Long ago, withering in NYC, I suddenly remembered my friend from high school with her own island in Tahiti. I tracked her down and invited myself. “Sure,” she replied, screaming down a fuzzy phone, “All you’ll need is a bicycle!” I was surprised I hadn’t figured this out sooner. I planned on staying the rest of my life. Giddily I resigned my job, gave up my apartment and tossed out my belongings. I invested in a red bicycle and a one way ticket to Papeete.

The airline refused the bike unless I bought an ‘airline approved’ box. Several days later I landed in French Polynesia to warnings of a cyclone.

Jubilant squeals as my girlfriend and I met after so long had us howling at the crushed bicycle box where spokes stuck out like buck teeth.

We shoved it in the back of her car, along with my bags, and drove to the cove where you can see her island, a sultry emerald headdress as if adorned with peacock feathers.

The winds whipped about and we selected only the necessities and canoed across the bay.

That night, in a thatched hut filled with bright silk pillows, we caught up. At some point she explained there was the possibility the winds could change direction and the island would be washed over with seawater and essentially vanish, and we laughed louder and toasted the storm and our courage.

Next day the menace was traceless beyond broken trees and we paddled to the mainland. Oddly, the car was surrounded by shiny particles, the windows smashed, storm damage we concluded. On closer inspection we discovered my things, including the broken bicycle, were gone.

My shock compounded when I realized I did not like the mosquitoes, I did not like the sweltering heat, I did not like Tahiti. This was somebody else’s paradise.

I lasted one week.

Image by Amy Badass©

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