Some people call it Paradise, even the local police do (and write it on the sides of their prowlers). It's the edge of an unbalanced world, a strange mix of drunkards, Jocks, drag queens, hippies, stoners, baffled tourists, Ms Americas and millionaires. Everybody is looking for something; cigars from Cuba, $4 coconut milk drinks, non-stop blues and erotic cabaret, intense heat, bad behaviour, water sports and marlin fishing. All there somewhere. It defies any easy description, it's an experience where you tick boxes you didn't know you had. I saw Jimmy Page's 1959 Les Paul up for sale alongside a Hendrix Strat, Sting's Precision Bass, SRV's Strat, Kurt Cobain's Jaguar, Keef's 335 and a host of other things no ordinary person could ever afford. The six toed cats (49 of them) asleep on Ernest Hemingway's bed and a vibe that says truly "you can check out any time you like but you can never leave." Well we did eventually, back up Highway 1 in the blazing sun in a grand race against all the bad drivers of the USA, home safe and as ever still bewildered by it all.
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