Monday, 21 February 2005 | Robert Is Here

On a corner somewhere between Miami and the Everglades is an open-air fruit stand that's been there for 40 years. It's surrounded by fields of scattered tractors, and workers with wide-brimmed hats. The words "Robert Is Here" are written in white paint directly on the brown shingles that cover the sloped roof, in letters that are about ten feet tall.

Out of curiosity we stopped to check it out yesterday, certainly not unlike every other tourist who drives by. But then, the five of us were tempted by just about every detour we came across: an alligator farm, a billboard that bragged "Monkey Jungle," and even by a sign that said "Snake Bight," which belonged to a trail that disappeared into the woods along the highway.

I thought Robert Is Here was something of an obnoxious tourist trap á la South of the Border when we originally drove past it, on our way to the Everglades. But when we pulled into Robert's dusty parking lot on our way back, we discovered that, rather than kitsch, the place was full of bright and firm produce that begged to be purchased, however impractical it was for us to buy it at that moment.

Immediately after we arrived, a middle-aged married couple walked up to me and suggested that I hold their cockatoos. They'd noticed my interest in the birds when I got out my camera, and they delivered the birds right to me, as if handing me something as mundane as a flier. "Here, take our birds. And we'll take a photo of you!" I nodded and inaudibly told them I loved them for that. The birds' talons wrapped around my wrists like fancy bracelets, and one of them bounced up and down and shrieked in what I hoped was delight. I responded by telling it every form of "hello" that I could think of.

The friendly couple, who described their birds as "family," also tried (failed) to convince me that cockatoos "have exactly the same dietary needs as humans." They mentioned that they regularly bring their cockatoos to Robert's, simply because they enjoy sharing their birds with customers, whom they then educate. "Some people think all birds are loud," the man told me. "I'm here to tell them different."

I thanked the couple repeatedly and peeled myself away, moving onto the rest of the store, which was busy and festive. There were two Model T's parked near the entrance, as well as an old man with a guitar who serenaded the people standing in line for key lime milkshakes; he was strumming Piano Man when we arrived. In the back, there was a pen full of goats, emus, and donkeys that let you pet them, and sniffed you through the chain-linked fence. In the center of the store, behind the cash register, there was Robert himself, who'd established his business when he was only 7, picking up stranded fruit from the nearby fields and putting a price on it.

The place was lively and charming and totally without pretense. When we asked for the bathrooms, Robert warned us that they weren't great (they were outhouses), and that no one cleans them on Sundays, so we might want to watch out.

After Robert's, we somewhat aimlessly headed in the direction of Key West, not ever deciding how deep into the Keys we would actually travel, but just going. At one point Todd and I (wisely!) agreed to climb out of the car to assess the cause of the slow-moving traffic. Moments after we crossed the road, the congestion subsided, and we found ourselves running down the highway to catch up with our car, with Todd yelling, "That was a great idea!" the whole way there.

The sun set behind the water as we crossed the seven-mile bridge, and it was newly dark by the time we got to the Key West bar where Hemingway was rumored to enjoy a little cockfighting. It was 3 a.m. when we drowsily pulled up to the hotel back in Coral Gables. Tanner, who graciously drove the whole way, dropped us all off, and we stumbled to our rooms, carrying bags of Robert's pineapples and salsa.