Encounters of three kinds

Day three. Since I had come all the way from Delaware, Key West was only a hop, skip, and jump farther (what's another five hours on a motorcycle?), so I arranged with my host to return in a couple days after visiting the keys.

Now the day before, my helmet had rolled off the pile of gear strapped to the bike and broken its hinge. It was getting time to replace it anyway, so I tracked down a motorcycle dealer and picked up a new helmet. Its color matches the bike even—my dear sweet wife will be pleased. The mechanic noticed my back tire and warned me not to continue without replacing it. I ride an old bike, and that tire size has gone out of style, so it took several phone calls, web searching, and visits to dealers, repair shops, and junk yards (just kidding) to find someone with one in stock. The folks at 441 Cycle Shop had one. I scooted down to Plantation, arriving ten minutes after their deadline, but they graciously took care of me anyway, and sold me some needed rear brake pads while they were at it. Small, well-stocked, friendly, and competent; a pleasant encounter—I recommend them.

By the time my bike was shipshape, continuing my ride south would put me into Miami rush-hour traffic, so I killed some time by returning to my haunts of 20 years ago when I had done some writing for IBM. I found the church I had attended, and the pastor happened to be in. He hadn't changed a bit—must be he lives right. We stood around and talked for maybe an hour, and I got to meet two of his now grown kids, one of whom even remembered me. Another pleasant encounter.

By now it was getting late, but I decided to try for at least part way to the keys. I made it to Homestead before tiredness set in. Cheapskate that I am, I did a little hunting for the cheapest place I could find. Homestead is no longer the sleepy little bedroom community it was two decades ago, and I had a lot of choices. The dishwasher at Denny's told me about a place across the tracks, adding there were several cheap motels in the area to check out. I certainly crossed the tracks looking for it, and found a Motel 6 and stopped in to ask the price. It was considerably higher than I wanted, so I mentioned the place I was looking for. A young lady standing nearby, skinny little blonde, poorly dressed, whom I assumed was one of the cleaning staff, chipped in and gave me better directions to where that place was. As I prepared to head out, she asked if I wanted any companionship, and I replied no, I needed to get some sleep. We parted company, and about five seconds later I realized I had just had my first conversation with a, um, highway hostess! (When I told Val about this, she said it was the first one that I knew about.) I might be old, but I'm a babe in the woods, I guess. I have to admit the encounter wasn't unpleasant. Sorry, guys, no photo. (Picture me me circling back, hopping off the bike, and gushing, "Hey—you're a prostitute! Can I take your picture?" I tell you truly, the thought crossed my mind. Anything for the Mac Pac.)

The motel was run by a nice Indian fellow whose credit card machine was broken and who offered to let me check the cleanliness of the room. It was fine, and I spent the night there for $35. The motel looked okay on the outside. (I took the picture the next morning, and noticed that the room numbers went from 12 to 14. No 13. I haven't seen that in a while.)

Here's the view from inside. If the room had bugs, they kept to themselves. At least they didn't wake me up.

Tomorrow: The Keys!