This was October. Winter in Dublin had just started making me wish we still lived in California. Losing light fast at a rate of an hour a month, I quickly made plans to fly far away: Spain! Sort of... I just wanted to go somewhere where we could roast our bones, like a last hurrah to the summer we never had. The Canary Islands were calling; the Hawaii of Europe off the coast of Africa, people there live in perpetual spring. The sun had all summer been getting the coastal waters to a tropical warmth just for us, and October was the peak.
Its much easier to pack for a week in a warm climate than a week anywhere else. I happily wadded up my airy sun dresses to cram them in Jons shoes, and managed to get a weeks worth of brightly colored beachwear into my pink camping backpack. Because no matter how much you stuff it, a backpack never gets checked for size if youre flying Ryan Air.
In genius forethought this time I rented a hotel room fitted with a kitchenette and balcony, because a week is a lot of days to have to eat in restaurants. I had dreams of deep glowing sunsets, and wine on our porch listening to the Atlantic swallowing up footprints like candy. It rained our first day. I guess instead of bringing California sun with us wherever we go, Ireland weather now clings to our backsides, following us unasked. But the scorching heat of the sun in the Islands was enough to burn even the Dublin frost away, and I barely wore shoes for the rest of the glorious week.
We swam where dolphins play. We drank banana juice and coconut rum at all hours of the day, because its not a beach vacation till theres rum involved. We threw open the doors and let the tepid winds blow through our hotel room with abandon. We ate foreign fried meats on unseasoned rice, and looked out onto a strange volcanic landscape. We could see the open ocean from our 'beach front' room, all one inch of it. But seeing it from the hotel room wasnt why we were there anyway. The waves beckoned and we answered. Even I, long harboring a true dislike of water, didnt want to get out once I was in. There was something wonderful about being lifted gently by the salty bathwater-warm surf, feeling my skin becoming red and crispy for the first time in years. Jon was done snorkeling the clear blues in search for small fish way before I was. The sky was turning purple, the street lights came on, the attendants were putting away the chairs, and he had to drag me out of the surge.
Fresh off our Spanish holiday the month prior didnt spoil this trip one bit, like we thought it might. Similar food, language, and culture. But we didnt go for tapas even once. We could eat their Iberian ham forever, but cold pink soup just isnt our thing, even though we gave it a princely go before in Seville. We spent a couple nights hand-in-hand (and ice cream in other hand) walking the sandy shores in not much else but flip flops and bathing suits, because not even the thermal air in the Islands wanted to go to bed yet.
We felt as if we should have been celebrating something, because it was such a long holiday, filled every day with heat and love and exotic reaches seldom seen. We decided maybe it was a farewell to the summer gone. And so it was.
