After a quick 20-minute flight from Miami I touch down amid swaying palm trees and a balmy early summer breeze. I am greeted by a sign that practically screams at me: ’Welcome to the Conch Republic.’ I’m nervous that I’ve caught the wrong flight, but my tour guide, Stephen Murray-Smith, assures me that I am indeed in the correct location.
The name was coined by the locals after Key West (in tongue-in-cheek fashion) seceded from the Union in the early ’80s. This is my first taste of Key West, and I’m already in love with its crazy charm and distinct local identity. It feels like nowhere else in the United States (technically, it isn’t), and as Steve reminds me, I am closer to Cuba than the contiguous 48 states.