Name:

mimi

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Former Californian, now Madrid-based finder of brand DNA and designer of communication strategies for fashion, travel, arts and culture clients in Spain.

Oh dear, where am I? (answer: Tenerife)

There is something quite unreal and undescribable about the volcanic Canary Islands. Literally off the coast of Africa but belonging cuturally to Europe, this island bit of Spain is a wierd half way house to sun.... we appear to be strangely landed on a geographically difficult to place point on the planet where everything has been imported (literally everything - from the people to the plantains, with a hearty run through of everything else importable). 

 

Everything except the ever present sun, the endless sky, tons of crunchy grey volcanic stone beneath your feet and an incredible view of the Atlantic Ocean that touches the traveller's DNA at it's core (it's no wonder Columbus sailed off the Island of La Gomera, like what else are you supposed to do when the sea is literally calling you?)

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Rossilini had it right when he directed Ingrid Bergman in STOMBOLI: as Karin, a displaced Lithuanian in Italy, Bergman escapes the internment camp marrying an Italian POW fisherman who was on the other side of the barbed wire. Wikipedia notes "She soon discovers that his home island of Stromboli is very harsh and barren, and the people traditional and conservative. They act with hostility towards this strange, foreign woman."

 

While I wasn't greeted with hostility (quite the opposite as I relished the soon to open luxuries and pamperings from the utterly warm team from Gran MeliĆ” Palacio de Isora) I did feel displaced. It was neither warm nor cold. It was not Europe nor Africa. The sea, while calm, chatted away in the apparent silence, letting you her things you haven't heard before. It could have been the sirens off at sea....

 

Whatever it was, it did feel strange. The island is hauntingly perfect.

 

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