I should have known better. As soon as it had cleared Jamaica, Gustav roared to life and has now become a strong Category 4, just about to make landfall in Cuba with wind gusts of 160 kts, or 288 km/h! Cubans are going to suffer dearly through that one, and then there’s Louisiana. Some things never change.

First erratic reports from Little Cayman are much worse than I’d hoped. It seems the dive boats broke their storm moorings and ended up on the beach, all docks have been washed away, there’s serious structural damage, power probably down. I don’t know what to say. Except that this is a good part of why I left.

My heart is with you all, down there.

...

Here is the data: storm track, visible satellite, infrared satellite and advisory. Notice the incredibly well shaped eye.

It’s that time of the year, yet again. My heart goes out to all those who live in the tropics. And as Tropical Storm Gustav gathers strength and heads west across the Caribbean, many hearts in the Cayman Islands will remember Ivan and sink a little, and many, many more in New Orleans will think of Katrina and drown. 

Gustav isn’t a monster, thank God. It’s currently cruising along westward at about 4 kts with a pressure of 983 mb and winds gusting at 75 kts. Expected to reach hurricane stage soon after arriving over Jamaica, Gustav should unleash sustained winds of 80 kts on Grand Cayman - which is smack on its current projected path - some time tomorrow night. Little Cayman probably will be all right as the storm will be passing by to the south, just like Ivan had done so.

Later on, and keeping in mind that long range forecasts yield a wider error margin, it should make landfall on the Continental US a touch west of New Orleans, as a category 2 hurricane with 100 kts sustained winds. Nothing like Katrina but enough to stir up trouble and reopen fragile, barely healed wounds.

Here are the current track, the infrared satellite and NOAA’s Environmental Visualization at 14:15Z Aug. 29, as well as Significant Event imagery. Fingers crossed.

[Aug. 29 update: Well, as of noon Cayman time, Gustav still hasn’t matured into a hurricane but has slipped to the north and is just about to run right over the Sister Islands. Now that it has cleared Jamaica, its path over open water will allow the storm to strengthen rapidly and the wind and seas should pick up. That’ll ruin diving for a while... I hope those coconuts have been cut down from the trees in front of the Hungry Iguana! Hopefully the seas won’t pick up to the point where they relocate docks. Good luck guys.]

The Cayman Islands, a British Overseas Territory, sit by roughly 19º Latitude North and 80º Longitude West in the Caribbean Sea, tucked below the large landmass of Cuba and just to the west of tiny Jamaica. Composed of three islands, the country has a population of roughly 50,000 souls, 90 percent of whom live in and around the capital of Georgetown on the main island, Grand Cayman. The two others, called the Sister Islands, lie 90 miles to the east. They are small and almost identically shaped, about 12 miles long and 2 miles wide in their center. The Brac is the most populated with a little over a thousand inhabitants. Little Cayman, until now, has resisted growth and only claims around 200 permanent residents, all of which are very fond of their home, and usually a touch strange too. Island life isn’t for everybody, and if the mythical fever doesn’t strike soon after arrival to kick you off, you can assume you are « different ». And fit for the rock.

While Grand Cayman earned a reputation as an offshore banking paradise, the Sister Islands have remained very modest, even though completely different one from another. In the Brac, not much pleasure to be had. One works and survives. And drinks, but that’s common to all three islands. There are only 2 major resorts, but an decent size modern airport. Brackers have an odd reputation. It’s all been done, there, and crime is an issue.

Little Cayman, on the other hand, is the jewel of the family. She’s unspoiled, quiet, mostly wild and all about fun. Six resorts make up most of the island’s civilized infrastructure. A single road circles it, not entirely paved. Electricity is provided by loud diesel-powered generators. There is no supply of fresh water and folks use cisterns and reverse osmosis plants. One public restaurant and each of the resort’s facilities constitute the only choices for eating out. Or one can shop at the local grocery store, the size of a North American 7-Eleven, which also doubles as the hardware store, gas station, movie rental and furniture and appliance depot. The bank outpost, not much larger than a ATM booth, opens a few hours now and then, when its two staff members manage to fly in from the Brac’s branch.

But to fly in, one must like island air hopping. The ride takes 7 minutes - the islands being within sight of each other - and most planes don’t bother climbing higher than a thousand feet. In Little Cayman, the landing strip is a stretch of grass and dirt cleared from the bush into a gentle hill, so that pilots cannot see one end of the field from the other. Short and soft take off techniques are in order there. Full power before releasing the brakes. More flaps than usual. And fingers crossed because accelerate-stop distance is a luxury Little Cayman doesn’t really have, unless a house can be considered to be proper stopping surface. On arrival, taxiing aircraft must cross the road to park on the other side. It doesn’t matter, half of the island’s cars are already parked there waiting for the flight. There will be food on board, and supplies, and the mail, and many tourists which are greeted by their respective resort’s representatives in a completely informal way, often barefoot, always smiling.

It is said that the two very first cars to arrive on Little Cayman, many years ago, got into a accident together. There are many more, now, and yet no traffic lights, no pedestrian crossing signs, no notion of jay walking, no parking problems. The island-wide speed limit is 25 mph and there are a total of 3 stop signs. Iguanas have retained a legendary right of way and the largest specimens are almost half the width of a car. A lot of bicycles are used on the island, many of them supplied by the resorts as a courtesy to their guests. Resort employees circle the island regularly in a pick-up to recover their bikes abandoned all around, usually at a bar after a late night.

Little Cayman lives for and from scuba diving. Every resort there offers it. The island sits on the edge of the 8000 meters deep Cayman Trench and is hence surrounded by deep water and famous for its wall dives. Very little shore diving is done because of the presence of a barrier reef on most of the iron shore coastline. The resorts being built on the south shore, inside the mile-wide and very shallow South Sound, dive boats exit the sound by the only cut into the reef and round the western point to go dive world-famous Bloody Bay about a third of the way on the north side. It’s an easy ride a stone’s throw from land that will take most dive boats 30 to 60 minutes depending on the conditions.

But the Little Cayman waters, as those of every other location in the Caribbean, are far from always being subdued. At best, they are often spiced up by the dominant southeasterly Trade Winds, which usually blow 10 to 20 knots and make for potentially rough seas and difficult rides. The worse happens during hurricane season, form June to November every year. Tropical storms are frequent. Hurricanes not so much, but they are terribly devastating. Everybody in the Cayman Islands will remember 2004’s Ivan for many years to come.

...

But this was just another storm. It crept in from the east during the morning dives and by the time boats were going back out in the afternoon, the weather was already changing fast and getting more unpleasant by the minute. But the prevailing winds blew from the southeast and made Little Cayman’s south shore undivable. Boats had to go around to the north in search of calmer and clearer conditions.

Pirate’s Point Resort had a single dive boat. She was a custom 42 feet Newton and was called Yellow Rose III. Her operating dock was located near all the other docks, in the middle of the sound. Her schedule was offset from everybody else’s because of the radically different rhythm that prevailed at the resort. That day, she ended up going back out a little later. She must have passed some of the earlier returning dive boats on her way out to Bloody Bay.

By late afternoon, the storm was raging. Heavy rain was falling in thick curtains and limiting visibility to a few hundred feet in all directions. The wind was howling and building up 10 foot seas. And light was failing early. All other dive operators had called it a day and boats were resting at their storm moorings while on land air compressors were roaring life back into empty tanks. Then the call came in, and the news spread almost instantly across the small island. Yellow Rose was missing, lost in a squall. They had left their dive site in limited visibility and heavy rain and seas, and tried to rally the base by navigating around the island, a little further offshore than usual to avoid running aground. But they had gone too far and missed the narrow tip completely when they came back in towards land. They’d then gone back out and back in, trying to gauge if they were too far south or too far north. They didn’t have a GPS on board. They had become completely lost.

Faces were grim on land. The night was falling fast and there were only a couple of dive boats that were equipped well enough and skippered skillfully enough to go back out through the extremely hazardous breakers of the cut and into the mad darkness, on a search that involved hundreds of square miles of ocean. Ours sure wasn’t. Banana Wind had a very low bow and did poorly in heavy seas, the South Cut turning into a deadly roller coaster once the waves had reached a certain height. I was both relieved and deeply sorry I wouldn’t be able to go back out. It wouldn’t have helped much, though. Yellow Rose would have to find her way back alone.

Every one who owned a handheld VHF radio scattered across the island to try and establish the lost boat’s position according to the clarity of their radio signal. There was thunder and lighting and for a long time, we attempted to figure out where the Rose was by comparing the direction and timing of the lightning. Nothing matched. They seemed to be quite far away. Their signal was getting weaker. The two crew members on board did their best to stay calm and reassure their passengers, but they reported that all were wet and very cold.

The night had by then long fallen and a few people were dispatched to key locations on land with flare guns and we tried to fire in sequence, hoping for Yellow Rose to spot one of them. They never did. Doubt was creeping into people’s minds that we could find them at all. The night still had long hours of fury to unleash and one way or another, the boat was going to drift far offshore and possibly run out of fuel. However with the morning would come the hope of sending an aerial search party.

Then suddenly, almost five hours after they had gotten lost, the crew on board Yellow Rose broke a long radio silence and announced: « We see some lights, north of us! We are either south of the Brac or Little Cayman. » We held our breaths. It turns out they were just past Point of Sands, the easternmost tip of Little Cayman, just off the breaking reef. They slowly navigated along the breakers, trying to remain at a safe distance but unwilling to let go of their line of sight with shore, until they found the cut and headed back in, after a run at full power to pick up speed and avoid having the breaking waves crash on the stern and make the boat broach and capsize.

It was a close call. Every captain on the island made a mental note to always carry a GPS on board even if only going from the beach to the boat on a dinghy. And everyone was reminded, once more, that the minute we stop respecting or even maybe fearing the ocean, it kills.

I’m obviously not the only one obsessed with fish and islands. These were graciously offered by Craig Gronlund. They are a few years old and were shot in the Cayman Islands, back in the Paradise Divers days. Some things - and places - will hopefully never change.

Thanks Craig!

Strangely, the idea waited to cross my overexcited mind until Marie and I were happily browsing through the colorful aisles of Granville Island Public Market on a late Friday afternoon. So while she was busily acquiring amazing organic strawberries, our ritualistic duck prosciutto and other wonderful goodies, I whipped out my Blackberry, browsed my way to a web page and found a lost phone number. It was 4:30 pm. Around 5:00 pm, the phone buzzed back. That was it. At 7:30 the next morning, we were arriving at Waterfront Station with our backpacks, heavy clothing, our dear cameras and a hearty picnic. You gotta love improvisation. And friends.

The weather was moodily chilly, offering Vancouver a brilliant demonstration of my newly written local adage: « In June, your clothes don’t shed too soon. In July, the sun might still be shy. In August, watch out for the tempest. And in September, it’s again time to shiver. » Yeah. Well.

There must have been a few no-shows because less than 10 people joined us aboard Prince of Whales’ Ocean Magic docked outside the Seabus terminal. (See previous posts A killer time with killer whales, A killer Time - Part 2 and Fall is upon Vancouver.) We headed straight up to the flying bridge and I began unpacking many layers of extra clothes before an incredulous Marie who thought I was joking. I wasn’t. The air temperature downtown might have been in the low or mid-teens, I knew that once the boat got on plane and rounded Stanley Park’s Prospect Point, 30 knots of relative wind were going to chill us to the bones. Been there, done that. If fifteen years aboard dive boats have taught me one thing, it’s that wind bites and fleece rocks.

So while a crew member was conducting a witty safety briefing, we zipped and buttoned up and tucked here and wrapped there, until we felt like winter had reappeared. The whale-looking Diamond Princess was docked alongside Canada Place and towered above us from all its 13 decks. I took this as a good sign. We were going to find some whales.

The crossing was a bit rough, the Strait behind ventilated by a nasty northeaster that forced our Captain to play with his throttles and the wheel like a virtuoso on a piano, both hands, all fingers, fast, crossing, feet agile, never a break. We headed towards Active Pass in the Gulf Islands to get to their relative protection as soon as possible. The radio was on and the network active. Soon, reports of sightings came in on the airwaves: a pod had been spotted on the west side of San Juan Island, slightly south of the imaginary border line between the US and Canada. Ocean Magic turned her bow to the south. On the way, we watched a couple of bald eagles and a small colony of harbour seals by a cute lighthouse. It was all falling into place.

The whales we eventually found were part of the J pod, one of 3 families of resident killer whales. They were rather spread out, swimming in small groups, some of which appeared to be on autopilot; half of their brain asleep, they would stay really close to each other and come up to breathe, like me getting up in the middle of the night and going to the fridge - never too sure of where and when I am. We spotted Ruffles, the larger male, with his signature undulating dorsal fin. The crew explained that he is the luckiest killer whale alive, having been captured six times by aquarium teams and released as many, because it was believed his irregular fin would displease audiences!

In the wake of recent regulations aiming at protecting the whales, boats are no longer allowed to approach the pods as close as it use to be the case, not even passively (by shutting engines down and letting the animals swim towards the boat). Since we were in US waters, a US patrol boat was present, taking laser measurements of the distance between the few boats on the scene and the mammals. The ones who cheated would be fined. Humans, that is. Marine mammals can cheat. It seems the patrol boat had exonerated itself from the rule, though, and stood smack on the path of the killer whales that swam right next to it. We were granted a couple of spectacular breaches, very hard to photograph without a powerful zoom lens, but I’ve cropped them a bit for fun. Then we headed for Victoria. I can attest that someone’s fingers were at that point much colder than my guts, having allowed them temporary contact for warming purposes.

Sailing into the Victoria harbour is always an interesting experience. So much activity is packed into so little space that it always seems like something is going to jump out of the scenery as if ejected by the general momentum, like a full stomach popping out a shirt button after too large a meal. At least that’s what they do in cartoons... The seaplanes were buzzing around, vessels of all sizes cruising past, music was playing on the banks, buses circulating in and out. If the air had been warmer, this could have been the Caribbean. No Jamaican patties to be found here, though, but I had a date with the world’s best coconut buns.

Our first stop on firm ground, firmly navigated to and all other distractions set aside, was a pub. Sailors will be sailors. Liquid was needed, and would be had. A hot soup to warm up frozen extremities and a tall wheat beer to hydrate the soul. Funky combination maybe, but it recharged our batteries and allowed us to walk a few more blocks west to Frank’s Honeybun Cafe and stock up on their divine coconut buns (I bought 5, they are over 20 cm long each), and then on to Market Square to escape the wind and eat our duck prosciutto sandwiches in the calm sunny protection of the inner courtyard.

Time was flying by and we ran back to the Empress Hotel to catch a Grayline bus to Butchart Gardens. Isolated at the bottom of the Saanich Inlet, a ocean arm digging deep into the Vancouver Island from north to south, the gardens are strategically positioned half-way between Victoria and Swartz Bay, the BC Ferries terminal connecting to Tsawwassen on the mainland. Once there, we did the tourist thing, among many of that kind.

These are very nice gardens, but, personally, I think there are waaaay too many annuals.......... I mean think about it: you only visit the place once, maybe twice in the year, so why should there be so many annual plants? It’s a waste of labour and resources. Even if you go back the following year and the same flowers are there, you’re not going to recognize every single plant as a déjà vu, right? (Well, I know someone who might, actually.) So why replant so often? Why not weeklies, while we’re at it? No, the best flowers in my expert opinion, would be oxo-biodegradable plastic flowers. Plant them every 5 or 6 years, then they decompose into nice compost. The gardeners can play tennis more often and all that water can be sold for profit.

Then it was late and we had to rush through the beautiful Japanese Garden and exit via a small, remote gate that leads into this charming little cove on the inlet. Ocean magic was already docked there and two cute harbour seals played around in shallow water. The cruise back to Vancouver followed a completely different route, a little too far north for whale watching but rewarding us with magnificent scenery, calmer waters, a smooth ride, isolated pretty little islands, funky currents and the upper deck pretty much to ourselves, as the sun was slowly going down behind our backs.

As we were approaching the city, the sun managed to hit the urban core on a background of very dark clouds, seemingly setting the buildings on fire. Abe was relentless. We zoomed past a few freighters guarding English Bay and slid underneath Lions’ Gate Bridge as runners scaled the Seawall at what seemed a turtle pace. Then we were back home. Hot shower, some cooking, shinny eyes, tired, happy sailors. Prince of Whales had done it once more. What a wonderful day. But then again, I was in the best company.

It’s been quite a while and they were getting dusty, but the best 90 South Africa pictures have made it into their own photo galleries. Nostalgic, eerie, beautiful, they will remain what they instantly became as the shutter was pressed: icons, timestamps, history been written and frozen in time. The two galleries are available from the main Photography menu above but to be sure you’ll visit, I’ll even include the links here:

South Africa Part 1 - South Africa Part 2

Don’t look for a particular sequence or logic, there is none but that of colors and moods. Of course most of these pictures have appeared in previous posts here on the blog in the On the Road Category, scattered between January 18th and April 18th. So while turmoil is once again gripping South Africa, here are glimpses of natural peace and harmony. Images of an extraordinary trip, in extraordinary company, for an extraordinary purpose.

« When the bus driver jabbers that he will have to stop at the Police Control, I immediately smell trouble. No stops have been planned and he should know that we have all the necessary authorizations. What’s worse, I don’t remember noticing any kind of control booth on our way to town.

He pulls over in a dark empty street, far away from the Saigon airport and even further still from the harbour, and I no longer have to smell it: trouble is here. The French passengers, still a little shocked by the harassment at Customs, don’t really know any better and are looking around with worried faces, probably wondering if the all-inclusive package to Guadeloupe wouldn’t have been a safer bet.

I put on my most reassuring smile and explain that there must be a misunderstanding which I will sort out at the « Control » with our driver, who has already jumped off the bus and is waving for me to follow him. I fall in with his stride, mentally noting that the houses lining the sinister street do not look at all like official buildings and worriedly looking around for a reassuring sign in the short-lived headlight halo of the rare cars driving by.

The man turns purposefully into an alley, walks across a porch and into a small inner courtyard. Still not a single light in sight. The Vietnamese must keep enforcing a good old curfew to save electricity.

We pass through a metal gate, climb a few steps and just as I am getting ready to turn around and bravely run back to the bus, the driver opens a last door and walks in. Heart beating fast, I follow him. My relief in finding relative lighting inside is soon hampered by the austere look of the room we’re in. Between four walls, a desk, a chair, a lamp. The walls are dirty and naked, the metal desk is barren and the chair occupied by a meager, stern looking woman wearing a military uniform. And as for the lamp, its articulated head is pointed straight at me.

There is no time to lose. I tap into my classical repertoire and manage to label the place under the « Communist interrogation chamber » category with a daring cross-reference to James Bond and Midnight Express.

My driver whispers a few words in Vietnamese to the uniform and then retreats to the back of the room, away from the light and out of view. I’m still unsure whether they are trying to scam me or if this is really a misunderstanding but my blood runs a little colder.

The uniform then addresses me in her language. I don’t catch a single word of her sentence and have to reply with a gesture of ignorance. She repeats her statement, punctuates it with a new comment and shows no sign of speaking anything else than her mystifying dialect. I nervously attempt communication in English, then in French, without any luck.

Tension is building in an almost tangible way.

She obviously wants something and her patience is failing. I ask the driver behind me to explain our situation but his English is so primitive that he doesn’t seem to get it, unless he’s simply refusing to help. I suspect that money would probably solve our issue but I don’t have a single dollar - or franc - on me. My concerned thoughts turn towards the passengers waiting outside in the dark bus.

Suddenly, a door I hadn’t noticed opens on my left. A man in civilian clothes and wearing thin glasses, short and hunched forward, walks in and speaks to the uniform as if continuing a conversation started in my absence. I must be nervous. Crazy options are already going through my head, from a visit to the local jail to the wild escape through the streets of Saigon.

The newcomer, seeming to rank higher on the scene, addresses me first in Vietnamese and next in a hesitant and almost incoherent English. The driver immediately starts answering in Vietnamese, in an affirmative manner that makes me fear he is confirming against my will that we are here for a control; so I interrupt him, hoping for it to be a display of authority but not arrogance.

Using a telegraphic-style English without pronouns or conjugation, I attempt to claim our rights and explain that we have been doing the shuttle between the airport and the harbour with a clearance issued by the proper authorities. I am aware that said authorities must have granted such clearance after the shuttling of some money from a hand to a pocket, but I at least have my official crew landing pass and show it to them. They don’t seem to like that, as if they had just lost an ace in their hand.

I must have been in here for 10 minutes now. The two Party officials are arguing with each other and don’t seem to agree on the procedure to follow. My driver is getting agitated behind me. It suddenly dawns on me that he might well be in on this, hoping for his share of the prize. I know only too well how everything is negotiated under the rising smell of money in the new Vietnam, and I still remember how our landing fees keep rising for no reason from one trip to the next.

On the other hand, there is a possibility that the incredibly sluggish communist bureaucracy alone might be responsible for this mess. There doesn’t seem to be, in their narrow minds and in the related rules, a clause applying to the present situation, and obviously lacking either initiative or freedom or both, they just don’t know what to do.

Then, abruptly, the opposition gives in. The man leaves the room and the woman waves me to the door with a snort and marked disdain.

I lower myself into thanks, open the door, think of slamming it behind me, but decide not to after reconsidering the local jail option.

Outside in the street, the bus is still there, which almost surprises me. My passengers are quiet and tired. I would like to comment on the incident but since that would only stain the image of the perfectly oiled machine that was supposed to welcome them to Asia, I simply announce that everything is finally in order, apologize for the delay, and we get on our way.

The driver hasn’t said a word since we walked out; I don’t break the silence, annoyed at him and rather suspicious. Once we reach the ship, I unload my travelers under the impatient watch of the bridge - it’s late and they were waiting for us to sail. More Party officials are present, gauging the boarding group, probably wondering how high to inflate the landing tax on our next layover.

I definitely don’t like the remains of the communist regime. »

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam - 1994

« The ship’s tender drops me off on an lonely pier to which are tied up a few rusty fishing boats, almost all leaning to one side as if to show their long seafaring experience, just as John Wayne wore his hat tilted sideways. But I’m not fooled by the trick and I can feel they are simply tired and worn out, aspiring to never again leave the harbour’s calm waters and this dock they now use as a crutch... »

March 27, 1994 - Lombok, Indonesia.

Here are, in no particular order, pictures of a recent past that have been sitting in a folder waiting to be published. They show how disconnected I am right now. They’re not even that good. The subjects might be, though. I mentioned in my last post the doubts I am having about the whole blogging process. You don’t have to read on, I’m posting this for myself. These shots make me think. And dream. They remind me of an elusive reality which I am trying hard to materialize these days.

We begin not in Camargue or Greece but Knysna, South Africa.

Then, it’s Park Slope, at the end of a botanical afternoon.

Back to South Africa, somewhere in the Karoo...

Then New York again. If there’s a red phone for presidential emergencies, this must be the yellow phone behind the yellow line for those who have the blues...

But then again, the best remedy to the blues is exercise, no matter where the gym is located. Here, the yellow line of a garbage court of the NYC City Hall. Notice how happy the subject looks. That’s thanks to Momofuku’s Nigori.

Next, botanists obviously have a sense of humor. Interrupted growth? Where is the fern?

But someone has to photograph those rarities. With passion.

Passion being what drives one human up the Skeleton Gorge ladders and a few dogs to the slopes of Table Mountain and Silvermine.

Those are Gin & Tonic cups, by the way.

But the view is usually worth it.

So having sweated all the way up, one decides to freshen up.

Back in New York again, blissful flower bath. And the sweetest picture taken by a very willing butcher in his own store, at his own request - but he must have had a background in tourism.

It sounds like a movie title. It isn’t. It was a real Monday night, end of a trip and dawn of a week, as so many things in life morph from one into another... We walked east from Cobble Hill, leaving Henry Street behind and following Union Street towards and past the now ritual Gowanus bridge and its nearby strange sidewalk garden, and on to Park Slope. The air was crisp and we moved briskly, looking around us with pleasure, noticing small things like hints of spring and touches of tasteful caring on doorsteps. We turned right on 5th Avenue and kept going for a couple of blocks to the corner of Caroll. And there it was. The odd little lobby stuck out onto the sidewalk, antechamber of Al di Là’s cavern. As we eased through the outer door, we gave way to a lady stepping out while talking on her cell phone: « I don’t think we should eat at Al di Là, she was saying to someone invisible, there’s an hour wait to get a table. » We looked at each other, incredulous. This was Monday night, not Saturday.

But we pushed in, brushing past the heavy curtains that completely isolate the dinning room from the street, and were immediately immersed into the warm ambiance of the place. There stood Emiliano, greeting us and looking a bit discouraged as he smiled apologetically as if to say: « I know what you are going to ask, and you know what I’m going to answer. » We did know, but we asked any way. The room was buzzing with activity, conversations were loud and happy. « About an hour, he said. It’s so busy tonight. You could wait downstairs. » Neither one of us had brought a phone, but we headed downstairs any way, back outside and around the corner, to the low-ceiling little room they use as an overflow dining room, a bar, and a narrow waiting area.

At first, we felt like the last two onions squeezed into an already tightly stuffed turkey. No way to approach the bar, nowhere to sit, the waitresses looking frantic. But we’d been there before. Soon, as people having arrived ahead of us managed to grab a seat here and there, we were able to order our ritual glasses of Prosecco. Having claimed those, we retreated to a corner by the window and stood there toasting to us, and to them. When a couple sitting at the bar gave clear signals of preparing an exit, we made our move to replace them. But just as we took possession of our 2 square feet of bar space, the word came from above: our table was ready, no later than 20 minutes after we’d arrived. Maybe 15. There was magic in the air. Our drinks took a shortcut via steep inside stairs so that we wouldn’t have to carry them in the street; we walked back outside around the block, through the curtains, into the main dining room and sat down. Sigh. We had arrived.

Al di Là is a tradition. We’ll always come here once in a while and melt. « I love this place, says Marie, it has seen me through a lot, from way back in the beginning. And now you are here. Happy ending. » She is somehow wrong, though, it’s a happy beginning. But she is right to like Anna and Emiliano’s restaurant. There’s something in the air, here. Intangible, but very real. And the food is just superb.

So we picked up our menus and the wine list. Well, the wine is generally Marie’s baby. For my part, I had a rendez-vous with gnocchi and nervously glanced up and down the page, worried they might have disappeared. No, there they were, Malfatti, Swiss chard and ricotta gnocchi with brown butter and sage. I took a deep breath. Choosing a dish to compliment the malfatti was superfluous, but I did any way, because a hangar steak sounded like a funny choice for an Italian resto. Marie made love to her spring salad with peas and pea shoots and then had slow-cooked beef cheeks with green garlic and Jerusalem artichokes. Time flowed slowly, along with a bottle of pino nero. Eating at Al di Là is like embarking on a broken time machine; you know when you arrive but never really know when you’ll leave... In any case, my resolution is now strong. These gnocchi are the best thing I have ever eaten and next time, I’ll order a triple serving and nothing else.

We finished dinner by sharing an affogato di gelato. And then, still hypnotized by the company and confused by such delicious food, I think I messed up the tip. I’m quite happy doing maths while flying IFR but staring into amazing green eyes, it’s a whole other story.

We finally stood up and, having fetched our coats, headed for the door. Emiliano was eating dinner at a small corner table, alone, and gave us a smile and a wave as we were leaving. We waved back. Until next time...