I walked our of the Mudd Club at dawn. The gray skies promised snow. I had my bag in hand. I headed to the Holland Tunnel and stuck out my thumb. I was hitchhiking to Florida to meet my friends, the Bertonis, in Key West. The first ride took me to Philadelphia. I wasn’t on I-95, but a side highway. It was snowing. A wet hard snow. My feet were wet in an instant. The slushy fall wet my clothing. I had not been expecting this. I was fucked. The sky was dropped down lower.

Planes were taking off to the west from Philly’s airport. I had enough of hitchhiking and hailed a passing taxi. The driver took me to the airport, complaining about the weather. I bought a one-way ticket to Miami, which was taking off in fifteen minutes. I ran through the provincial airport and made the flight. It was full of young Spring Break revelers.

I had a trio of seats to myself.

Feeling like a wet dog left outside for bad behavior I ate the offered breakfast of processed eggs and ersatz sausage, washed down by bitter OJ. I crashed across the seat, shivering in my damp jeans and leather jacket and stayed asleep till the pilot announced our landing at Miami International.

Without any package to claim I deboarded the Whisper Jet into the air-conditioned terminal. I bought cheap sunglasses and a Florida map to plot my route to the Keys, then exited into the bright sunlight. I hadn’t been in Miami since 1975 and was struck on how the sun-bleached flatness extended from was so flat from the parking lot to the horizon. I jumped on a southbound city bus, instead of hitchhiking since Florida cops had it out for any nails sticking out of the conforming public. They made NYPD seem like hippies. The bus traveled through Coral Gables, Coconut Grove and the outer Cuban barrios and black slums.

By the time the bus reached the end of its route, I was the only Caucasian on it and I felt good about being away from my race.

I began to hitchhike on US 1. The interstate was forbidden to me. B+Cuban and Black construction workers drove down the four-laner below Homestead to Florida City. US 1 was surrounded by the Everglades. A Cuban emigre gave me a ride to Islamorada, where I caught a bus to Key West. The old highway ended at Duvall street. It was 10PM on Duvall Street. The twenty-hour trip was no odyssey. I called the Bertonis. They weren’t far away. I was in Key West and I was dry and warm. I walked to their rented house, happy to be away from the last lash of winter.

ps the man in the snowy photo is the poet WH Auden. I think.