• What to know if you go

Thomas Swick/South Florida Sun-Sentinel/KRT (ENLARGE)

Zbyszek Koziol sits among his colorful paintings in his gallery in Key West.

KEY WEST — The waitress at Two Friends Patio Restaurant spoke with a soft diffidence that was repeated in her manner.

"Where are you from?" I asked her.

"Belarus," she said, before taking my order for conch chowder and fritters. It was my first meal in Key West in over a year.

A few minutes later, I heard my waitress chatting with the young man at a neighboring table. With my Polish, I was able to make out a couple of words. Piwo (beer) was one of them.

"Is he Belarusian, too?" I asked her when she brought my chowder.

"No, he's Ukrainian. But we can understand each other."

Elena came from a town near the Polish border. She had spent the summer working in Ocean City, N.J., and now was passing the winter in Key West. A sort of working girl's endless summer. But she was going back to Belarus to become an English teacher.

"Who's your favorite writer in English?" I asked her.

"O. Henry," she said.

I hadn't thought of him in years.

From socialist states to the tropics

Ever since my first visit to Key West in 1991, when I brushed up on my Polish with my Pier House chambermaid, I have been intrigued by the city's Eastern European workforce. I like the seeming incongruity of Slavic conchs, the cloud-covered contracted to a subtropical isle, the children of socialism adrift in Margaritaville.

They started coming in the early '90s, mostly from Poland, a remnant perhaps from the (then recent) days of the Iron Curtain when Poles had more freedom to travel than any of the other Eastern Europeans. "There was a man in Chicago who brought in Poles to work in the hotels — supposedly legally," said Tom Hambright, Monroe County historian. "The Casa Marina was the first hotel to employ them."

They were followed, he said, by Russians and non-Slavs from the Baltic republics — mainly Latvians and Lithuanians — who eventually were joined by most of the bloc: Belarusians, Ukrainians, Hungarians, Slovaks and Czechs, who today are probably the most numerous. They took jobs as chambermaids, dishwashers, cooks, waiters, bartenders, bellmen, receptionists, shop assistants. And they survived the high cost of living by working multiple jobs and giving new meaning to the concept of a "shared living arrangement." The term "hot bed," which you hear, describes the practice of sleeping in shifts.

Numbers are impossible to come by. You also hear stories about "labor mobs" and "shady contractors" who supply businesses with illegal workers. And more innocent tales of "overextended work visas." While at the same time, more Slavic names are appearing on property listings, a sign that some at least are not only staying, but doing OK.

Artist on Fleming Street

The shingle outside the gallery on Fleming Street read "Zbyszek." And inside, amidst colorful paintings, Zbyszek sat. With his bald head and white moustache and jaded eyes he looked like a landowner from an 19th century Polish drama. Except for the shorts and sandals.

He arrived in Key West in 1987, after journeys through the Soviet Union and Asia and a four-year stay in Australia. "There were two other Polish artists here then," he said. It was two years before the Berlin Wall came down. Who, watching that remarkable event unfold on television, thought: This is going to change the face of Key West?

A few years ago he packed his paintings, and those of his American wife, Tippi, and moved to Delray Beach. "Too many old people," he said. Then he tried St. Petersburg. "Even worse." So he returned to Fleming Street, next to Key West Island Books, even though he considers Key West "a redneck town." No Vietnamese food. No Kundera at the bookstore. (Don't even think about finding Milosz.) Low-end tourists who don't buy much art. There used to be a Czech bar, Bohemia, but it closed. Still, there is a Polish deli.

"They get everything from Chicago," he said approvingly. "Herring, mackerel, kabanosy." Suddenly I had a strange vision of herring fritters.

Polish sausage at Pierogi Market Place

Pierogi Market Place sat on White Street just across Truman, in the everyday, residents' corridor of town.

"This side is cheaper," Urszula said.

She was from Zakopane, in the Tatra mountains. She and her husband, Henryk, moved to Key West in 1990 after four years in New York City. Urszula got a job as a chambermaid; Henryk worked as a dishwasher at the Bagatelle restaurant on Duval Street, before becoming a chef. His current job was kitchen manager at Turtle Kraals, and Urszula still worked as a chambermaid in the mornings. "Because I like exercise, you know."

The sign behind the meat counter read: "Kielbasa, Kaszanka, Kabanosy, Poledwica, Krakowska." There were also Hungarian salamis, Czech magazines, Polish videos, including Quo Vadis. "The priest likes the movies," Urszula said. Father Henryk Pawelec serves at St. Mary Star of the Sea Catholic church, where a Mass is said in Polish every Sunday evening at 7.

"There was a Polish restaurant a few years ago, but the guy moved to Orlando." A lot of Poles, she said, had moved north to Orlando, Tampa, Clearwater. Her husband, in fact, had bought a house in Brooksville, where they plan to move after their son graduates from high school.

But until then, Pierogi Market Place is open 10-6 every day. "We like work," Urszula said laughing.

Whenever I told locals that I was writing about Eastern Europeans in Key West, they almost always had good things to say about them: their work ethic, their pleasant disposition, their generally peaceful ways. Though there was a dual stabbing in the vicinity of Bohemia a year or so before the place closed. And, of course, there are the "shady contractors."

Easy to get around

For the Eastern Europeans, Key West has obvious attractions: sun, warmth, a compactness that makes getting around both easy and cheap (unlike New York or Chicago). Also, there is comfort in being stuck on a small island far from home with people whose homes are equally distant.

The Polish Mass, according to Father Pawelec, draws some Slovaks, Ukrainians and even a few Czechs. As well as occasional Hispanics. "It must be like Greek to them," he said laughing, before adding that he is now in the process of learning Spanish. (He is able to say Mass in Spanish.) When asked if the congregation is young, like most of the workforce, he said, "50-50. Most of the young people don't come to church. They party. They work hard."

"It's like one big family," a Polish waitress at La Concha said to me one afternoon when I asked her about the foreign community. "My best friend is Hungarian."

Kasia came for three months and stayed, legally, for five years. She had studied architecture in Lodz, and was soon going back, though the situation for young people in Poland wasn't encouraging. Still, she didn't see a lot of them following in her footsteps. When countries join the European Union, their citizens are free to work in certain Western European countries.

"I think," she said, "it's the end of the American Dream for Eastern Europeans."

One night I joined some writers who were attending a conference on a tour of the town led by a local librarian. It was cold, so I wore a tweed sport coat atop a crew neck sweater.

The first stop was a strip club above a store on Duval Street. "A lot of the dancers are Eastern European," the librarian told me as we climbed the steps. "Research," I thought.

Inside, I asked a young woman making the rounds where she was from. She looked a little taken aback. "The Czech Republic," she said. I asked another. "Ukraine." And a third. "Brazil." A fourth woman said she was Russian. Perhaps this is why they call them exotic dancers.

Later, a young woman slipped her arm around my waist and sidled up close.

"You look very erudite," she said.

Now it was my turn to be surprised.

"That was a good word," I said.

"I'm American."

Being from Belarus

Marta stood behind the counter of an eyeglass shop on Duval Street. She was from Warsaw, where in winter you can go a week without seeing the sun, but she never attended the sunset ritual. And despite her outgoing manner, she seemed to enjoy the contemplative life. She was currently trying to translate her poems into English, and finding it difficult. "My poetry is metaphysical," she said in English. "Hermetic."

Later, inside Mattheesen's Candy Kitchen, Tania was keeping her roommate Marina company while she cleaned up before heading home. Enormous cookies sat in the display case like metaphors for American obesity.

"People ask us where we're from," Tania said. "We say 'Belarus.' They say, 'Where's that? Africa?'"'

She worked down the street at Upper Crust. (I had had a delicious pizza there, served by a young Russian.) I told her the name of her pizzeria was a double entendre and explained the meaning of "upper crust." She seemed pleased with the new knowledge.

Tania and Marina shared an apartment in Bahama Village with a young man from Uzbekistan. Their neighbors were Russian. They thought the neighborhood was dangerous.

Before coming to Key West, Tania had worked in a casino in Tunica, Miss.. Her dream was to study English in Boston.

"I miss doing homework," she said. "In school I hated doing it, but now I miss it."

I thought of her O. Henry-reading compatriot. And of all the people who love to say the town has gone soft since Hemingway left.

IF YOU GO:

Getting there: Take Route 1 south until it ends.

Eating: Since the closing of Bohemia, no new Eastern European restaurants have opened in Key West. Though Eastern Europeans work in many of the restaurants, so you can have your conch chowder cooked by a Latvian or your pizza served with a Russian accent.

Lodging: I stayed at The Popular House (cheerful Czech chambermaid) at 415 William St., 800-438-6155, www.keywestbandb.com It is a pretty white house with a double-decker porch and a small garden in the back. Off-season rates for doubles range from $59-$175.

Foods: Pierogi Market Place, 1008 White St., has an excellent selection of Polish sausage, chocolates, canned fish, sauerkraut, pickles; also videos and magazines.

Art: Zbyszek Gallery, 517 Fleming St., offers a colorful collection of paintings by Zbyszek and his wife, Tippi. Samples are on the Web at www.zbyszekgallery.com.