it was just about five o’clock, not that there was any point in waiting. There is another story or two- the drag show happening outside the 801 Club and the private tour of the Key West Armory with the current art curator, not to mention a discussion of the Civil War Union Soldier’s Ghost and his reason for haunting the place, but I have a couple houses to see.

Talk to you tomorrow about it, insh’allah.

Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303