Key West, FL
It's still quite overcast the next day, but very warm, so we have breakfast at the Banana Cafe and debate hiring bikes and exploring the back roads of Key West's Historic District or going shopping. It's either that or spending the day on a bar crawl up Duval Street. But by the time we've paid the bill the sun is peeking through and so twenty minutes later we're stretched out by the hotel pool soaking up the rays instead. Perfect, a day busy doing nothing. This is the life!
After a couple of hours we decide to hit the beach and chill out there, distracted slightly by an old guy on the next sun lounger who is wearing a tiny blue mankini that cups his scrotum tightly and even has a little protuberance in which, very obviously, sits his manhood. He tops this outfit off with a hat made of banana leaves and every so often mooches around showing his wares off to his fellow sunbathers, taking great delight when people ask him to pose for a photo. We're less inclined to speak to the old perv so just take surreptitious photos instead!!
Lunch is taken at the beachfront cafe, washed down by a very light and delicious bottle of pinot grigio, which means we while away a bit too much time lazing in the gorgeous sun not noticing the time. So we have to race back to the room and get ready for the evening in a sprint, followed by racing the length of Duval Street to arrive at Mallory Square in time for the sunset festival where we're due to meet Megan and Will, from yesterday's snorkelling trip.
There's no sign of them so we wander through the crowds and grab a table by the ocean's edge, order mojitos and watch the sunset. It's a lovely ending to the day and as the evening chill starts to make itself known we hear from Megan to say they're ensconced at A+B's restaurant by the harbour, racking up Dark and Stormy cocktails for us - which turn out be Moscow Mules by another name.
By the time we've hit the third pint of rum we've already been through religion and politics, Nashville childhoods and career choices (Will works in sales for UPS and Megan is the right-hand woman to a pioneering orthopaedic surgeon). Amazing how people with such divergent lifestyles can bond over unbridled liquor consumption!!
Before we know it we're being led down back streets to a sports bar to buy off-licence beers and big buckets of chicken wings before gatecrashing Peppers, a store that sells nothing but hot pepper sauces. It's quite bizarre, with wall after wall lined with every kind of spicy condiment ever invented.
In exchange for us handing over a couple of beers the staff lock us in, let us spread out the chicken wings on the counter and sample as many hot sauces as we can possibly manage, steering us clear of the ones that could send us to hospital in agony but recommending the bottles that will give us chilli-induced endorphin highs.
As we munch our way through deep-fried chicken we liberally smear our offerings with a variety of pimped up spicy condiments; Banana and mango, Asian hot sauce, Blue cheese pepper, Chili beer, Palo Alto fire fighters, Mad Dog 357, Hot Sauce #2, Green Lava avocado and cilantro, Mangolian sweet heat, Jamaican tears of fear, Don't **** me off Pecker sauce, Fighting cock, Mango tequila jalopeno, Ginger wasabi, Raspberry chipotle and finally Key Lime chilli fire.
Who knew that hot pepper sauces came in such a wide variety?!? And who knew that I'd be leaving the store having bought five different bottles of fun to marinade my food for months to come. Dinner parties chez nous are going to be a spicy fiesta from now on!!
With steam coming out of our ears and Corona quenching the tastebud inferno the four of us head back to Duval Street and grab bar stools at Willie Ts, where a feisty Janis Joplin wannabe is belting out classics to an appreciative, whooping crowd. By this point we're pretty loaded and when Will suggests hitting a drag bar we're up for anything.
A few blocks down is Bourbon 801, whose upstairs room features a two-hour extravaganza featuring an array of talent and a wardrobe department that would put most West End musicals to shame. As we pay our $10 and get a stamp on the wrist, the door ***** clasps my hands to her padded chest and squeals, "Baby, you ever felt one of these puppies?". Short of a visit to Battersea Dog's Home, I think not...
The cabaret room upstairs features a dodgy stage, red curtains that have seen better days, a variety of glitter balls hanging from the ceiling and a troupe of drag queens who shamelessly dish out collecting buckets at the end of each performance.
Our host for tonight is Josie P Katt, a fierce and hilarious bee-atch with a wickedly fast tongue. Will makes sure we sit in the front row and when Josie asks where we're from I say "London", quickly followed by an explanatory "England" for some of the confused cruise ship partygoers, who found a fellow guest's hometown of Toronto to be incomprehensible. With a withering look she fires back "I'm brown honey, not retarded!!"
We're then informed we better drink lots as "the more you drink, the better the bitches out back look!". The parade of talent is deeply entertaining; Deja, Desiray, Kylie Jean Lucille, Gassy Winds, Marilyn Daniels and the Key West legend Mah Jong who's been dragging up for 45 years and has a setlist of hits so crude they make a pole dancer look like a nun.
The show kicks off at 11pm and is still going at 1am. Eventually it's all over and we grab a photo or two with a couple of the stars. They've worked their over-made up asses off but have probably made more money in tips in those two hours than the four of us earn in a full day at the office. I'm not sure I could do that every night but we weave our way back to the hotel humming 'I Will Survive' and contemplating a life in the Key West sunshine. It'll be hangovers and reality checks all round tomorrow!!
