Descriptions for Meghan

Every day, I step out the door and feel a little awed to be here. I am in the jungle. Warm sun in the middle of winter. 

It wouldn’t seem strange to you back home – this weather, it’s almost June. But I have had summer for so long and traveled such a distance that my body has no idea what month or season it is. Sometimes for days I think it’s October. Really. I recently saw a newspaper from May and thought it was from last year. 

But I remember now - it’s almost June. In New Zealand, on the south island, the temperatures are dropping to five below. In Canada, it’s May Long Weekend. The threat of frost is over, and people are planting peas.

Here in Tonga, winter means that it’s the dry season, and that the heat is tolerable. At night there is a cool breeze; it rustles the palms and sounds like rain. 

It may be winter here, but I’m comfortable in shorts and bare feet all day, every day. I enjoy the warmth of my blood, all the way to my toes. In the mornings and evenings I sometimes feel chilly enough to put on a sweater, but it’s still too warm for pants. The temperature gage says that it’s 26 degrees.

I don’t want my time here to end. I lie on the beach in the afternoons, soaking up the heat of the sun. It feels so close. The heat of the sun is red behind my eyelids. I feel the warm sand beneath my feet, under my palms: I want to bury myself in this good earth. 

West across the water there is nothing, only clouds and horizon. If we launched a boat straight out, I wonder whether we would hit Australia. Or nothing. 

Afternoon wanes; the sun falls away. I can imagine the earth spinning me east, away from its warmth. The sky blooms a fuchsia sunset.

The snowflake-fingered papaya trees appear to beckon in the wind. Their fruits are like enormous drops of sap, ripening to yellow against their trunks. Further on, the banana trees erupt with their broad leaves and trumpets of fruit, and give way to tall coconut palms, stretching across the horizon, all the way to the darkening sky. 

More stars come out than I have ever seen in my life. The Canadian sky faces open space, but the southern hemisphere faces into the centre of the galaxy, so it is worth a visit for the night sky alone. Besides, I’m in the middle of the ocean, and the nearest city is hours away. From here, a brilliant streak of stars, like a brushstroke, rips open the sky. Vague to my eyes, luminous star clusters haze a pale blue, where new stars are being born. I wonder if my wide eyes reflect the universe.

From my room, I can still hear the ocean, a slow rumble and the drag of waves. I close my eyes and listen to the whispering grass, the piercing creaks of insects vibrating. The geckos make a sudden sound, very like little barks of laughter, as they lie in wait to ambush winged prey. Sometimes, at night, you can hear the giant fruit bats hunting.

Here I am. I’m on a tiny island in the middle of the ocean, and the fact that this place seems big to me – it makes me feel even smaller. At one time, I had never even heard of this place. 

Every morning now, I step out of my door and want to hold onto it. This place. Sometimes it seems unreal.

I think I could almost live here. I do wish to stay. I could eat all the pineapple I wanted.

On the other hand, I would have to give up chocolate – and going to the movies.

A Recipe

We love every moment we're in Polynesia, but we do miss grocery stores. Just simple things: cold cut ham to make sandwiches, granola bars, yogurt. Mushrooms. Canned soup. Chocolate. 

This is a poor nation, divided from the world by unfathomable leagues of endless ocean. Here in Tonga, you get what you get. This is all there is.

We don’t have an oven, nor do we have much choice, so we’ve had to be creative with our cooking. 

The “butcher” in town (actually a lady that sells frozen meat from her deep-freeze) gave us a recipe to cook pork ribs if all you have is a pot and a stove, which we do. Here it is.

POLYNESIAN STICKY RIBS

You will need:

Pork ribs
8 c water
2-3 tbsp soy sauce
2-3 tbsp brown sugar
Chopped garlic

Bring a pot of water to boil. Let the ribs simmer in the water for about an hour or until very tender. Drain most of the water, then add soy sauce, sugar and garlic. Stir occasionally and allow to reduce, until the sauce thickens and becomes sticky.

Voila – sweet and salty sticky ribs, island style. Astoundingly delicious.

Out of the Blue

I wake to the clanging of bells in the darkness. 

It’s an alarm that sounds insistently, echoing through the jungle. A few dogs bark and howl.

For a moment I am frightened. What can they mean? Fire? Tsunami?

Half-asleep, my imagination cannot stop the enormous wave that’s about engulf this flat, helpless island.

I shake John awake and he laughs a little, calms me with his hands, saying, “it’s Sunday, it’s Sunday. There’s no tsunami. Go back to sleep.”

Oh. Right.

Sunday.

The bells carry on, waking the island before the cocks crow.

                *             *             *             *             *

We sleep blissfully through church.

After breakfast, we drag the kayaks down to the beach. The tide is high, and the turquoise waves roll in with impressive height, even over the shallows. Out on the break, perfect spirals crash onto the reef.

It’s the roughest water I’ve even paddled in. I find it thrilling, and laugh a little crazily, totally terrified. Each rolling wave underneath me lifts me high up, and drops me gently back toward the reef. 

I’m too afraid to sit wobbling parallel to the incoming waves, so I take them at an angle, zigzagging north. Charging into the waves is intimidating work, but with my back to the breaks, riding the waves toward the beach, speed is of the essence. 

In no time, I have such a case of hysterical giggles that I can barely paddle at all. However, I find inspiration in the threat of waves behind me.

When we’ve had our fill, utterly soaked and stomach-sore from laughing, we beach the kayaks and don snorkel gear. 

               *             *             *             *             *

We’ve bought a disposable waterproof camera, and after checking that it floats, we wind the film and get ready to take some awesome underwater photography.

(Please note that I haven't yet developed the film, so the following are not our photographs.)

I’ve never tried snorkeling before, and I’m nervous that I’ll feel claustrophobic, or mentally unable to breathe underwater. But it’s really, really easy. I take a few breaths with my face in the water, and I’m used to it already.

John has some issues with his mask, and he swallows a lot of seawater before finally ditching the breathing tube altogether. Instead he holds his breath and dives deep, clinging to coral here and there, pointing out sea cucumbers, sea urchins, starfish, and hidden fish of all varieties.

I float on the surface with my face in the water. I’m so buoyant here, I barely have to move at all. The waves push me gently over the reef, and I see more colourful fish than I expected: neon blue damselfish, yellow butterflyfish, and many others.

The reef is not the riot of colours I had expected from nature documentaries. Instead, most of the coral seems dead, and beds of algae grows on their skeletons. However, the fish still seem to thrive here. Now and then, I see a bright piece of coral - turquoise, pink, or orange - that stands out from the beige and brown.

Longfin Bannerfish

Neon Damselfish

I follow a couple of yellow-and-black butterflyfish for awhile, and they lead me to a coral highway, with many more kinds of fish. I see black-and-white moorish idols, with their long banner fins trailing behind them; and many kinds of angelfish; and an entire colony of clownfish, guarding their eggs.  

Next I follow a multicoloured parrotfish. It eats the coral so loudly, I can actually hear it underwater.

Parrotfish (loud eater)

Near the surface, tiny, silver sailfish hang out, their long swords at the ready, nearly camouflaged against the sky.

The world underneath me is mostly populated with flat, disc-shaped, very graceful fish. Many of them float from side to side, seeming to regard me with each eye as I float overhead. I see large leopard-print fish that lie on the sand, then swim away when I approach. I catch glimpses of red fish hiding in little caves, and they peek after me when I pass. Then the strangest of all: out of the blue, three bizarre trumpetfish, long and thin, with upturned mouths, coming fearlessly towards me to investigate. They are so strange, I am actually a little frightened, and this time, I'm the one who swims away.

Most ignore my presence, going on with their business. A few seem shy, and peek out at me from coral caves, swimming in cautious circles. The clownfish guarding their eggs have no fear, and stand their ground doggedly - no matter how close John approaches. 

My favourite by far are the triggerfish: they are larger than life, and have such character.

Picasso Triggerfish

After several hours, I emerge from the water and lie down on the beach, feeling more tired than I should be. My chest has that pleasant ache I get from long swims. My lips are numb from the salt water, and my brain still thinks that the world is moving me gently, back and forth, with the waves. .

                *             *             *             *             *

There is one more thing. This is for Amelia.

At night, the geckos hide out near the lights - you can see their long bodies silhouetted on the paper lampshades, or standing motionless on the walls and ceiling.

They wait for the light to draw the insects near them, then attack.

In one blink, a moth becomes a broken wing, and in another moment, that disappears also.

Heilala Holiday Lodge

In Tonga we are working for our accommodation, and Sven has some projects for us to do around the place.

He gives us our first two days off to get adjusted, but on the third day, we begin. New shower fixtures need to be installed in all of the guesthouses, and new gutters on the main buildings; we also need to build a footpath of stones – and there is always gardening to do if we get bored.

We get to work after breakfast, and finish at lunchtime: roughly four hours per day for our keep.

John has a look at the plumbing, and sends me into the tool shed to find a crescent wrench, vice grips, wrenches of various sizes, plumber’s tape, washers, and a flashlight. 

My first order of business, then, is to learn the names of basic tools.

We encounter several problems, like existing leaks inside the walls, wrong-sized fittings, and a broken shower head; but we put our heads together, and we manage to finish all the plumbing in two days.

We spend the afternoons at the beach. I read my book, and then wade into the water when I get hot. John, always full of energy, kayaks around the reef, looking into the clear, shallow water. I can see him in the distance: a silhuette dangling from the edge of the boat, reaching into the water to collect coral.

                *             *             *             *             *

One night, the rain emerges suddenly – a downpour that silences all other sounds.

The wind whips the trees together, and bright claps of lightning strobe and streak across the sky. A deep, threatening rumble of thunder follows. 

The next day we’re meant to hang gutters, but we give up after two hours. The rain is incessant, and, although it’s still 25 degrees, discouraging. We change into dry clothes, make hot chocolate, and spend the day indoors, writing letters and watching movies. John makes curry.

We make up the lost hours the next day, when the rain stops. After evicting a gecko from my ladder, I’m ready to measure things, and use a drill to hang the brackets for the guttering. Then we cut or glue the gutters together, until they’re the right size, finally installing them perfectly with a flick of the wrist.

After six hours as John’s assistant I’m exhausted, although, to be fair, he did most of the work. 

I spend the evening in bed reading, listening to the waves, the wind, the crickets. The next day is Sunday – our day off.  In this moment, I am completely happy. I can sleep as long as I want to, but I’m in no hurry. I’m clean, full, comfortable, and entertained. 

I finish my novel and dream about snorkeling.

Monday in Nuku'Alofa

I watch a millipede walk severally across the wall. Apparently they’re harmless, and, so long as they’re not in my clothes, I find them kind of cute – in a caterpillar kind of way.

It is eight o’clock in the morning, and free breakfast succeeds in luring me from bed. 

It’s served with tea and coffee, hot buttered toast, papaya marmalade, and a beautiful plate of local fresh fruit – coconut, watermelon, banana, pineapple, and mango. Unsurprisingly, there’s a flower on my tray and I put it in my hair.

In the back garden, we see a young Tongan man harvesting coconuts. He’s approached by an interested, retired American named Alice, who pets two equally interested dogs.

Today, the plan is to go to town, withdraw Tongan money, and buy groceries.

*             *             *             *             *

The coconut man gives us a ride. 

The roads are paved, but so dirty that at first I thought they weren’t.

A young black pig grazes joyfully on the side of the road, wagging its tail. As we pass, it looks at me, flashing a pink snout, eyes smiling. I’ve never seen a happy pig before.

A young boy has his elbows on the counter of the corner store, maybe trying to decide what kind of candy to buy (or maybe trying to remember what his mother sent him for). 

In Tonga, all of the dairies (corner stores) have three walls and a counter which faces the road, but you don’t go in. The merchandise is on two or three long shelves facing the road, and you order from the guy behind the counter, who stays cooler without windows.

The houses are generally made of plywood, with corrugated roofs. The yards are full of tropical fruit trees, chickens, pigs, long grasses, and tilled earth. There are lots of dogs running wild. There are not many cars, but we do see several men weaving their bicycles around potholes, and everyone waves to the bus as we pass. There is the occasional smell of smoke or bat guano, and the occasional abandoned building, school, or sign.

Children sit on front porches, watching their grandmothers weave or hang laundry. Women walk together with long skirts, parasols for shade, and spade-shaped fans. The men often wear skirts too – not sarongs, but stiff, stately cloths wrapped high around their ribs, sometimes decorated with an intricate belt.

We roll into town along the ocean. First stop: the bank.

                *             *             *             *             *

John spots a man wearing a Canucks jersey, sitting in a car in the parking lot.

“Canucks!” he cries, pointing. “That’s my team!” The man looks at him for a long moment before giving a slow smile and murmuring, “Thank you.” 

We’re not really sure whether the man speaks English, but John still feels disappointed by the reception.

“Maybe he doesn’t know the team,” I suggest.

Across from the bank is the Women’s Handicraft Collective, so we wander inside and finger woven fans, bags, and masks, as well as paintings and carvings. I’m on the lookout for something for my sister, but we leave without buying anything.

Almost immediately, we’re flagged down by a man in a truck who wants to know where John got his necklace. (It’s an enormous whale bone carved into a traditional Maori design, with the details embossed in Pawa shell, and it was a gift that most Maories would envy.) John seems wary, answering the man’s questions politely enough while remaining reserved.

When the man discovers that we’ve lived in Blenheim (it’s where John got the necklace), he asks if we know his brother John, a grape contractor.

Well… it turns out that my first boss in Blenheim – the good one – was a man from Tonga called John.

But come on. It’s a common name. What are the chances, right?

We bat a couple of names back and forth, and it turns out that yes, it’s the same John – and this is his brother, David. He’s ecstatic to meet us, and immediately insists that we stay at his place for free.

At first I’m still wary – maybe this is some kind of trick. So I ask about John’s wife and children, to see if he knows their names. He does. He even knows that Amelia is getting chubby, and that Johnny plays rugby but has recently taken up smoking. He knows about Hong, the homosexual Malaysian supervisor who works for John, and he knows the street John lives on.

It turns out that this is the real thing. It’s a small world.

David noticed John’s necklace because he’s a bone carver himself, and he shows us his latest carvings from the cabin of his truck. We decide to buy a couple, and at first he’s pretty pushy, inviting us to choose as many as we want, but we keep asking about the price. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “You’re family! I’ll give you the best price.”

I feel skeptical.

“This one is five dollars,” he says of a little sea turtle I’ve picked out.

Only five dollars, huh? I cast my eyes around a little greedily, and find a few more that I like. John does too.

In the end, we settle on five, and ask again about the price. We’re hoping for maybe $30.

It’s my first experience at bartering. I have no idea what to say. At first he tells us $75 – we gasp – we put them back. We say maybe we should just take one – we don’t have much money. He lowers the price to $65 – as a favour. Still too high, we say, sorry – we’ll just put a few back. 

Okay, he says, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll drop the price to $50, and I’ll give you a couple more as gifts, for being part of the family. That’s seven carvings, for seven dollars each! I am a fair man. That’s a good price. I give you the best price, you’re my family! 

I feel distinctly uncomfortable. Is it worth it? Would it be really rude to refuse? It’s a fair price I think, but it’s still $20 more than I wanted to pay. On the other hand, it’s also $25 less than he asked for at first. And he’s right – they would make great gifts. And he’s very, very talented. 

In the end, we agree to the $50 and he seems very pleased. 

I wonder if he would have offered a lower price, if we had held out longer.  

He says that if we ever need anything or want to hang out, we should take down his phone number. We are welcome to stay with him, he reminds us, and he says he’ll feed us too – he even has internet! Free, he reminds us, and he lives not far from town. Well, you think about it, he says. We have an extra bedroom. You’ll love it. We’ll eat real Tongan food. You call me, okay?

He honks as he pulls away, and I think we both feel a sense of astonishment, looking down at the carvings in John’s cupped hands. What a small world it is.

                *             *             *             *             *

All day we wander through town, trying to memorize where things are: the post office, the bakery, the butcher, the dry goods store. I notice a lot of people staring at me. John laughs and says I’m the whitest person he’s seen all day. But, he says, it’s good for me, to know what it feels like, to be unusual. 

I guess he’s right. 

The most impressive thing we see all day is definitely the vegetable market.

I don’t suppose they import fruits and vegetables to Tonga, since this is the only market in town, and everything that’s displayed is being sold by the farmer who grew it. We see huge bundles of bananas; tarot, yams, tapiocas, and turnips; things we can’t recognize; cabbages, eggplants, green beans, and strange fruits – but we can’t carry much.

We buy: a kilo each of potatoes, onions, carrots, and cucumbers, which cost three Tongan dollars each, or maybe one Canadian dollar; bundles of capsicums, lettuce and spinach; a kilo of rice, and 350 mg of cooking oil. In the butcher we buy two whole chicken legs and two rump steaks, and in the bakery, we buy a loaf of bread and a small tub of margarine. 

We figure that all of this will tide us over for the next few days.

The second most impressive thing we see all day is the bus.

There’s no bus schedule, so people wait in the shade by the ocean somewhat aimlessly, fanning themselves and talking, until their bus arrives – every half-hour, give or take fifteen minutes. The Tongan language sounds beautiful to my ears. It cools down as we wait, and even begins to rain a little, to our immense refreshment.

When the bus comes it’s crowded – standing room only – and we are the last two to get on. 

Of all people, I make eye contact with the beautiful server from the beach restaurant; she greets me warmly and offers to take my bags on her lap. Before I can say anything, the boy beside her takes them from me and smiles. 

“Thanks,” I manage.

She tells me that her name is Hundred, and introduces her brother. The boy doesn’t talk to me – Hundred says that his English is broken. She asks to take my picture. 

The crowded, rickety bus careens over rough terrain, avoiding potholes and cyclists. The people ask us where we’re from, talk about the weather, and welcome us to the Friendly Island. They tease Hundred’s brother for having a crush on me. He looks at the ground, and I act dumb. When the locals find out that my “husband” isn’t even jealous, they tease John instead.

We tell Hundred we might see her on Friday, when there’s live music at the restaurant.

I’m starting to think this really is the friendly island, after all.

                *             *             *             *             *

We manage to cook up a delicious meal in the communal kitchen, which is basic – a fridge, a sink, a few dishes, and two gas burners, as well as a bench for preparing and eating food. We rub the chicken with salt, pepper, and herbs, and grill it on one side. John makes rice, and I cut up potatoes, carrots, and capsicum to stir-fry with onion and garlic.

We talk to an older couple from Picton, who have been sailing around the Pacific, off and on, for years. They recommend that, if we’re interested, we head to the northern port and offer to help crew a yacht to Fiji. Apparently they leave all the time, and always need deck hands.

I say I can’t sail.

“Well,” the man laughs. “You can cook!”

Hmm.

Definitely food for thought.

Into Polynesia

With the bright fluorescent lights, the uncomfortable chairs, overhead announcements, and occasional vacuuming, sleeping in the airport proves to be more difficult than I had anticipated. 

I manage to snatch maybe an hour’s worth through the night (I think), before checking my baggage and boarding a flight to Nuku’Alofa at 5:00 a.m. 

Sleeping on the plane is easier. I can’t concentrate on my book, and I unconsciously curl down into my seat, blinking slowly, eyelids heavy. Before drifting off, I notice that we are flying over orange clouds, into the coming sunrise. I can hear John chatting up an elderly lady as my book falls into my lap.

He wakes me when the first islands come into view. 

They are just the kind of tiny, isolated, and uninhabited islands you might imagine getting shipwrecked on. They seem to erupt here and there, volcanoes of jungle and white sand on a silver ocean. 

On the other hand, Tonga is much flatter than I thought it would be. I have never been to the Prairies, but as the plane passes over, I think to myself: This is the flattest place I have ever seen. Palm trees, planted in perfectly straight rows, cover much of the island. I wonder out loud if these are palm oil or coconut plantations, but then, who knows. 

We land in the greenest airport I could have imagined – just a single paved runway and a little parking lot, surrounded by summer grasses, gardens, and lush jungle on all sides.

After an appropriate amount of waiting and jostling, everyone steps off the air-conditioned plane and into the hot, moist air. I breathe deeply. It’s so hot you can taste it, and it smells divine, like a tropical perfume of green plants and sweet juices. 

I have made it into Polynesia.

                                *             *             *             *             *             *

Our room is simple, clean and cool. Crisp linens and red trumpet flowers welcome us to our bed. 

The windows face both east and west, and toward the beach, we can see the other guesthouses. They are round bungalows with grass-woven exteriors, looking picturesque among the riot of jungle. Sven, the owner, has turned a careful hand to what was once plantation land, and has created a garden, full of coconut palms, banana trees, papaya, avocado, and mango trees, many kinds of tropical flowers, aloe, vanilla and coffee plants, papaws, and of course, Heilala trees, which give the lodge its name.

view from our window

I immediately change into cooler clothes and put a flower behind my ear. We haven’t eaten in about twenty hours, but we have no food, and we’re about a half-hour drive from town. We have no Tongan money, in any case.

Outside, hammocks swing in the shade, and palm trees lead onto the beach. We can see white waves curling onto the reef, far out on the horizon; it’s low tide. The beach is steeply banked with deep sand, very hot, very soft, and made out of shell fragments – the pounded and rounded refuse of the sea. Further down, the retreating waves have left white coral skeletons behind.

The water is as warm as I’d hoped, warmer than a lake in midsummer. A cool bath.

We’ve heard a rumour about a restaurant around here somewhere, and we’re hoping that they accept Visa.

We choose a likely direction – south – and begin plowing through the waves. I feel marginally cooler with my feet in the ocean. I wonder how far out the coral is. Right now, all we can see is seaweed, growing like a bed of brown cauliflower. 

I see sand-coloured crabs scuttle across the beach, almost faster than I can follow with my eyes, and disappear. Their camouflage is so perfect that you can’t see them at all when they’re still.

“Lid!” John hisses urgently, freezing. “You want to see this. Come here right now.”

I try not to make too much noise as I catch up and follow his gaze: several bright blue damselfish and two yellow butterfly fish flirt with the cover of the seaweed – just like in a saltwater fish tank. As we watch, a larger one, silver with black stripes, streaks by. 

I feel a wave of excitement. We’re in the tropics.

John spots an eel, gliding along beautifully, like a gymnast’s ribbon. It has no fear of John, who tries to pet it but stops short at my paranoid warning. The eel’s tiny eyes inspect John’s hand, seeming to smell it, perhaps to see if it’s food. Then it carries on, nonchalantly.

“I can’t wait to go snorkeling!” he declares, gesturing grandly.

                *             *             *             *             *

The restaurant is beautiful. It’s got an enormous deck that sprawls out onto the beach, and no windows in front – just open air, all the way back to the pool table, lounge, and bar. Inside, a vaulted ceiling, decorated with woven grass, creates luxurious space, and the cool tile floors, pillars, and carved teak furniture radiate wealth.

We order two surprisingly cheap beers, a sandwich, a chicken salad, and a bowl of fries for 35 Tongan dollars – about 18 Canadian dollars. The food is really good, too. Maybe we’re just hungry, or maybe we’re just glad it’s so cheap, but as we sit in the shade- with our cold, sweating beer bottles, the breeze cooling our skin, overlooking a tropical beach pristine enough to be a commercial for Corona- I think this is one of the best lunches of my life.

                *             *             *             *             *

The heat, the food, the beer, the lack of sleep – snorkeling sounds fun in theory, but first I need a nap.

Luckily, with the fan on, our room is still relatively cool, so I sprawl out on the bed and close my eyes. I can hear strange birds calling – some of them sound like monkeys. The bed seems to spin up to meet me; I fall asleep instantly, with my arms stretched over my head, as if I am about to dive into deep water.

Some time later, I wake for a moment; my arms have fallen asleep. The sun is setting, the forest is cooling, and the air coming in through the windows flaps the curtains hypnotically. I roll onto my side and exhale, deciding to let the nap have its way with me.

I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep. When next I open my eyes, it’s fully dark, although an enormous full moon is rising up out of the trees, its brilliance casting long shadows in the room. A chorus of insects buzzes and chirps in the silence. The palm trees are silhouetted against the dark blue sky, and as I watch, I see a giant fruit bat land clumsily in a papaw tree. 

I’m wide-awake, and in a few minutes, John is too. I wonder out loud if we should just sleep through the night or try to get some dinner. I grope in the dark for my iPod and find that it’s only 7:30. 

Definitely dinner, I think, as my stomach makes that gurgling sound.

*             *             *             *             *

The only place we know of with food is the beach restaurant, so we go back. It’s mostly empty, but we see a few other guests who are staying at Heilala, including a young Danish couple and a boy from Holland.

Our server is delightful. John orders grilled fish with white wine, and I order the prawn-stuffed chicken (how could that not be good).

And yet, it is even better than I thought it would be. The chicken breast is stuffed with prawns as promised, but it’s also smothered in a buttery rose sauce with scallops, crayfish and chives, and served with herbed potatoes and salad. The sauce is so good that it tugs at my brain and makes my face twitch. John’s fish turns out to be tuna steak, medium rare, finished with a creamy white wine and dill sauce. This time, our meals and drinks cost us maybe forty Canadian dollars.  

So worth it. 

The Danish couple has a little girl who’s maybe two, all big eyes and damp blond curls. I watch them dance together with their child in their arms, on the verandah under the stars, the ocean crashing behind them.

Of all the dinners in my life, I know that this one will stand out in my memory when I am old.