What?! I Like Beans. And The Beach. And Even Cats…Mostly

Spending my time at the beach last week had me wondering what it would be like to actually live in a tropical environment.  The warmth.  The sun.  The sand.  The sea air. A chair on the sand watching the waves while sipping a drink. Or five.


But,  I’m not sure I could handle a Christmas without snow or freezing temperatures.  I’m sure I could do without the sleet and freezing rain, but what about Christmas Eve bread?  What about the tradition of doling out homemade bread to ma peeps?  I’m not entirely convinced I would feel compelled to bake in 90 degree heat.  In fact, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t.  And who would I bake for?  Unless all of my neighbours and friends came down to my tropical island at Christmas, there would be no point in baking 16 loaves of bread.

Would it feel the same?  No warm fires or candles or early darkness at 4:30pm.  No hot cocoa or cold noses coming in from shovelling or walking the dog.  No parkas, boots, wet gloves or frozen windshield wipers.  No snow tires, layers of clothes and worrying about slipping on the ice during a run.   Wait…what was the point?

That beach, though.

Sand, sun and warmth.


I think I could manage.  Walking the beach every morning and sipping coffee on my balcony as the sun comes up.  I could sit out in the evenings without swatting flies or shivering from the 110+km/h winds bellowing around me.

As someone says, the grass is always greener, but in this case it literally is.  Greener.

I’ve been back to work one whole day and I haven’t stopped shivering since I walked in the door.  Not that it’s overly cold here, but I just haven’t been able to acclimate back to cooler temperatures.

I think I got used to heat and humidity.

And sand.

And sunshine.

And wearing shorts and tops without worrying about what kind of shoes to shove on my sockless feet.

Yeah, it sounds awesome.  I wonder what it’s like in Key West this time of year.  I could be Hemingway-esque and hove away in a house somewhere, drinking until the wee hours and writing until my computer conks out.  But then, I would just be another alcoholic reclusive writer living with 40 cats and eating beans from a can.



Ernest Hemingway’s humble abode in Key West.  I could live here.  And drink. And take care of the cats…is that a can of beans I hear opening?

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