I was working in my home office when my phone pinged. It was Nick—“Mr. Fixit,” who I recently met in Key West. His guest for a charity event in Palm Beach had canceled, leaving him with an extra invitation to a black-tie cocktail cruise on the Intracoastal.
Palm Beach After Dark
Nick picked me up at the hotel around 8:30. The yacht wasn’t a floating palace owned by a mysterious billionaire — just one of the charter boats that glide up and down the Intracoastal.
Soft music. Servers with trays of tiny appetizers. Cocktails. The lights of Palm Beach shimmered across the water.
It was sophisticated, with just the right blend of elegance, charm, and coastal ease.
Rooftop Respite
It was close to 11 when Nick dropped me at the hotel. It had been a memorable evening, filled with engaging conversations and the opportunity to meet several local artists.
In the lobby, I headed for the elevator. Instead of pressing my floor, I decided to venture up to the rooftop bar to see the nighttime view I’d heard so much about.
My bartender, Marisol, set a chilled Chardonnay in front of me and smiled. “That dress really makes your blue eyes pop.”
We chatted. She asked if I was in town for the weekend. I asked for Sunday suggestions. By the time I finished my wine, I had the beginnings of a plan.
Sunday Off Leash
Sunday morning started at the Society of the Four Arts—gardens, shaded paths, and quiet corners—before I eventually wandered toward Worth Avenue.
Palm Beach has a reputation for wealth and glamour, but it was the architecture, flowers, hidden vias, and tucked-away galleries that made me stop and wander back for another look.
This is what I love about traveling alone: Nobody is waiting. Nobody is asking when we’re leaving. Nobody cares if I spend ten minutes photographing a doorway.
I can turn left simply because something looks interesting.
Which is how I eventually spotted a cat café.
There was no universe in which I was walking past a room full of cats.
Chaos at the Café
The feral little felines had ignored me completely until they caught a whiff of chicken. Suddenly, I was the most popular woman in Palm Beach.
As I reached the last few bites of my sandwich, one cat approached. Another noticed the first cat and apparently decided he was missing out on something important.
He jumped onto the table.
The iced tea never stood a chance.
The entire glass tipped directly into my lap. Not a splash. Not a few discreet droplets. The entire iced tea.
I froze. The cats scattered. Their work here was done.
The server rushed over with napkins. I blotted. She brought more. At this point, I wasn’t drying anything. I was just moving the iced tea around.
Ice cubes had taken up residence in my pockets.
I had no choice. I had to walk back to the hotel looking like I’d had an unfortunate incident.
Sunglasses on. Chin up. Down Worth Avenue I went.
Palm Beach personified approached — perfectly coiffed, perfect sandals, head-to-toe Lilly Pulitzer. She glanced at my pale pink shorts, then offered a knowing little smile.
I wanted to scream, No! It’s iced tea!
But dignity sometimes requires silence.
After the Chaos
By the end of the weekend, I realized Palm Beach hadn’t asked me to be perfect—it had simply invited me to show up.
Maybe that’s the real charm of these unsupervised little adventures. When things go sideways—and somehow, they always do—straighten your sunglasses, keep walking, and enjoy the story as it unfolds.
After all, perfectly planned weekends are rarely the most memorable.
I spent four days aboard Margaritaville at Sea Paradise, sailing to Freeport and Nassau in the Bahamas.
This was a girlfriends’ getaway with my friend Bernadette to help her ease into solo travel.
Despite having cabins next to each other, we had a surprisingly difficult time finding one another. We became two ships occasionally passing in the night.
Bernadette had opted against onboard Wi-Fi so coordinating meant relying on chance encounters around the ship.
Every so often our paths would cross. We would sit down, compare adventures, laugh and wander off again.
Complete strangers seemed to have no difficulty locating me.
And that became the unexpected lesson of this cruise.
Solo Is Wonderful. Vulnerable Is Different.
I love solo travel.
There is something wonderfully liberating about deciding when to eat, where to go, what to see and when you’ve had enough excitement for the day and want to disappear with a book.
But solo travel works beautifully until something doesn’t.
A lot of people begin traveling alone after years—sometimes decades—of traveling with a spouse or partner. Suddenly, the person who always sat beside you isn’t there.
You are navigating airports, hotels, cruise ships, restaurants and unfamiliar cities entirely on your own.
Most of the time, that is empowering. But being alone can also make you more visible.
This was a particularly lightly booked cruise. On a full sailing, a woman sitting alone can disappear into the crowd.
On this cruise, there were empty chairs everywhere. A solo woman sitting by herself in a lounge was like a lighthouse beacon visible from space.
Meeting people while traveling is one of the best parts of traveling alone.
And ladies, if you’re interested in a vacation romance or one-night hookup, go for it. No judgment here.
The important thing is that everyone gets to decide what they are comfortable with—and everyone else respects the answer.
Because travel can create a subtle illusion:
Companionship begins to feel like familiarity. Familiarity begins to feel like trust. And trust should never be issued on an expedited basis.
Especially when alcohol joins the itinerary.
Enter the Floating Lounge Lizard
It began innocently enough on the first evening.
I was sitting alone in Euphoria Lounge listening to the band when a man approached and asked whether he could have the empty chair beside me.
Cruise lounges are usually crowded. People share tables all the time. Without even looking around, I automatically said yes.
Mistake number one.
I looked over as he sat down.
He resembled Drew Carey, the comedian. I never learned his name, so we’ll call him Drew.
Within minutes, Drew was consuming bourbon at an impressive rate.
Then came the chatty compliments. More bourbon. And a brief departure to his stateroom before karaoke.
When he returned, I could smell the mouthwash a good ten seconds before the rest of him arrived. He must have doused himself with an entire bottle.
At that point the red flag went up—and it had a name tag.
When the band finished, I walked upstairs toward karaoke.
Drew followed.
Walking down the hallway, he awkwardly asked: “Can I kiss you?”
We had barely met.
I stopped walking.
“NO. There will be no kissing. There will be NO touching. And you need to stop following me.”
His response? “Okay…but can we still hang out?”
“No. We’re done here.”
A reasonable person might interpret this as the conclusion of the evening.
Phase Two: Karaoke Serenade.
I joined a table of women near the stage. They figured out what was happening almost immediately.
“GIRL! He is serenading you!”
“We just met,” I told them. “I don’t know this man.”
They burst out laughing.
Drew returned to the microphone again and again, replenishing his bourbon between performances.
By then, my table had become a live commentary booth.
“OMG! He’s back up there? Girl?!”
To be fair, several genuinely fabulous singers performed that evening and made sitting through the spectacle almost worthwhile.
Almost.
I left midway through song four.
When Familiarity Moves Too Fast
The next evening Drew spotted me again. “Have you been evading me all day?”
“No evading,” I said. “Just disinterest.”
On another day he took a seat across from me at lunch and admitted he had come on too strongly.
“Well,” I said, “alcohol will do that.”
Without bourbon running the operation, he seemed less like a Lounge Lizard and more like an awkward man who had spectacularly overshot the runway.
But he continued trying to maintain contact, even managing to work his cabin number into conversation more than once.
I declined to transmit my coordinates.
But then, Bernadette finally supplied one additional bit of information. She had encountered him at dinner.
“He told me he’s married!”
I had originally interpreted his awkward mating ritual as a man spectacularly out of practice. Being married would certainly explain the rust.
The problem wasn’t that a man approached me. It wasn’t that he expressed interest. It was the speed at which a stranger tried to manufacture a sense of closeness.
Within minutes, casual conversation had become heavy drinking, followed by a request for physical intimacy and an attempt to continue the interaction after I had clearly said no.
Excessive alcohol can lead to impulsive behavior very quickly.
He is still a stranger.
At home, if someone makes you uncomfortable, you can leave the restaurant, get in your car, and put distance between you.
At sea, you’re still floating together—and likely to cross paths again.
That’s why boundaries matter early.
Predators Don’t Care Which Side of the Table You’re Sitting On
Men like Drew can also make themselves vulnerable. Someone who is extremely eager for a stranger to say yes may stop asking an equally important question:
Who just said yes to me?
Predators aren’t interested only in women traveling alone. They look for vulnerability—fear, loneliness, too much alcohol, or someone so eager for companionship that they miscalculate who they can trust.
I learned that lesson long before I ever cruised alone.
A Lesson From New York
When I was a single woman in my twenties living in Delaware, I met Lily at a women’s conference at the University of Delaware.
Lily was a travel agent. We shared a passion for travel. We became casual friends—occasional Friday happy hours, dinner or a movie.
One day Lily invited me to New York. She had been offered a complimentary room at a beautiful five-star hotel in Manhattan.
We took the train from Wilmington and checked in. Later that afternoon a third young woman arrived named Susie.
Lily had met her somehow through the travel business. Susie lived in the Midwest, wanted to become a travel agent, and Lily had been mentoring her long distance.
Almost immediately, something felt wrong to me. It wasn’t simply how Susie looked.
It was what she did.
She repeatedly went into the closet, examining Lily’s clothes and jewelry and commenting on how pretty everything was.
Then she picked up a pair of my leather gloves and started to try them on.
“Those are mine,” I said.
Then, rather directly: “You steal anything from me and I’ll track you down.”
Bold for a 23 year-old, but obviously the product of growing up street-wise in the City.
Susie glared at me, but she put the gloves back on the table.
Later, the three of us went to the Empire State Building. While waiting in line, Susie announced that she needed the restroom and would catch up with us.
An hour passed and no Susie. Finally, I looked at Lily.
“Call the hotel. Have them check the room.”
She stared at me with a blank look on her face.
“Do it.”
About fifteen minutes later, the hotel called. We needed to return immediately.
What followed was a nightmare.
Virtually everything that wasn’t nailed down had been taken from the room—Lily’s clothes, jewelry and suitcase, along with hotel property.
My belongings were untouched. Including the leather gloves still sitting on the table.
The hotel’s surveillance footage showed a male accomplice leaving the hotel with Susie.
Lily’s misplaced trust cost her far more than possessions. There was the financial restitution to the hotel for damages.
And because the complimentary room had been extended through her professional relationship, damage to a business connection she had worked to build. Lily’s privileges at the hotel were immediately revoked and we were on the next train home to Delaware.
That experience stayed with me. Not because I believe everyone is suspicious. But because trust can expose more than your wallet.
It can expose your safety. Your reputation. Your professional relationships. Even opportunities you never expected to put at risk.
The lesson was not: Don’t trust anyone.
It was: Don’t confuse friendliness with knowing someone.
Not Every Man Was a Lounge Lizard
This distinction matters. Another gentleman approached me in Euphoria Lounge and asked me to dance.
I declined.
Later I moved to the Hemisphere Piano Bar, where the fabulous Valerie was playing and singing.
A man slipped onto the bar stool beside me and introduced himself as Daniel.
“I saw you in Euphoria,” he said. “That guy—what did he ask you? Did he ask you to go for sushi?”
“No. He asked me to dance.”
“And you declined?”
“Yes.”
He laughed. “I saw him get declined. I was heading your way, so I aborted.”
Now that was a man who could read a room.
Daniel and I ended up having a fascinating conversation.
He was an engineer who had spent years on the West Coast before relocating to Florida. He talked about growing up in a large family with a mother he remembered as extremely strict. Yet, all of the children had become successful professionals.
“What did she do right?” I asked him. “Look at all of you.”
He became quiet. Later he came back specifically to tell me I had made him think about his mother differently.
Hours after that, we happened to cross paths over late-night pizza.
“Hey, how are you?”
We laughed. And kept moving. That is one of the wonderful connections travel can create.
You talk. You laugh. You exchange ideas. You go your separate ways.
No barnacles attached.
Nobody requires an evacuation plan.
Nassau: Sometimes a Line Isn’t a Line
After several days of unusually active Lounge Lizard migration, my radar may have become a little oversensitive.
Wandering Nassau port shops, I was overheated and ready for something cold to drink. I stopped to read a waterfront restaurant menu board.
A local man approached from behind. “Were you a model?”
I laughed. “No.”
“You walk like a model.”
Oh, good grief.Here we go again. What the hell is in the water here?!
After several days of maritime mating rituals, I had begun interpreting every compliment as a bad opening line.
He introduced himself as James, the owner of the restaurant, and asked if I wanted lunch.
When I explained that I was dehydrated, he invited me inside, poured me an iced tea and turned the fan toward me.
And that was it. No pitch. No maneuvering. No attempt to convert kindness into an invitation.
We talked. I thanked him for the cold drink.
He wished me well, and I continued down the boardwalk.
Not every compliment is a pickup line.
Sometimes, respectful communication is simply a pleasant exchange with no expectations attached.
The Travel Tribe
Somewhere amid the Nassau heat and humidity, I wandered into Da Bee Hive Shop and met Bee.
Her family is involved in local beekeeping, but what I remember most is her.
She has one of those infectious smiles and laughs that makes you want to stay and talk.
I wandered away. Then wandered back.
Every time she spotted me nearby, she laughed.
“I see you over there!”
I bought one of her handmade shell Christmas ornaments but will definitely sample the honey products on my next visit.
I asked whether I could take her photograph and explained that I sometimes feature memorable people I meet while traveling.
She lit up.
Then I told her: “You’re part of my travel tribe now.”
She responded with a beaming smile that told me she was officially in.
The People Who Make the Cruise
Thankfully, the cruise wasn’t all wildlife.
There was Priscilla at the St. Somewhere Spa.
I opted to stay on the ship in Freeport and booked a full-body massage.
I returned to my cabin and promptly fell into what can only be described as a massage coma.
I woke hours later wondering what had happened to the afternoon.
That may be the finest review of Priscilla’s work I could possibly give.
There was Vlad at the Hemisphere piano bar who entertained me with a smoky cocktail creation that looked less like bartending and more like a science exhibit involving alcohol.
There was Mario in Euphoria, who spotted me on the first evening and laughed:
“Weren’t you just here last week?”
Close enough to make me feel like a regular.
And there was Tyo, my cabin steward, who quietly made my trip easier every day. When my eyes were irritated – possibly from mouthwash fumes — I asked for ice to make cold compresses.
From then on, he kept the bucket full.
And because excellent cabin service always includes whimsy, he also left adorable towel animals behind.
Cruises may be built around ships, ports and itineraries.
But the experience comes from the people working onboard.
And Then We Tried to Go Home
You might think stepping off the ship ended the field research.
Bernadette and I shared an Uber to the West Palm Beach Brightline station.
I went to the Premium lounge. She went to the regular lounge.
Then my phone lit up.
“OMG SECURITY! I was pulled over by security!!”
Well. That gets your attention.
Apparently, Bernadette had put a blue buffet napkin containing a fork and knife into her purse that morning so she could carry her breakfast and coffee.
Then she forgot about it. Until Brightline security found it.
“You can’t carry a knife onboard.”
Bernadette was genuinely confused. “I don’t have a knife.”
Security produced the evidence: Blue napkin. Fork. Knife.
Bernadette studied it. “I’m a turkey head.”
Security confiscated the knife and returned the fork.
Bernadette looked at the fork.
Then at security.
“You don’t think I could stab someone with a fork?”
Oh, Bernadette. This would be an excellent time to stop helping security with hypothetical scenarios. 😂
The excitement didn’t end there. A short while later my phone pinged with another message:
“Oh my God, Jeanie. I’m on the wrong train.”
She had followed the crowd onto an earlier train and discovered, after departure, that she wasn’t merely on the wrong train.
She was going in the wrong direction. Toward Miami. We were going to Orlando.
The travel chaos never ends. Some people attract it. I apparently travel with it.
Final Thoughts
Solo travel should expand your world.
It should introduce you to people you never would have met, conversations you never would have had and places you might never have seen.
It should make you more confident, not more fearful.
Talk to strangers. Accept the kindness. Make the new friend. Laugh with the person at the bar.
Just do it with your eyes wide open.
By the end of the cruise, I had stopped wondering why the Lounge Lizards kept finding me.
Then it occurred to me.
Maybe I wasn’t attracting the wildlife.
Maybe I was the watering hole.
Enjoy the scenery. Know the wildlife. Trust your instincts.
Earlier this month, my Coastal Cowgirl adventure took me on a four-night escape from Palm Beach to Key West and Freeport.
The ship is older but nicely renovated. Its smaller size is part of the appeal. Just enough activity, entertainment, and dining to keep you busy without the overwhelm of a mega-ship.
Food is typical cruise fare, but I like how the buffet is divided into food-court-style stations, with plenty of additional dining options.
Key West
Key West doesn’t greet you—it ambushes you with pastel charm, loud chickens, and the undeniable urge to buy a tropical shirt.
I wasted no time embracing the local culture. Before 10 a.m., I was standing in line to sample the famous key lime pie. It was there that I met Nick. With my ship sailing later that afternoon, he had until 3 p.m. to show me the best of Key West.
The chocolate-dipped frozen key lime pie truly needs to come with an addiction warning.
Duval Street is an irresistible mix of coastal charm and unapologetic eccentricity.
We walked to the Southernmost Point, stopped at the butterfly exhibit, browsed galleries and shops, and enjoyed Key West’s unmistakably quirky character.
Artful Detours
I purchased a giclée print by Florida Keys photographer Jack Louden titled Rhapsody in Blue. It features a blue heron with ruffled feathers and a slightly disheveled attitude.
Island Vibe
Music spills out of every other doorway along Duval Street. Bars and restaurants feature live performers with that laid-back energy that makes you want to find a seat and recover with a cold drink.
Sloppy Joe’s had a live band playing. It’s not a sandwich shop—it’s more of a Key West personality test.
By night, Nick explained, the volume goes up, and the party spills right onto Duval Street. You’re either walking past it—or joining the fray.
Freeport, Grand Bahama
Freeport had an entirely different energy, so I opted to stay on the ship and conserve mine.
A wise decision. Some of the best entertainment was still to come.
No Rhythm – No Problem
Every cruise ship has its legends.
On this sailing, they arrived as a matched set. Two older brothers—gray hair, matching island shirts, and the unmistakable confidence of men who believed they absolutely had the moves.
They didn’t dance so much as stomp grapes. Feet pounding. Arms flailing. Jumping, skipping—trying to keep up with every musical beat.
They had the exact same moves. It was like watching a comedy sketch in unison.
And honestly, you had to admire them. What they lacked in rhythm, they more than made up for with enthusiasm.
One brother had a dance partner—a tiny, joyful woman who floated around the dance floor with her arms in the air, prancing like she was performing a slow‑motion strut. She was in her own happy little world.
The audience loved it.
Phones came out. People laughed. Not because anyone was being cruel, but because it was impossible not to smile while watching someone completely lost in the moment.
The second brother had a different approach. He had no dance partner—so he simply went shopping for one.
He surfed the audience like a man on a mission, approaching every woman in sight. That included married women seated with their husbands, which was bold… and deeply optimistic.
The Euphoria Lounge had its own herd that night, reminding me that life is too short to sit on the sidelines waiting until you’re perfect.
Sometimes you just have to get out there and dance—to whatever beat you hear.
Lip Sync Gone Wild
The lip sync contest turned into a comedy audition.
These people came ready to win.
There are extroverts… and then there are performance artists.
The finalists chose their songs and costumes. They danced on bar tables. They slithered down stairwells. Men took off their shirts and tossed them into the audience like confetti.
But the winning performance belonged to a woman who chose Whitney Houston’s “And I’m Telling You, I’m Not Going.”
She didn’t just perform for the audience.
She selected a co-star.
And she chose wisely.
The gentleman she singled out was watching from the stairwell.
He was in.
She took his hand, led him to center stage, and continued the performance directly into his ear.
He reached back and affectionately touched her thigh.
Apparently, he was really in.
By the final verse, they were embracing while she somehow managed to stay committed to the performance.
The song ended. They did not. The host finally had to separate them.
And yes—she won the free cruise.
There’s something about a cruise ship that gives people permission to leave their inhibitions at the dock.
Service at Sea
My room attendant, Yakub, was quietly attentive without being intrusive.
Each evening, I’d find an adorable towel animal waiting on the bed—one of those small touches that makes you smile.
Final Thoughts
Key West had been on my bucket list for years, and it did not disappoint.
It’s colorful, quirky, slightly unruly—and impossible to experience in a single day.
Maybe that was the theme of the entire trip: a little less restraint, a little more living.
I left Key West feeling like I’d only read the first chapter.
But I’ll definitely be back to see how the story unfolds.
Every great island story starts with something falling apart.
One of my favorite memories from this cruise wasn’t an excursion.
It wasn’t the turquoise water.
It wasn’t the chocolate-dipped frozen Key lime pie on a stick.
It was the day my flip-flop was taken hostage by another tourist… and I met the most notorious little outlaw in Key West.
It started innocently enough.
I was standing in line at a shop on Duval Street, patiently waiting for my chance to order the famous Key lime pie.
The tourist in front of me suddenly stepped backward.
Not a gentle bump.
Not a polite little shuffle.
His entire weight landed squarely on my right foot, pinning it to the floor like he’d staked a claim on Florida real estate.
My foot was trapped.
I pulled.
He leaned.
I pulled harder.
SNAP.
The thong of my flip-flop surrendered with all the determination of a beach umbrella in hurricane season.
One second, I was standing there taking in the vibe.
The next…
A tourist blew out my flip-flop.
And that’s when the guy standing behind me started laughing.
“Oh… you’re about to meet Brooster.“
I looked around.
“Who?”
He nodded toward a rooster strutting in our direction with the confidence of a six-inch-tall mob boss collecting protection money.
Apparently, Brooster is infamous on Duval Street.
Not because he’s friendly.
Or charming.
Or the unofficial island mascot.
Brooster is a feathered menace with a rap sheet longer than Key West.
Rumor has it that there are actual Wanted posters
While I was still trying to process that information, Brooster marched straight toward my flip-flop carnage like he’d just been dispatched to investigate the crime scene.
He stopped inches from my foot, puffed out his chest, cocked his head, and stared at my broken sandal with the expression of a detective who’d already solved the case.
Then he looked up at me and let out a loud crow!
I’m fairly certain that translated to…
“Well… that’s not good.”
Before I could object, he took one aggressive step toward my exposed toes.
I jumped.
He pecked, missed, and looked genuinely disappointed.
Then fate intervened.
A little girl walking by me gasped as her key lime pie slipped from her hands and landed on the ground.
Brooster scurried into action.
Within seconds, he was sprinting down Duval Street with a chunk of pie like he’d just robbed the First National Bank of Desserts.
A local glanced over, shrugged, and said,
“Yeah… he does that.”
As if grand theft pie by poultry was simply part of island life.
By now, I was laughing so hard I’d almost forgotten my flip-flop was hanging together by sheer optimism.
The guy behind me was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.
“Well… Jimmy Buffett warned you.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
He introduced himself as Nick, an architect who split his time between Palm Beach and Key West on work projects. During those visits, he’d apparently sampled enough Key lime pie to qualify as a local food critic, so he insisted I order his favorite.
Then, before I could object, he quietly paid for it.
As I attempted to hobble away on one functioning flip flop, he looked down and said,
“Hang on… I can fix that.”
Now ladies…
There are few things more attractive than competence.
Especially when it’s unexpectedly applied to your footwear.
We wandered down the Street to his office, where, with the confidence of a man who had clearly repaired everything from staircases to seawalls, he rebuilt my flip-flop in just a few minutes.
Good as new.
Actually… better.
The rest of the afternoon unfolded without a plan.
Nick offered to show me a few local favorites.
As we wandered Duval Street, we talked about travel, architecture, my fantasy barndominium design, and all the little places tourists usually miss. He pointed out hidden courtyards and his favorite shops and restaurants that most visitors would never discover on their own.
Every few blocks, a rooster strutted across the street like traffic laws were merely suggestions. After a while, I realized Brooster wasn’t the exception… he was simply the most accomplished member of the feathered gang that apparently ran Duval Street.
Before we parted ways, Nick asked what my plans were once the ship docked. I let him know I’d only be in West Palm Beach for a few hours, using a Hilton day pass before catching the Brightline back to Orlando.
We exchanged numbers, and I boarded the ship.
Quiet Storm
On Friday morning, we docked in West Palm Beach beneath dark skies. Thunder rolled overhead, and sheets of rain hammered the deck. I opened the Brightline app to adjust my train time, but the Friday route to Orlando is evidently prime real estate — every seat was sold out.
I was on the phone with the Hilton West Palm Beach, trying to sort out my suddenly complicated day, when my phone pinged.
It was a message from Nick: “Not the best pool day. I’m in Palm Beach. How about a museum and lunch?”
I was beginning to feel like one of Nick’s architectural projects. First the flip-flop repair, and now a rainy-day rescue. Apparently, I had become a work in progress.
Luckily, he offered to come find me rather than the other way around. This was a wise decision on his part.
Navigation has never been my greatest strength.
In the last few days, I had gotten lost driving to the Orlando airport at 5 a.m. to catch the train and turned around on the cruise ship so many times that I began to wonder if I had somehow entered a nautical version of Groundhog Day.
By the time we docked in Freeport, I was so exhausted from trying to locate myself that I slept through the entire day.
In hindsight, Nick’s rescue was less a romantic gesture and more a public safety measure.
We spent the morning wandering through the Norton Museum of Art. I was especially drawn to the Chinese galleries, where centuries-old landscape paintings, jade carvings, and delicate porcelain reminded me how art can tell the story of an entire civilization.
It was pouring rain, so we settled into the museum’s restaurant for a casual lunch. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the sculpture garden.
After lunch, we crossed the bridge to Palm Beach and wandered through the grand rooms of Whitehall, Henry Flagler’s Gilded Age mansion.
I somehow found myself in the middle of an impromptu architectural lecture — full hand gestures, historical context, and the unmistakable enthusiasm of someone who has been waiting years to explain cornices.
By late afternoon, the rain had given way to blue skies. We ended the day with a leisurely seafood dinner overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway before he dropped me at the Brightline station to board the train to Orlando.
Mr. Fix-It
Nick is now officially the newest member of my travel tribe — a group of wonderful people I’ve met along the way who remind me that the world is still full of kindness, generosity, and surprises.
Every travel tribe needs a few essential members: the navigator (which I clearly am not), the storyteller, the adventurer, and apparently, Mr. Fixit.
I’m not sure when Nick officially became Mr. Fixit, but the evidence was mounting. First, the flip‑flop. Then, the weather disaster. Give him a broken plan, a little chaos, and apparently, he’s in his element.
Turns out, every great island story really does start with something falling apart — a flip‑flop, a carefully planned itinerary, or a day that refuses to go according to schedule.
But sometimes those are exactly the moments that bring the greatest surprises, the kindest people, and the most unforgettable journeys.
Over dinner, I casually asked Nick if people ever tell him he looks a little like George Clooney. He considered it for approximately half a second and said, “Once in a while.”
Of course. Naturally.
But then he told me the funniest comment he’d ever received:
“If George Clooney and Pierce Brosnan had a love child, I think you’re it.”
I nearly inhaled a shrimp.
Final Thoughts
And that’s when I realized the Travel Gods had really been smiling down on me in Key West.
Not only had I met Mr. Fixit, but I’d also met a man who was intelligent, charming, and generous—all traits that create a solid foundation for friendship.
Forget the Key Lime Pie… THIS was the local attraction.
Well played, Travel Gods. Well played.
As I unpacked my travel case, I looked at the patched-up flip-flop.
Another memory in paradise… courtesy of a broken sandal.
Somewhere in Key West, Jimmy Buffett was probably humming a new tune.
🎵 “The blowouts are nothing but souvenirs with soles.”
