Getaways

The flight from Southwest Florida International left at 2 p.m. In 50 minutes, we would be in Key West. We eased off the runway in the gleaming white Cessna 402, then banked south toward the Everglades. It was a spectacular day, and the pilot promised a smooth flight. Below us, South Ft. Myers and Naples spread across the land.

South of Marco Island, we could see miles of bone-white beach, much of which looked inaccessible from land. I made a mental note to try to find it by boat someday. Suddenly, the land broke into a thousand irregular shapes, as if scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle laid out on the teal-blue gulf. It was the Ten Thousand Islands, a maze of mangrove cays that over time has lured pirates, adventurers, and notorious South Florida drug smugglers.

As we headed farther south, Florida Bay, separating the Everglades from the Keys, began to fade, turning from opaque emerald to a turquoise blue that seemed to glow from below.

As the Cessna banked toward the starboard side, I was staring down at what looked like a placid oriental water garden-tiny keys floating like lotus leaves over a shallow, green sea. The water turned from jade to amber as we flew over fields of sea grass, just feet below the surface. I watched carefully for sea turtles and rays.

The faded block letters of "Key West" on top of the small art deco air terminal and the pink taxicabs waiting out front signaled our arrival in another world. Our taxi driver, an older free spirit with a long blond ponytail, greeted us as we left the airplane, "Welcome to the Conch Republic."

I had been to Key West only once before, in December. It was cold and I was grumpy the entire time; my back ached from the long drive from Miami. But in May, Key West sparkled with sunlight. Blotches of colorful bougainvillea and jacaranda spilled over the white-washed walls of weathered, yet well-tended Victorian mansions.

My assignment was to write about the Marquesa Hotel, and I had no idea what to expect. I became suspicious when the driver clarified for the second time that we wanted to go to the Marquesa. He carefully deposited our minimal luggage on the porch of a pastel-blue, Greek revival-style mansion with a bronze plaque reading "National Register of Historic Places."

We walked into a cool drawing room with high windows and elegant clear pine floors. A low coffee table was covered with magazines ranging from Architectural Digest to Audubon. A tall arrangement of ginger and halyconias graced one end of the classically furnished room. This was clearly not an ordinary hotel.

A young man in khakis welcomed us from behind a Louis XIV ormolu desk, while our luggage quietly disappeared. After offering cold drinks, he explained that we would be staying in a "junior suite" just behind the second pool, which was kept at a warmer temperature, "just for the Yankees."

We followed him through a cool brick garden with the largest ti plants and fishtail palms that I had ever seen. A small outdoor table, draped in crisp linen, was set with ice tea and chilled water, refreshed throughout the day by an efficient, yet unobtrusive staff.

A white lattice wall, covered with happy-faced specimen orchids, separated the pool from the guest villas, which seemed to be tiered around the intimate terraced gardens and fountains. Each villa has its own private high-ceiling lanai, tastefully furnished with a breakfast table and love seat.

Often, hotel lobbies are far more elegant than the guest accommodations. This is not the case at the Marquesa. Our spacious suite, with 14-foot ceilings, was furnished with a wrought-iron canopy bed, seven-foot mirror, and a handsome, hand-rubbed English armoire. A white-lacquered Doric column and draped curtains serve as a divider between the sitting area and the bedroom. Miami designer Zeke Fernandez has developed an eclectic look by mixing West Indies-style reproductions with modern fabrics and custom-made teak tables from the Philippines.

But it is the small details that reveal a hotel's true quality-such as live orchids in oriental vases, sisal rugs on cool stone floors, a complimentary black umbrella inside the closet in case of a sudden tropical downpour. A rattan tray was stocked with Evian, San Pellegrino, Tanqueray, and Clos du Bois cabernet Sauvignon. The high, airy bathroom was as immaculate as a Swiss operating room, yet it had elegant touches, such as green marble floors and oversized designer fixtures in the bath.

Every detail in the crown molding and lattice panels reflected the traditional craftsmanship that is often lost in newer construction. Our hostess, co-owner Carol Wrightman, explained that the Marquesa consists of a series of completely renovated historic buildings, the masterwork of Key West remodeling contractors Richard Manley and Erik deBoer. Manley and deBoer are also co-owners of this Four Diamond-rated resort, which the Zagat Survey calls one of the 17 best places to stay in America.

Before filling our ice bucket, Bob Aman, the concierge who had shown us to our room, described a variety of dining choices in Key West and offered to make reservations. As we had only one night, we opted for the hotel's Café Marquesa. Aman recommended reservations. Later, we understood why.

While leaving our elegant room was difficult, we nonetheless headed for Duval Street, only a few blocks away. This was a more gentrified Key West from the one I remember. Every old building seemed to have a fresh coat of paint; restoration and preservation were evident everywhere. The British, German, and American tourists were casual, yet well turned out.

At 5 p.m., it was a steamy 87 degrees, and we stopped in the Hard Rock Café for a drink. Over the mahogany bar a sign read, "Serve All. Love All." A bartender named Austin, with a shaved head and pierced ears, was both friendly and polite, despite his all-black apparel, covered with souvenir pins from Hard Rock Cafés around the world.

After drinks, we headed to Mallory Square, the ritualistic spot at the foot of Duval Street where the tourists and denizens of Key West congregate nightly to celebrate the sunset. Sleek cabin cruisers and young oarsmen in kayaks glided past the dock as the crowd began to gather.

Magic was definitely in the sultry air. A woman in a rebel-flag bikini with a boa constrictor dangling from her neck was smoking a cigarette while waiting for a crowd to gather. Beside her, a young man was sitting next to a coffin-shaped pile of broken beer bottles. He promised to lie on the glass, as soon as a tourist weighing in excess of 300 pounds was willing to sit on his chest. We decided not to wait and wandered along the quay toward a gathering crowd. We watched an aggressive sword-swallower magically convert tourist dollars into his own.

My last impression of Mallory Square was of a stocky Latin man doing some kind of act with a used electric range. With sweat pouring from his face, he lifted the old four-burner above his head, screaming at the crowd in Spanish. We tore ourselves away and returned to the serenity of the Marquesa to dress for dinner.

Café Marquesa seats only 48 guests (nonsmoking), and it is almost always full. We waited at the small mahogany bar for our table and watched the chefs at work through an archway. Executive chef Susan Ferry selects only the freshest ingredients found in the Florida Keys. Her "cross-cultural" foods of the Americas has won accolades from Bon Appˇtit, Gourmet, and Food Arts magazines. The night we visited, the service was slow, but impeccable. Instead of ordering the signature New Zealand rack of lamb or grilled sea scallops, we decided on a variety of appetizers, leaving room for dessert. I ordered the Tequila-and-lime-cured salmon tostada with cr¸me fraiche and caviar ($11.50). Several little rosettes of salmon, filled with dollops of caviar, were attractively arranged on a bed of fresh field-greens. It left me wanting more. I followed with another appetizer, seafood potstickers with kim chee, seaweed salad, and a spicy peanut sauce ($8.50).

From the Marquesa's dessert menu, we shared the notorious key lime napoleon, an exotic concoction of tropical fruits, supporting a baked sugar crust, topped with subtle, key lime-flavored fresh whipped cream. It bears no resemblance to key lime pie but is a pleasing and memorable dessert. Our meal, from start to finish, was of the highest quality. Café Marquesa is elegant, without pretension, and elevates Florida cuisine to a level comparable to any in the world.

The next morning, breakfast was served on our verandah. We drank cappuccino and admired the hotel's garden, which looked as if it had been fed with anabolic steroids. A few guests were enjoying coffee and reading the newspaper around the pools, which were dappled in sunlight.

To experience old Key West, our concierge recommended the Blue Heaven, a former bordello-cum-chicken-farm with gift shop and bakery. We sat on a wooden bench beneath a century-old ficus and ate rice, black beans, and jerk chicken. A randy rooster was chasing hens around the garden, while baby chicks came to our table for cornbread scraps. The former upstairs bordello has been converted into an art gallery offering a humorous variety of Caribbean-style handpainted gifts. Total check, including chicken entertainment and gallons of ice tea, was $15 for two.

Our travel plans called for returning to Ft. Myers Beach via a Key West Excursions cruise ship. By the time we arrived at the A and B Marina, a crowd of contented tourists was waiting to board. Two boats leave at 6 p.m.-one stopping at Marco Island, the other at Ft. Myers Beach. We boarded the Atlantis, a dazzling white single-hulled cruiser that does 28 to 30 knots. The $2-million Atlantis is the newest addition to the Key West fleet. It has two air-conditioned salons and a broad upper deck for viewing. Before casting off, a young Jamaican musician in dreadlocks had already arranged his steel drums and plugged in his amplifier. Young people laughed and danced as we pulled out of the harbor. Soon, we were skimming over Florida Bay, watching the mango sunset as flying fish sailed airborne away from the wake of the big jet engines.

I watched two young girls from Sanibel flirt with one of the deck hands, while their mother slumbered next to her shopping bags in the air-conditioned lower lounge. When their flirting failed, they went giggling to the bowsprit. Facing the wind and the sea, they held their arms out like Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet, singing the theme from Titanic, "My Heart Will Go On." I wondered why I hadn't made this trip before.

-Thomas E. Whittingslow