When the sun first assembles itself over the broken skyline of Key West, a thunderous light fills the city and everyone moves in stately flotation through streets that are conduits of something empyrean. Also, things can get sweaty.
—Thomas McGuane
Ponce de León dropped anchor at Key West in 1513—and promptly pulled it up again. The oyster-shaped coral reef off the coast of Florida had no fresh water to speak of and thus, he reasoned, could hardly boast a Fountain of Youth. Ah, but Ponce, look again: Past the lush swaths of palmetto and frangipani, among such haunting local ghosts as Papa Hemingway, James John Audubon and Harry Truman, walk a band of living artists who find in its tropical, end-of-the-world abandon a life-giving balm. There is a strange, manic spirit that writes upon the local garbage truck "We cater weddings" and inscribes a tombstone in the graveyard "I told you I was sick." The jugglers, trampolinists and fire-eaters performing on the docks are somehow no more and no less real than the feathers of famed fan dancer Sally Rand that are said to be scattered across the island. Tennessee Williams wrote Sweet Bird of Youth and The Night of the Iguana here only yesterday. "Time past has a wonderful way of remaining time present here," he says. "I once wrote a line, 'The day turns holy as though God moves through it.' At moments that's the way I feel about Key West."
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