Sure there is the white sand and the threat of falling coconuts. There are even pillow-shaped clouds and enough Germans and Cubans speaking their languages to their children to feel as if the United States is some distant place. But when the Southernmost point in the continental United States is within walking distance, and Hemingway’s Shangri-La is two doors down, then the mind churns over the Stars and Bars a little bit. In America, in American cities, and even on Key West, there is a black ghetto, hopeless and photogenic, bopping along to its own rhythm like the temperate waters that lap against the sand. In one day it is possible to see flickering waters and the dark streets of this country’s sub-conscious mind.