I am moving again, this time from one side of Key West t’other. The rental I have occupied since spring has been rented, to others, and I must move, immediately. For the millionth time in my life I fill my car with my gear. A friend will take me in for a few nights. But I waste no time and with the help of online listings I am on the case finding new digs. This being a tiny island, I swiftly visited a pile up of unlivable quarters, unless, of course, one was routinely inebriated, blind and insensate. Early this morning I saw a fresh post on the electronic billboard, it read, ‘hidden gem’. Anywhere else I would have had my heckles up, and brimmed with suspicions. But here, where people say ‘good-day’ when they pass by in the street, I knew that ‘hidden gem’ was going to be the real thing. I made an appointment to visit.

In this town rentals go fast, the nice and the not nice. One day you may see a red and white ‘for rent’ sign hanging off a white picket fence, and the next day you will see a moving van and a person, grinning, carrying in their possessions.

Who knows if down the line some unforeseen horror will rear, and ruin my life. I’ve been fooled many times before, and that includes two ex-husbands (another story altogether). But I fell in love with the ‘hidden gem’

, before entering it. It was a carnal lust that wrapped me up, and I signed a year lease before my future landlord had time to run my references. I employed my most convincing English accent (acquired after years of otherwise useless education), I thrust my books on the man, by way of introduction.

The hidden gem is concealed by a very plain house that sits on the street, under a streetlamp. To the side of the plain house there is a lacy wrought iron gate which opens to a path. This path plunges directly into a sculpted jungle of banyans with spanish moss, and here sits the gem. A treasure of a house with french doors opening up to the garden of banana trees and orchids, and a fountain, sounding like a brook. Butterflies and dragonflies buzzed the shallow pool. I signed the lease on the spot. It was only after the ink had dried I thought to ask about the furniture (there will be none), and the move-in date (November 1st). OK.

Now there is October to fill. What shall I do with myself while I wait for my abode? I could get in the car and drive around America, and have adventures. I could go to New Orleans, a destination that beckons. Or return to New York City, for yet another last hurrah. It would be an expedition couched in the coddling embrace of ego-puffrage, and book parties.

As they say in Key West, “What would Papa do?”