Of my 29 visits to Key West, 1976-2005, I stayed during 16 of them at an inexpensive and agreeably funky little guest house called the Tilton Hilton, on Angela Street between Duval and Simonton. A sign hanging above the hallway announced, This is a high-class joint. Act respectable. Every year, I'd exchange Christmas cards with the manager, Cindi, who was also the owner's daughter. And then about late August, we'd exchange newsy letters in which we'd confirm reservations for the coming November. But late in March of 1999, Cindi wrote to tell me that they were selling the place and moving to Tampa. The new owners were going to gut the building and completely rebuild it into an upscale guest house.

For the next two November visits, I found alternatives that were reasonably satisfactory, and then, beginning 2001, I discovered a place called the Caribbean House, on Petronia Street at the corner of Whitehead. It was a new, two-story building, but constructed in authentic Victorian style, and the rates were very reasonable. Each room had its own private bathroom, unlike the Tilton Hilton. This is where I stayed during my last several visits to Key West. I continued to visit Simonton Beach, described in my last column, and to take in the scene on Duval Street. But the social interactions were becoming less interesting.

One of Key West's small but still reliable little pleasures was a Burger King restaurant that occupied a large, two-story Victorian on the northwest side of Front Street, just a couple of blocks from Simonton Beach. Beginning about 1997, I started treating myself to breakfast here twice a week, as a change from having cold cereal in the room. I'd always order a special that consisted of a Croissanwich (fried egg and sausage as a sandwich) with hash browns and coffee, and take it upstairs, where there was a porch overlooking the street, sheltered by the roof but open on the street side. This porch also became an occasional hangout for the Simonton Beach kids on rainy days. The managers never hassled us, and we even got a discount, as “locals.” There was a restroom in the rear of this second story and an outside staircase that gave access without having to pass through the restaurant, even after hours.

When I arrived at the Caribbean House on the first of November, 2005, Kevin, the manager, with whom I'd become quite friendly over the course of my several stays here, informed me immediately that next fall, the Caribbean House would no longer be open as a guest house. The owner was a contractor with a big crew of workers, and he was going to start housing them at the place.

With Kevin's help, I investigated various options for the following year, and made a list. Of the couple of places that weren't outrageously expensive, none took advance reservations, and so arriving by airplane would have been a crapshoot. I even considered whether I might drive down, to give myself more flexibility. But it didn't take long for me to realize that I would never be returning to Key West again.

Not only was the young crowd gone from the scene this year, even the familiar faces of the amiable alcoholics and hustlers I'd known had mysteriously disappeared. There was only one fellow, 28, with a second child on the way, who became a casual friend on Duval Street.

Even the Burger King where I'd enjoyed breakfast twice weekly and where the second story porch was an occasional rainy weather hangout, even the Burger King was gone, having metamorphosed into a T-shirt shop. Just what Key West needed, another T-shirt shop. When you start getting nostalgic about a Burger King, I said to myself, you know it's time to leave.

And so, I spent these two weeks in November of 2005 saying goodbye to Key West. Goodbye to the memories of showing up in town and leaving a week or two later nicely tanned, having had some serious fun and having enjoyed the camaraderie of street buddies. Goodbye to oyster specials, on the half shell for 25 cents apiece, to finding fresh coconuts on lawns and yards and learning how to open and enjoy them, goodbye to fresh, ripe avocados from the tree in back of the Tilton Hilton.

Goodbye to the memories of leaving, in a small way, my own mark on Old Town, of having become a small part of its anecdotal history. I was thankful for being able to experience this closure, for being able to make my farewell right here on Duval Street, rather than being forced by fate to say goodbye from afar.

There had been many moments of boredom, of course, and of cursing the humidity if the day was unusually warm. And there had been more than a few disappointments, as there always are in life. But still, everything considered, Key West had been good to me. It had not only let me share in its pleasures, it had accepted me and accepted what I had to offer. And in all my visits, I'd hardly experienced a whiff of resentment or suspicion or ostracism, even from the down-and-outers with whom I had little in common besides the need for companionship. And lastly, Key West had told me when it was time to call it quits. And it had given me the chance to truly say goodbye.