After an embarassing week of lousy articles, Maxtor Simplex, a refugee, handed back his journalist's I.D. to his editor and caught the next plane for the Florida Keys.
Hours later, checked-in, unpacked and sporting loose fitting attire, he relaxed in a wicker chaisse longue under a palm tree in Key West and sipped sparingly at his drink, the bartender's own invention, mostly rum and tequila, called without a touch of irony, a molotov cocktail.
The bartender was not an emigre, he just thought the drink was explosive.
Maxtor let himself be lulled by the slurp of lazy waves along the white sand beach. The climate was idyllic.
In twenty years, he reminded himself, this beach, and the hotel where he stayed, El Relaxo, would be 4 metres under water.
But not now, not yet.