Nearly Naked in Tenerife

Well, here we are in Tenerife, a tiny volcanic speck in the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of the Western Sahara. When I lived in Morocco many years ago, I was conscious of the presence of the Canaries out in the ocean -- not that I could see them -- but even then I was farther north than we are now.

Years ago I read Barbara Kingsolver's book of essays, "High Tide in Tucson," in which she wrote partly about the Canary Islands. Apparently she lived here for a while, and although I haven't re-read that particular essay in years I did save it in my file of favorite writing. I should look at it again. I remember her describing the arid, rocky environment, the cactus and low-slung thorny plants. It's a very weird landscape, though to be honest I haven't really seen it yet (except from the plane, above). It was dark by the time we emerged from the airport and the sun is just coming up now.

It's already been an eventful trip. Dave and I got ourselves launched about 9 a.m. yesterday after putting our stuff in a single backpack. I thought we packed amazingly well until Dave said to me on the Thameslink train on the way to Gatwick, "Guess what I forgot?

I was thinking a toothbrush, or deodorant. "What?" I said.

"Clothes!"

Yes, you read that correctly. Dave managed to pack his medicine and some underwear, but he packed no outerwear at all. The only clothes he has are literally on his body. How this happened I have no idea but I can't stop laughing about it. Fortunately we're only here for two nights.

On the plane I plowed through the final 150 pages of "The Old Curiosity Shop" and finished it just as we were preparing to land. I get some of my best reading done on airplanes, when there are no distractions and I'm able to simply sit and concentrate. I didn't hate the book, and there were some good moments and colorful phrases, but it wasn't Dickens' best. It was basically a long meditation on mortality. I still wonder if I'd have felt differently about it had I not read in the introduction that Little Nell was going to die. I still can't believe they gave away the ending.

We're staying in a secluded resort community called Los Jardines de Abama, just up the hill from the Ritz-Carlton. I think these are really residences that are meant to be purchased, but they're used for tourist accommodation until they're sold. We have a swanky, fully-furnished place with a terrace overlooking the ocean and a Hiper-Dino grocery store within walking distance.

There are three restaurants within our complex, which seems mostly devoid of people. Last night, tired and hungry and without any supplies, we tried to go to the one closest to us, which supposedly serves typical Canarian dishes such as seafood. The concierge at the hotel told us with a downcast look that no tables were available. He went downstairs while we contemplated ordering room service, but then came bounding back up and said he had a table after all.

We were taken downstairs to a restaurant that was at least three-quarters empty, and that seemed to have one maitre'd and two servers. There were, I think, four other occupied tables. We sat down, were treated well and had a passable meal, wondering where everybody else was. (Granted, it was about 7:30 p.m., which is probably early for Spaniards to eat dinner.)

Look at those stars! I don't see anything like that in London. As you can see from the top picture, the island was socked in when we landed, but the sky cleared pretty quickly.

Oh, and making coffee this morning was an adventure. The coffee machine is this cheap-looking Nespresso pod thing, so I decided to make "cowboy coffee" with supplies from the Hiper-Dino (whose mascot is, of course, a dinosaur). I got up, boiled some water, added a few spoonfuls of grounds and the coffee promptly boiled over. I pulled it off the heat and let it brew a few minutes before straining it into a bowl, French-style, because our only cups are these tiny little pretentious things that I could empty in three sips. So now I'm sitting with my bowl of coffee looking out the sliding doors onto our terrace and, beyond, the lightening ocean and the neighboring island of La Gomera, which I think is actually the island Barbara Kingsolver wrote about.

Fortunately we have a washing machine. We may need it for Dave's one shirt and one pair of pants!