By noon, the promenade in Las Palmas is thick with bodies. The white heat drives holidaymakers beneath beer-branded parasols, reaching for jugs of sangria, generously-iced and slick with condensation. Waiters call out orders, competing with bellowing vendors flogging thread bracelets and bright green tubes of aloe vera. A football commentary blares from a nearby bar. We sit nursing lukewarm lagers, killing time before our flight home. Then, the energy shifts and chatter starts to die away.
A girl stands in the middle of the walkway; an upturned corduroy hat on the ground before her. Head to toe in black, she is overdressed for Canarian spring. Auburn locks are piled high on her head and gold loops brush her shoulders. She looks up at a floppy-haired boy, standing several inches taller in a matching costume. There is something 1960s about them, as though they have wandered from an older version of the island. A time of hippie caves, drum circles, and fire dancing, before package holidays took hold. A half-smile creases the girl’s pale, freckled cheek as she holds her partner’s gaze. Did we look like that?
We booked a last minute holiday to Gran Canaria at the start of Spring, unable to expel the chill from our London apartment. You insisted, saying it would be good for us, and I relented, because at the very least some sun might help. In our earlier days, we took trains across Europe, drinking red wine from coffee cups, eating street food with our hands, and never knowing where the next day would take us.
We knew Gran Canaria before we arrived, from dog-eared brochures in waiting rooms and photos plastered across windows on grey British high streets. Golden beaches, windswept palms lining turquoise coves, white-washed apartment blocks adorned with bursts of bright purple sage. It was comforting in its familiarity. This trip asked little of us beyond showing up.
Still, we searched the island, as though trying to unearth something forgotten. We followed roads through ancient lava fields and layers of volcanic rock to reach black-sand beaches, traced the saltwater canals of the Port of Mogán, and drifted across the black and white tiles of the Plaza de las Ranas. Staying busy worked at first, but when we drove north into the mountains, tensions and treacherous roads became missed turns and raised voices, as one wrong move could send us over the edge.
In the sand dunes of Maspalomas, we sat in igloo-like stone shelters which blocked out the wind and the noise. When the silence got too loud, we swam in the ocean, together beneath the swell, as the tide shifted around us. As salt dried on my skin, a party bus rolled across the shoreline, carrying tourists dancing to the YMCA. I smiled and tried to feel happy for them.
Later, a sizzling pan of paella, floral and golden, was placed between us at a beachfront restaurant. Our server, all pressed linen and Canarian charm, insisted on serving each portion himself, appearing whenever a hand strayed towards the spoon. Eventually, we stopped reaching and watched the sun set over the ocean. We waited for the colours but they didn’t show.
Back on the promenade, the girl gives a nod. In one movement, the boy sweeps her from the ground onto his shoulders. She pauses, poises and back flips away, as they stand to face each other once more. They move towards each other again and again — lifting, twisting, catching — with the ease of people who know each other completely. When he finally spins her above his head, the promenade erupts into applause. They bow in unison.
‘We are circus performers and we’re travelling the world!’ the girl shouts in a soft European accent I can’t quite place. As she speaks, the boy picks up the hat and weaves between the nearby tables.
‘We are grateful for any contributions,’ she continues. Coins clink, then rattle.
‘Thank you, and have a good day!’ The couple do not linger, but continue down the promenade, arms draped across backs. Intertwined yet untethered.
Around us, the promenade slips back into motion. We had mistaken staying for arriving.
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